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Chapter Text

Padawan Requests

Obi-Wan Kenobi          by Qui-Gon Jinn [SoI before Grandmaster Yoda [-15:08:25]. Approved.] [Braiding: no date set]

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AC Obi-Wan Kenobi MP Padawan [-15:08:25]

***

“Have you seen the Bulletin?”

“Yeah?” Rael shoved a bunch of soiled robes to the side in search of something not too pungent. Kriff, he should have requisitioned a new set of robes after all, no matter how stiff and uncomfortable new robes were. At least the underrobes. Maybe he could find a way to wash them ten or a hundred cycles before actually wearing them. Or he could break down and let the palace tailors finally get their claws on him. At least Pijal court fashion wasn’t outwardly ostentatious.

“Padawan.” Rael winced. Thirty years later, his Master still managed to push all the 'what have I done now?' buttons. “Please attend.”

“Yes, Master,” he sighed. He sniffed a promising robe and wondered how long it would take to darn the holes under the armpits. He hated darning, but the Court, which turned its collective nose up at threadbare, became positively vicious at torn.

“Have you seen the Bulletin?”

Rael froze. The Bulletin. A regularly-updated list keeping tabs of important changes in status within the Order. Most Jedi had a few names at least tagged for notification. Rael hadn't checked his messages yet today. He tried to work some spit into his mouth. “Kark. Who is it? Is Komari all right?” His newest padawan-sibling was a kriffed-up mess, but she had spunk.

“All right is relative. She is alive and healthy. She also has a lot of assigned meditation hours to get through. I meant Qui-Gon and his new – project.”

Rael slumped on the floor, shivering as the adrenaline left his system as fast as it had rushed in. “Qui? Yeah, I saw that the other day. Never heard of this kid, but then I kinda avoid the creche these days. And the Temple, for that matter. I tried to click on the mission information, but ya need to petition the council to see it.”

“I petitioned. I was denied.” Oh, Rael could practically smell the affront. Dooku was a well-known Master with several friends on the Council. That must have hurt the pride he wasn't supposed to have

“Tough luck. Trust Qui to have a redacted padawan. Why don't you just ask him?” Rael fussed with his obi, which had definitely seen better days. He found them easier to wind when they're soft, but he had torn a hole with his thumb just tucking it in. Another for the Stores.

“Because my dear esteemed Master has sent them on a mission.”

“Wha? Whatever happened to 'get to know them, you must. Not so eager to put younglings in danger, you should be'?” Rael's friends with padawans had all complained about the mandatory 5-8 month moratorium on offworld missions for new Master-Padawan pairs. Vape it, Rael had whined about it, too, nerf-headed naïf that he was.

“Apparently they have a natural bond,” Dooku sniffed, showing exactly what he thought of that excuse. “And were already nearby. I suppose it's fairly benign – election oversight. They are currently in hyperspace.”

Rael hooked his lightsaber onto his scuffed leather belt. “That's not too bad.” The kind of mission you gave to new knights or those with new padawans. Just, you know, usually after the 5-8 month moratorium. “I s’pose I could make the hop over. Just a day or two, mind. Fanry’s been having some trouble with math.” Rael hated math. The things he did for that kid.

“Tea, then.”

“If I hafta. Gotta go. Say hi to my lil' sis.”

“I will give your jaibreian your regards. Do try to appear in something that is at least clean? She looks up to you.”

Nah. Komari didn't look up to anyone but Dooku and, as far as Rael could tell, rather resented Rael and Qui-Gon's time with her idol, both past and present. But he supposed he should set some sort of example anyway. Maybe.

“What kinda cakes are we havin’?”

“Gluttony is unbecoming of a Jedi.”

Yeah, okay, kriff that. He was wearing the robes with the holes in them and that weird orange stain he could never get out.

Chapter Text

“The fun is here!” As the door swished open, Rael threw his arms wide and affected his best shit-eating grin.

Dooku did not even give him the courtesy of a raised eyebrow.

“Rael Averross. Why don’t we try this again.”

From the couch, Komari didn’t even try to stifle her snort.

Rael winked at her. “Sure thing, boss.”

He stepped out. Admired Komari’s calligraphy scroll hanging outside, where the Usk from Dooku merged into the Vev of Vosa. She had talent, there. Qui’s scroll had been starkly traditional, well-made but uninspired – somehow the antithesis of Qui-Gon. Rael’s – well, the less said about Rael’s, the better. The cartoon tooka had come out well, though, he thought.

He rang. The door opened. Rael grinned, tucked his hands into his sleeves and gave an almost-perfect bow, because Dooku was being a dick and didn’t deserve a perfect one. “Master Dooku.”

Dooku returned the bow and cocked his head at Komari, who was wearing a mulish expression. Her bow didn’t quite conceal her eye-roll. Looked like someone else had been sentenced to a do-over. “Knight Averross.”

“Padawan Vosa.” He took his hand out of his sleeve, brandishing a small, beribboned box. “Pijal stone sweets.”

“Yes!!” She yelped and bounded forward, stopped, and turned to Dooku. “May I, Master?”

“I’m certainly not going to eat them.”

As they settled down around Dooku’s low table, Rael asked, “So, news on my newest nephew?”

Dooku’s raised a hand. “We are still waiting for someone.”

So they sipped tea – it had some taste, at least, something fruity – and waited. Rael knew better than to ask his Master who was coming. Anyway, this was lineage stuff. It was probably Grandmaster Yoda.

But when Komari went to answer the door, the figure at the entrance was human, tall, his frame wide and muscular, his blond hair in a buzz cut.

“Feemor!” Rael jumped up and engulfed his eldest nephew in a bear hug. “You could write!”

“And you could answer your comms once in a while.” Feemor squeezed him back and kriff, the kid was strong. He turned to Dooku and bowed. “Master Dooku. To what do I owe the honour?”

“Hmmm. Are you too old to call me Grandmaster?”

Feemor blinked. “No? You never asked me to, before. And after -” He shrugged. “You were all civil enough to me, but kriff if I knew what to call you.”

“Ah. Well. My Padawan making an ass of himself does not force me to do the same. Sit down. Komari will pour.”

Komari did, with very poor grace but enough decorum to save herself a lecture. Rael was more impressed by the minute. That was an art. One Qui-Gon had never mastered – he always pushed, pushed, pushed until the whole thing went KUBAR. Rael had been better at knowing just how far to take things – though he always suspected Qui had known very well, just not given a rat’s ass either way.

“Feemor, have you heard the news?”

Feemor accepted a cup from Komari and shook his head. “Probably not. I’ve been on a mission and just spent the last three days stumbling from my bed to the shower and back. I even had food brought to my quarters. What did I miss?”

Komari beat everyone to the bush. “Qui-Gon has a new padawan.”

Feemor blinked. Looked down at his cup. Carefully put his cup down on the table. When he spoke, his voice was bland. “How did Yoda manage to keep him in the Temple long enough to watch the Initiate spars?”

“Determination, a very cleverly-designed mission schedule and a fair amount of shin-whacking,” Dooku answered placidly. “Qui-Gon left without committing, as usual, and complained to me that this year’s lot were sullen and entirely too full of fear and anger.”

Feemor snorted. “Of course they’re full of anger. It’s the Senior Initiates competition, this time of year; they’re almost all of them just short of thirteen and desperate.”

Dooku took a sip. “Quite.”

Rael grinned. That was how Dooku had found him. Dooku liked his padawans feral. It kept him on his toes. “So who is this kid? How did they worm their way in?”

“A Mission Promotion,” Komari cut in. “That sounds exciting!”

Feemor tapped his hand on the table in reprimand. “It’s not, generally. Do we know their age?”

“Ya think he took on another orphan?” Rael asked.

Feemor shrugged. “He sounded pretty adamant about not taking on another padawan. One of the few things I think might make him change his mind is to see a friend’s padawan to knighthood.” Which had happened with Feemor, poor thing.

“This child,” Dooku intoned, “has a file that is redacted; so much so, in fact, that I could not ascertain if Obi-Wan Kenobi is, indeed, a child at all.”

“So they are an orphaned padawan? I didn’t see any deaths listed in the last few weeks.” Rael gave up and opened Komari’s box of sweets, then went to see what Dooku had tucked away in the kitchenette. Never mind the sin of gluttony, there was no way Dooku was having an even semi-formal tea without cake.

“Padawan, you would do well to learn, or at least look up, the Bulletin shorthand. Agricorpsman Kenobi should not have been eligible for padawanship at all.”

This stopped everyone short. “An Agricorpsman?” Feemore asked. “Is that even allowed?”

“’Course not,” Komari cut in, certain of herself. “You can’t become a padawan once you’ve been sent off to the Corps.”

“Technically, that is true. However, it is technically also true that a Master without a padawan may present any potential candidate to the Council with a Statement of Intent. Nowhere does it explicitly state that the being in question must be an Initiate, or even a Jedi at all.”

Rael let the cake fall onto Dooku’s second-best platter. “Hunh. Whadda ya know.”

“So he could be – old? An old, run-down farmer?” She laughed. “That would suit Qui-Gon! A farmer! You think they’re kriffing?”

Dooku set down his cup with a thud. “Padawan Vosa, you forget yourself. You may leave your teacup on the table. You may NOT take any of the meiloroon cake your jaibreian is massacring in the kitchen. You may, however, stay, because Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan Kenobi left Bandomeer for Gala eight days ago and never reported in.”

Feemor rubbed his thumb nervously. “That doesn’t mean anything. Qui-Gon was never all that great about reporting on time. He’ll probably call in tomorrow with some hare-brained excuse as to why he missed his check-in. Worst of it is, it’ll probably be true.”

Rael nodded. Qui-Gon didn’t usually mean to miss a check-in, and he did get himself into the most ridiculous situations.

“The authorities on Gala report that neither he nor his Padawan have arrived, though somehow the Padawan has managed to create a diplomatic incident without having even set foot on the planet.”

Rael plunked the cake on the table and took himself a slice. “Way to go, kid.”

Dooku sniffed. “They were not forthcoming with details.”

“In other words,” Rael handed out slices with his bare hands, just to annoy his Master, “we still don’t know if this Kenobi is a failed Initiate or a seasoned Corpsman with magic hands.”

Feemor groaned and let his forehead drop into his palm. “Uncle Rael, Qui-Gon is very straight.”

“He thinks he’s straight.”

“Padawan Averross, don’t think I won’t make you suffer your jaibreian’s fate if you continue in this vein. Feemor, please don’t encourage him.”

Feemor shrugged and hugged his cup of tea to his chest. His face, usually open and cheery, was shut down. “How late are they?”

“Late enough. The elections aren’t due to start for another three weeks, but Gala was hoping for Jedi advice in setting up voting centres and preventing fraud.”

Rael shrugged. “Eh, knowing Qui-Gon, he’ll blaze in at the last minute, appear to kark things up royally but actually save the day. Think the new tinker-toy’ll be able to keep up?”

Unwittingly, a pall fell over the assembled Jedi. Xanatos had barely been able to keep up with the lanky bundle of energy that was Qui-Gon Jinn. The problem was, Xan has never actually stopped running.

Komari, in an unusual show of empathy, held out her box of Pijal stone sweets. They munched them in silence, wondering what Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi had gotten themselves into.

Chapter Text

“They’re alive.” Dooku took a sip of the North Spire Knights and Padawans Refectory’s famed lentil soup. “My sister’s hairdresser knows the Queen of Gala’s manicurist. They arrived two days ago. Kenobi is a child, apparently. He has been seen overseeing various polling stations. She has not seen Qui-Gon since he arrived on a Phindari ship.”

Feemor spluttered, almost inhaling his own soup. They were almost three weeks late. But something inside him loosened, because though Qui-Gon was a bastard and he wasn’t about to start talking to him anytime soon, he was also Qui-Gon, old friend and mentor and now also Master to some poor kid who probably didn’t deserve any of it. He still didn’t know what to think of the newest addition to his second lineage. Kid must be something else, to catch Qui-Gon’s eye, but if he was, what was he doing in the Agricorps? Brilliant things got snapped up quickly. Unless he was a late bloomer. “Child” could mean anything from thirteen to sixteen, depending on how Gala defined childhood.

He put down his spoon. “Weren’t they coming from some mining planet?”

“Yes.”

“So why did they come on a Phindari ship?”

“The manicurist didn’t say.”

“Wasn’t there some sort of revolution on Phindar?”

“Probably.”

Feemor frowned. “Wait, Kenobi was Agricorps, right?”

“Yes.”

“So what was he doing on a mining planet?”

Dooku gave an infitesmal shrug.

“You’re no help,” Feemor muttered.

“He generally isn’t.” The small, spry form of Master Nu slid in besides Feemor. “When in doubt, ask a librarian.”

“All right, Madame Nu. What was an Agricorpsman doing on Bandomeer?”

“Bandomeer. It does sound familiar.” Madame Nu tapped her lips and considered. “Help me along a little?”

“Mining planet.” Dooku dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Offworld.”

Master Nu made a face. She though a moment. “Oh! Yes. The dactyl project. All the Corpsmen in the Temple are a-twitter about it. Let me see. Land reclamation, that’s it. Fungus, of course, but various soil-reclamation plants, and some of the stations are far enough along to produce a few fruit-bearing trees. They’re partnering with the Arcona Mineral Harvest Corporation for adapting dactyl to various types of soil.”

Feemor took a sip of caff. “Land reclamation? So it’s not a training facility?”

“No, not that I know of.”

Feemor tried to remember how Agricorps training went. He knew trainees were sent to work rotations on various projects at some point during their apprenticeship, but couldn’t remember when. So how old did that make Kenobi?

Master Nu delicately peeled an egg from her own plate. “Your next assignment, Knight Feemor?”

“No,” Dooku answered for him. “That was Qui-Gon’s. He picked up a parasite.” Dooku looked at his dessert cup as though it had personally offended him. “Onderon Custard Cream really should have some Tali-blossom water in it.”

“Yan, if you want class, order out. Or go to the International Refectory, at least they’re trying.” She delicately dunked her egg into a pink sauce. “I wouldn’t have thought Bandomeer had enough of an ecosystem left for parasitic life-forms.”

“This one is, shall we say, tenacious. It should pass in about ten years.” Dooku’s resonant voice had lightened, in what Feemor had come to recognise as humour. Usually, he didn’t expect others to get the joke.

Master Nu knew him too well. “Well. That oath lasted longer than expected, to be honest. Good thing I added two years to account for your lineage’s stubbornness.”

Feemor stared at her. “Two years to what?”

“The betting pool.” At Feemor’s blank face, she elaborated. “As to when Qui-Gon will break down and get another padawan. He loves teaching too much; maybe now that the worst has happened, I can finally nail him down for Temple workshops.”

“Qui-Gon does not like teaching,” Dooku counters. “He likes pontificating. And being right.”

Madame Nu sipped her drink. “Either way. Now I only need to see if anyone was closer to the actual date. How did he pick up a padawan on Bandomeer?”

Feemor sighed. “Nobody knows. Then they went missing on their way to their first mission and just popped up again. Some kid named Kenobi?”

“Kenobi? Obi-Wan Kenobi? Cheeky little thing. Came up to me, bold as you please, and asked me if I was looking for a Padawan. I told him not at my time of life, thank you.” She glanced sideways at Dooku. “I’m sure I don’t know how you keep up with that girl. In any case, he’s polite and at least tries to return the datachips to their proper place. Qui-Gon could do worse.”

Feemor was more and more confused. “When was this?”

“Oh, what, a month, two months ago?”

“So what was he doing on Bandomeer?”

“And why was he listed as a Corpsman?” Dooku added. He was typing away at a datapad. “Ah. Finally. The Master of the Creche has answered; he is still in their current Master List. Kenobi. Kybuck Clan. Not much available publicly, but at least – Curious. According to this, his thirteenth birthday was not until the day he and Qui-Gon left Bandomeer.”

“They sent that sweet little thing to Bandomeer? Whatever for?”

“The rest of his file is redacted. Curiouser and curiouser.”

Femor gave up on his soup. “Um. Like Unca Rael said, you could just call him.”

Madame Nu’s smile had entirely too many teeth. “Yan, do you still have that Corellian caff?”

***

The caff was strong, sweet and slightly spiced. Feemor watched as his sort-of grandmaster sipped from the gold-patterned cup of deep blue glass and activated his comm.

The voice that answered was high, cultured and very much not Qui-Gon. “I’m afraid Master Jinn is not here right now. How may I help you?”

“Padawan Kenobi?”

“…Yes?”

“Excellent. Please activate the holo.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Jedi Master Dooku. The holo, Padawan, if you please.”

Feemor was sure he heard a sigh on the other end. “Yes, Master Dooku. I will try.”

The image fizzed and popped, showing a boy. His hair was in the short Initiate haircut and Feemor couldn’t see a braid. It was impossible to tell with the quality of the holo, but Feemor thought he looked awfully thin. “Is Qui-Gon feeding you?” Well, that slipped out.

“I – yes? I’m sorry, but could he possibly call you back?”

“Why are you trembling, Padawan?” Dooku asked, voice radiating with curiosity. Feemor wasn’t sure how Dooku figured that out, the holo was constantly fizzing out. “Surely I am not that imposing.” Feemore suppressed a snort. Dooku was more imposing even than Master Windu, and knew it.

“Forgive me, Master Dooku, but I am currently locked in a freezer unit.”

“You are what?”

“Ah. Somebody’s coming. I’ll be sure to tell Master Jinn to call you back.”

Dooku stared at the comm abashedly. Master Nu laughed. “I can’t believe he hung up on you!”

“Cheeky thing,” Dooku grumbled. “We don’t need another one. Xanatos was insufferable.”

“Your current padawan is no better,” Nu answered placidly, sipping her caff.

Feemor sighed. “Is no-one worried that he was locked in a freezing unit?”

Master Nu tilted her head, considering. “No. He seemed on top of things.”

“It does seem like he will be keeping Qui-Gon on his toes,” Dooku agreed.

“He looked, like, ten.” Feemor should have stayed away from this batshit crazy lineage. He’d forgotten what they were like. Master Tarrik’s lineage was enough for him; his grandmaster gifted him beautifully-woven baskets for his clothes and tchatchkas, his lineage-aunt always saved him a spot at the Breggle tournaments and she made a mean White Pudding. Her current Padawan was cute.

“Kenobi is thirteen, dear, we’ve already established that.” Madame Nu sipped her coffee. “Though I do hope Qui-Gon is remembering to feed him. Xan was always vocal about meals and you were old enough to fend for yourself, Feemor, but Kenobi seemed a little peaky.”

Dooku’s glass clinked on its saucer. “Qui-Gon never had trouble with meals. He was a bottomless pit for most of his padawanship.”

Feemor nodded but added, “He gets caught up in missions, though. I can remember a few times where I practically had to sit on him so he’d be still long enough to eat a ration bar.”

“Well. Somehow I doubt sitting on Qui-Gon will be of much use to little Obi-Wan.”

“Hmpf.” Dooku finished his caff and set his glass down.

Chapter Text

Komari was busy with a module on equal value trade systems. Komari was rather bored with the module on equal value trade systems, but that didn’t mean she appreciated the interruption when the comm went off. “Yes?”

“Komari, this is not how you answer a comm.” Ugh. Qui-Gon. Why? “Obi-Wan –“

“Didn’t, Master! I said you were unavailable and could I help them.” Whoa. So that was the sprite? Pity the holo wasn’t on. She hated how Rael called him ‘nephew’, but she bet it would annoy him if she did it. Should she?

Qui-Gon was still speaking, unfortunately. “Yes, well. You should state your name first, then give any other relevant information.”

“Oh. Please tell Master Dooku that I am terribly sorry, but my brain was not operating at peak efficiency?”

“Wasn’t it. Komari, is your Master in?”

Master Dooku was in. However, Komari didn’t see why she should disturb a perfectly good meditation just for her bratty brother. Master looked tired, lately. Troubled. He needed the meditation time.

The door to his bedroom opened. “Qui-Gon?” Oh, well. There went that thought.

“Yes, Master. You called?”

Master Dooku exchanged a look with her. Yes, she knew: Qui-Gon, actually calling back? Miracles, etc. “Indeed. We were worried when we heard you and your new Padawan had gone missing.”

“Missing?”

“You were late arriving on Gala.”

“Oh. Yes. Well. One of Obi-Wan's new friends decided to, ah, give us the opportunity to free a planet from oppression. We could hardly refuse.”

“Hmpf. Phindar?” Komari supposed Master Dooku could read Qui-Gon's silences because after few seconds he went on, “Really, Qui-Gon. I leave you alone for five minutes and you cause a revolution. And I hear young Obi-Wan is following in your footsteps.”

They heard a squeak from the background. Qui-Gon chuckled. “That is your own fault for insisting we talk to my Master, Obi-Wan. Though I do wonder what you mean, Master.”

“It sounded urgent.” The Padawan's voice was barely audible.

“It always is,” Qui-Gon sighed.

Dooku chuckled. “I see young Kenobi already has you well-trained. Good lad. Now, I hear rumours of diplomatic incidents and freezer units. Do tell.”

There was a pause. “Freezer units?”

Freezer units? Oh, please Force, let there be a Padawan Popsicle in her future, or at least sometime in the past 24 hours.

“I did mention it, Master.” The padawan sounded nervous.

A sigh. “Master, if you promise there will be sapir and dejarik cake, I promise I will have tea with you when we get back.”

“And young Obi-Wan?”

“No. He is young and impressionable and you will only teach him bad habits. He is trouble enough as it is. Besides, he has several weeks of Padawan classes to make up. As well as his birthday meditation.”

“Yes, Master.” He sounded slightly put-upon, which was a common reaction to spending any time at all with Qui-Gon.

“I look forward to it.” Bleh. Why would Master Dooku look forward to seeing Qui-Gon? He was nothing but trouble and the new padawan sounded like a brat. Though for dejarik cake, Komari supposed she could survive tea with Qui-Gon. But not the brat.

“I don't,” was Qui-Gon's glum answer.

But Master Dooku was smiling when he turned off the comm. “I wonder. Did I frighten young Kenobi so much he insisted Qui-Gon call me back, or is he simply that dutiful?”

Komari shrugged. “Why do you care?”

Master Dooku frowned and Komari realised she had been tactless again. “This grandpadawan, I would like to keep. As it is, our lineage stops with you.”

“I'll have three padawans at least, Master. Much better than a washed-out Agricorpsman.”

“Perhaps. Have you finished your economics essay?”

Chapter Text

“Have you heard?” Greeka let her bag fall on the floor as she slipped in beside Komari, her tray overflowing with salad and juja-fruit, staining the fur on her hands yellow.

“I hear a lot of things.” Her Master and Master Nu and Master Sifo-Dyas were horrible gossips. The trick was to tap your datapad regularly or fiddle with your stylus while you listened, and they assumed you were doing homework.

“There's a Padawan in the Halls of Healing.”

“Padawans are constantly in the Halls of Healing.” Komari picked a tak-leaf off her roast something, already bored.

“This one is really new. Like, just out of the creche. And he already has electric burns AND broken bones AND frostbite AND something weird with his brain. Master Che was livid.” Greeka's master was a Healer in the Halls and thus directly affected by Vokara Che’s moods.

On Komari's other side, Dlali leaned forward excitedly, his skin shifting through several shades of blue. “A baby Padawan? Greeka, can we see him?” Dlali loved tinies. He got heart-eyes whenever a new Padawan appeared in the Padawan Refectories and was even worse with crechelings.

Greeka shrugged. “We can try. I think he's allowed visitors, I heard him asking about some friends. Let me finish eating, first.” Greeka’s people were herbivores and it was particularly important for her to eat enough, or her digestive system didn’t work properly.

Three-quarters of an hour later, they stood in front of the door, Dlali bouncing up and down on his heels, his colour veering towards green. Komari sighed. She didn't much care about new Padawans in general, but the mention of frostbite got her thinking of freezer-units and Qui-Gon's new pet. She had missed Xanatos by a few years; pity that, he sounded like the only non-cringe member of this lineage. It was weird to think of Qui-Gon with a squirt in tow. Maybe he’d turn out cool. Better than Rael or Qui-Gon, anyway. Her lineage had enough weirdoes as it was.

The door was slightly ajar, so of course they crowded around it to listen.

“But I have been eating, I swear! I even ate most of Qui-Gon's meals.”

Aha! It was the brat.

“Most?”

“Well, breakfast and evenings, anyway.”

“All of it?”

“Uh, no. But I kept some breakfast for lunch?”

“You were able to keep it down?”

“Um. Most of it, I guess? It got better.”

“Well. This is not actually reassuring, Obi-Wan. You say you've been eating well for several weeks but you are still underweight. It's unacceptable.”

“It's not Master Jinn's fault!”

“Really.”

Kenobi’s voice got smaller. “There just wasn’t all that much food to go around on Phindar. We couldn’t eat more than our share. That would have been rude.”

“Uh-hunh. And Bandomeer before that?”

“Master Jinn wasn’t actually responsible for me on Bandomeer.”

“If you say so. Now, shall we let your friends in?”

The Healer came out and gave them a fond smile. Kark, it was Master Che. Komari wondered what her sort-of nephew had done to merit the Master Healer herself. What was the Dai Bendu word for your jaibreian’s padawan, anyway?

“Go on, but don’t stay long. He needs to rest.”

“Yes, Master,” they chirped dutifully and stepped in.

Wow, he looked tiny. Komari guessed he was tall enough for thirteen, but there really wasn’t much of him. What did Qui-Gon want with a scrawny little thing like that? Everything about him looked like it wasn’t trying hard enough – his hair was not really brown, but not really red; his eyes somewhere between blue and gray. They were wide, right now, in surprise, and he cringed back a little.

“Um. I think you have the wrong room?” High Coruscanti accent, that must have pleased Master. She wondered who his Crechemaster was. Crechemaster Dooti had been Twi’lek, and left his grinding consonants and nasal vowels imprinted on Komari’s accent forever.

“Nope.” Dlali cheerfully took a chair near the bed. “I’m Dlali, that’s Greeka and the grump over there is Komari. We heard there was a really new padawan in the Halls and figured you needed some cheering up.”

The boy blinked at them a few times, eyes darting from Dlali to Greeka to Komari to the door. Was he dense? It was just her luck in lineage – Rael was a slob, Qui-Gon was – Qui Gon, Feemor was boring and Xan a Darksider. And now her newest – whatever – was dumb as a doorpost.

The boy picked a little at the bacta tube encasing his leg then said hesitantly: “Thank you?”

“So, brain damage?” Greeka was fascinated by neurons and brains and stuff.

“I thought you were trying to cheer me up?” the boy answered deadpan and Komari’s assessment of him cranked up a notch. Then he winced and gave a little bow. “Yes. Maybe. They’re not sure.”

“What from?” Dlali dug into his knapsack and pulled out some roasted nuts, offering some to the Padawan.

“Mind wipe.” He reached in and pulled out a nut.

“Well, so how do you know we’re not your friends?” The joke was automatic, because Komari has no sass filters and, according to her Master, no common sense.

There was a brief flare of panic in the Force as the kid did a quick, darting scan of each of their faces. “Who are you again?”

Komari laughed and he relaxed. Greeka rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind her. She’s not house-trained. We really are just curious about you. Can I see your brain scan?”

“I suppose. If you like?”

Greeka hopped in place in her chair like an over-sugared youngling. “Yes! Do you know what they used? Drugs? Probes?”

The kid shrunk back in his bed, his free hand coming up to rub at his temple. “I- I’m not sure. They used a droid?”

“Ooo, electromagnetic impulses, maybe? How did you resist?”

“I have a Force-sensitive river stone.”

This brought everyone up short. “A kyber crystal?” Dlali offered hesitantly.

“No. Just, a stone. It’s Force-sensitive, look.” The kid took a black, polished rock out of his obi. Dlali and Greeka peered at it politely, but Komari was pretty sure they, like her, felt absolutely zilch from it in the Force. She leaned over and snatched it from his hand. He squawked and tried to grab it back, but tried to use the arm encased in the bacta sleeve and only ended up flopping around on his bed.

Komari held the stone up to her face. Hunh. It was actually kind of pretty, up close, with faint, translucent veins of red spiderwebbing across its surface. “Nice,” she said, lobbing it back to him. He managed to catch it with his good hand, barely. “Useless, but nice.”

He ducked his head shyly. “My Master gave it to me. For my thirteenth birthday.”

Everybody exchanged glances. Greeka had gotten a very shiny new field diagnostic tool, Dlali some kind of mini-ecosystem in a jar he still geeked out about and Komari a full set of ceremonial robes. A rock, while perfectly on-brand for her idiot of a jaibreian, was a bit of a downer.

“Anyway, I like it.”

Komari reached over and into the bag, pulling out a handful of nuts. “Okay. So – freezer units? Did you lose any toes, yay or nay, and if yay, was it any of the cool ones?”

“Uh, no? All there.” He pulled his coverlet aside and wiggled all ten human-standard appendages.

“Kark. What about the electrocution? Was that part of the mind-wipe?”

Greeka looked up from the patient datapad at the end of the bed. “It says electroprod, here.”

He hunched over and closed his eyes.

“Shut up, Komari.” Dlali rolled his eyes. “You too, Greeka. Here, have a nut.”

Kenobi peeked at him from the corner of his eyes and carefully reached for a nut. “Thanks?”

“Say, you got actual friends or are we the only ones?”

This elicited a small, shy smile. “My crechemates – I don’t think they even know I’m back.”

“Sure they do,” Dlali offered. Greeka was engrossed in the brain scans. “They probably saw in the Bulletin, if they’ve tagged you. I can show you how, if you want.”

“Uh, sure. But, um, none of my friends have been chosen by Masters yet.”

“Hey, first lucky, so cool!”

Komari bit the inside of her cheek. Yeah, lucky her brother had been on some Agricorps outpost in the middle of nowhere. “How much younger than you are they?”

He shrugged. “A year or two. All of my agemates were chosen ages ago.”

Dlali blinked and Greeka stomped on his feet. He was a kind idiot but never knew when to stop. Unlike Komari, who didn’t much care.

“So how did you convince your Master to take you on? Get locked in a freezer unit? He’ll feel sorry for anything that looks pathetic enough.”

“No.” He sat up a little straighter, affronted. “I was solo at the time. Uncovering a murderer, actually.”

“Cool.” Komari reached for the nuts. “And the electroprods?”

He stared at her, his gaze suddenly intense, his uncertainty gone. “Deep-sea mines.”

Greeka dropped the datapad and Dlali squeaked. “Did they catch you?”

“Obviously.”

Greeka slowly raised a hand. “Is that why there are burn scars on your neck?”

He just looked at her. She swallowed and looked down. He stared from one to the other. Komari chewed with her mouth open to see what reaction it got from him. He made a face but then something lit up in his eyes and he gave an impish smile.

“Do you want to see a piece of cortosis? It’s from the collar they put on me.”

“Whoa.” Her Master had shown her both beskar and cortosis as a warning. This was so much cooler than a rock. “Hand it over!”

***

She missed tea with Qui-Gon. So sad. She flopped onto the couch and tried to pretend she didn’t see the dishes that needed cleaning up.

“I met the brat. Jumpy little thing,” she announced.

Her Master nodded absently, but his eyes were miles away. Were they wet?

Komari shrugged. Kid was okay, she guessed, once he thawed out a bit; from the noises Dlali and Greeka were making they’d be seeing a lot of him over the next few weeks as least. Or of his brain scan, anyway.

Of course, when they showed up in his room the next day, he was already gone. He’d left her a package, though. One of the pieces from his slave collar. Cool.

Chapter Text

Feemor tried another searchword, but the database still only spewed the works he had already downloaded. Had no-one in the whole history of the galaxy ever seriously studied this planet? How was he supposed to mediate anything between the People’s Front of Dessui and the People’s Dessuii Front if the only thing he knew about their home was the 136 different types of fungi growing in a corner of one rainforest just below the equator, the imagery of ceremonial kava jugs and their accessories from the Fwi Mountain region and a collection of very lewd drinking songs.

He hated this mission. He’d been getting the mission details from the Council of First Knowledge when Komari came back from her visit to the Healing Halls; by the time he went down the Padawan had been discharged. His friends’ padawans had not seen him in any of the Padawan Refectories, which frankly was slightly alarming since Qui-Gon couldn’t boil an egg. He hoped the kid liked sandwiches. And now he was busy researching the Kantari, or at least trying to, so he had no time to kick down Qui-Gon’s door. Not that he would. He had, as a tiny, annoying part of him whispered, in a way been glad for the excuse to avoid Qui-Gon just a little bit longer.

He took a datachip from its drawer, glanced at it and plugged it into his datapad, scanning the Introduction. No, this was about the Dressui, with a Resh, a Glazing Guild on the planet Vell, not one of the two main factions in the Kantari civil war. He put the datachip back.

He grumbled as he headed back to the terminal to see what other creative searchwords he could come up with. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the other Jedi until he clipped them with his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, still grousing internally about the Temple’s Xenology Department and their obsession with minutiae.

“Feemor? When did you come back?”

Oh, kark. It was a tall, dark-skinned woman with green-and-yellow striped eyes. It was Master Tahl. He liked Master Tahl. “Hello, Master Tahl.”

“Oh, tush. You were barely young enough to call me that back then, you certainly shouldn’t be calling me that now. How have you been?”

“Fine, thank you, Master Uvain.” He couldn’t help himself. Evenings with Tahl had always been a snarkfest, teasing and quips keeping the three of them on their toes.

“You horrible boy.” She grabbed his biceps and steered him towards one of the exits. “Have a droid bring your datapads, you’re having tea with me.” For someone so slight, she had a deceptively strong grip.

***

Tea with Tahl did not, as he first assumed, mean tea in her quarters, which was good. He had spent so many evenings there as a Padawan and a young Knight that he might possibly have burst into tears, or at least fished out the bottle of Correllian whisky she kept in the base of her meditation chair, which would not have been good for his research.

No, it meant the Jedi Temple Charity Shop and Teahouse, in a lovely winter garden overlooking a residential area with parks and recreation areas on the roofs, dotted with basketry chairs and white tablecloths and tea served in the typical Temple glazed ware with its soft green and rose and baby-blue tones (available for purchase just across the aisle, along with the typical Temple Charity elder-square crocheted blankets, hand-woven tea towels and various other surplus items from the Temple workshops). It was all very genteel and sold for exuberant prices, while more of the same was sold for a handful of credits or less in the actual Half-Credit T-Shops in the lower levels.

He and Tahl exchanged pleasantries and gossip for awhile before Feemor finally gathered up the courage to ask her: “Have you met him yet? Is he recovered?”

Tahl blinked at him over her teacup. “Qui-Gon? Is he back? The last time I saw him he was dragging me along to the Senior Initiates’ Exhibition Spar, grumbling that if Yoda intended to subject him to another batch of desperate Initiates, the least I could do was keep him company.”

“Oh.” Qui-Gon hadn’t contacted Tahl yet? “Uh. Did you find anyone?” There was this cute Twi’lek kid he was keeping an eye on, but they were still a bit young. He couldn’t remember if Tahl had had any padawans since he was Knighted.

“It’s only been four months since I knighted Orykan; I want a little break. There were some pretty promising kids, though, I hope someone scooped them up.”

“Well, uh. Qui-Gon did.”

Tahl laughed her clear, resounding laugh. “Oh, is that rumour going around again? No, I saw him off to his mission on Bandomeer padawan-free, the old curmudgeon.”

“And he picked this kid Kenobi up over there.”

“Nonsense.” Tahl signalled for another slice of jogan cheesecake.

“I have it from Dooku, who got visual confirmation from Komari who somehow managed not to scar the poor kid for life, since he sent her a piece of cortosis he got from Force knows where as thanks for I’m not sure what. He’s out of the Healing Halls, at least, so I thought you might have met him at Qui-Gon’s.”

Tahl gave him a flat stare. “Healing Halls? He’s been Qui-Gon’s padawan for what, two days? Force help me, that man.” She stood up. “There’s only one way to find out. You coming?”

Feemor sighed. “I leave on a mission tonight, and I still have at least six more searchwords to try out before I try to bring peace through a mutual appreciation of fungus.”

“Poor pet. I’ll keep you posted. Good luck with the fungus.”

***

Tahl didn’t bother ringing the door chime. She’d had Qui-Gon’s door code since they were padawans.

In hindsight, she probably should have.

Someone – or some thing – yelped and dived from their seat at the old battered table and scrambled behind the couch. They were fast. And they weren’t Qui-Gon.

They were also probably a someone because stray animals rarely left datapads and styli strewn all over the table. With Qui, though, it was a fifty-fifty chance, even factoring in the datapads.

“Hello? I am Master Tahl, a friend of Qui-Gon’s. I’m sorry I startled you.”

The someone carefully crept out again, straightening their tabards and breathing deeply, radiating embarrassment. They kept their eyes on her but manoeuvred so the door would stay within their field of vision.

Oh, Qui-Gon. What have you gotten yourself into?

Tahl did a lot of work with refugees. She casually stepped away from the door, giving them a clear line of flight. Light eyes tracked her progress. They swallowed and bowed, almost picture-perfect, Padawan to Master.

They were cute, in that coltish way of thirteen – just enough of a child to qualify, but with the first signs of puberty showing a hint of the teenager they would become; just before that gangly age where humans and near-humans were either all limbs or all torso. They were already in the all-limbs stage and too kriffing thin. Light eyes and hair that shifted between brown and auburn in the light in an Initiate’s haircut, but no braid, though the little patch of longer hair the Senior Initiates grew out for that purpose tickled their shoulders.

Oh, Feemor was right. It was one of the Initiates from the spars. They had done well against the white-haired boy, though they would still need to work on keeping their emotions in check.

They swallowed again, his eyes darting to the door, then said: “Master –“ He closed his eyes and was visibly counting to ten. “I’m terribly sorry for my manners, Master. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, he/him. Master Jinn is not here right now. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Tahl smiled gently and he tensed. Oh, he was darling. A High Coruscanti accent, which meant either Kybuck Clan under Ali-Alann or Hawkbat under Dioro. And jumpy as a Tirellian jerboa, his Force presence constantly spiking with little pricks of alarm. His shields were quite good for an Initiate straight out of the creche, almost on a level with a Senior Padawan, which was both impressive and a little alarming. “I would love that, Obi-Wan.”

He tensed again, searching her face, then scuttled over to the kitchenette, keeping her in his line of sight. How he expected to make tea that way, she didn’t know, so she obligingly followed him and leaned against the counter, trying to keep enough distance between them.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he took down one of the Temple-issued teapots. “There isn’t any caff.”

“No,” she said, amused. “There never is.”

He stared dubiously at the chipped spout, then inside the pot, and rinsed it before filling the kettle. He opened cabinets at random with an increasingly bewildered expression on his face.

Tahl suppressed a chuckle. “I’ll take the elderberry blend, it’s in the red caddy with the white flowers. Do you know how to brew green?”

He nodded. “Etiquette lessons in the creche.”

“Oh, they still have those? I hated them.” She smiled, but he simply ducked his head and portioned out the tea. “The cups are all in the cabinet over the sink.”

He nodded and stared at the cabinet over the sink. Glanced at her. Sighed and went to get a step-stool. He turned his back to her briefly and she concentrated on keeping her body language open and relaxed.

He rooted around in the cupboard a bit until he found a cup and saucer in the Temple ware. He looked from it to the teapot, sighed, and started shifting through cups again.

“You won’t find a matching colour,” Tahl told him, amused. It had driven Xanatos up the wall, and he had gifted Qui-Gon several, practically identical Talosi tea sets over the next few years.

“Oh.” He peered into the cabinet again. “Rose or mint green?”

“Green is mine. Keep that one for you.”

He tensed a bit at that, but bowed quite properly. “Thank you, Master.”

He hadn’t used her name yet. She rather suspected he had forgotten it. “Tahl, dear. Master Tahl. She/her.”

He nodded jerkily and filled up the kettle. She observed him as he prepared the tea. He was a skittish little thing, constantly checking to see where she was, trying to keep her in his line of sight. She didn't want to frighten him with too many questions, but it really was vexing. How had this nervous ball of humanity convinced Qui-Gon to change his mind?

He poured the water, counted out the seconds, strained it and went back to opening cabinets. Finally, with a frustrated grimace, he pulled a tray from behind a series of dried mushroom packets. “I am sorry, there does not appear to be any snacks.” He picked up a fallen packet.

“That’s all right, dear. Just put those back. Yoda keeps giving them to him in the hopes Qui-Gon will invite him over to make his swamp stew, and Qui-Gon keeps inviting himself over to Yoda’s with refectory food instead.”

“Oh.” He turned it over in his hands. “Shouldn’t we donate them to the soup kitchen?”

Tahl laughed. “Be my guest. Qui-Gon won’t notice.” The boy had put everything on the tray and was eyeing the path to the sofa table. She carefully sauntered over and sat down, keeping within his field of vision.

Finally, the tea was ready, the boy – Obi-Wan – kneeling in front of her to place the tray on the couch table. Ah. One of Ali-Alann's boys. A Giargi tea ceremony, with the very slow, meditative gestures and the use of -

“Oh, no, dear. Don't use that wiitii-fruit. If you found it in the cooling unit, it's probably half a year old at least. You can't tell from the outside.”

He paused with his hand in the air. “Oh. Um. I'm terribly sorry. I can go get some from the refectory?”

She patted his hand. He jumped. “Qui has some powdered milk.” He should; she had brought it over herself.

Soon they were sitting across from each other, Obi-Wan still kneeling on a cushion on the floor in the proper padawan posture as she sipped her tea. He had absolutely refused to sit beside her on the sofa. Tahl would have put it down to New Padawan Syndrome if it weren’t for the fact that he never came close enough for her to touch him again. She studied the bones jutting out of his wrists and thought about the state of Qui-Gon’s cabinets.

Oh, kark. She slammed her cup onto her saucer.

“Obi-Wan, you haven’t eaten anything from Qui-Gon’s cooling unit, have you?”

He shook his head.

She sagged back into the threadbare cushions of the sofa in relief. “Oh. Good.” She took another sip, then sat back up. “I take it you've been eating at the refectories?”

“Um.” He was obviously trying to think of a way to prevaricate. “No, Master. I, er, I was in the Halls of Healing. They let me out this morning.”

“Mmmm. And since then?”

“I'm not certain what Master Jinn has planned.”

“You haven't eaten since leaving the Halls?” What was Qui-Gon thinking? “Well, that won’t do.” She got up and went to the wall com and pressed a number she had memorised since her Senior Padawan years. “Marilo, dear, it’s Tahl. Can you have something delivered to the Jinn quarters? Don’t let your duty padawan get confused, they’re in the Master-Padawan section. Possibly Jinn – what was it dear, Kanabi? Kenobi. What do you like to eat, dear?”

Obi-Wan had turned a beet red and was trying to look at his feet while keeping an eye on her at the same time. He mumbled something indistinct.

Amused, Tahl rattled off various dishes she remembered her own padawans liking. “Oh, and see if any of the creches have dirron-rolls. Tell them it’s an emergency and to take it up with Yoda if they complain.” The recipe was a closely-guarded secret, but with Obi-Wan not that long out of the creche, it might help him to have a familiar comfort food. As for Yoda, he always approved of treats as long as they were obtained illicitly. And even so, he would definitely approve of treats for any new padawan of Qui-Gon’s.

“It’s too much.” Obi-Wan still held his eyes down.

“Excuse me, I’m hungry, too.” She wasn’t, not after the cake with Feemor, but she would willingly suffer if it made Obi-Wan feel better. “Anyway, I’m going to clean out the cooling unit and we can keep anything you don’t eat for tomorrow, all right? Where is Qui-Gon, anyway?”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “He told me he had a lot to do.” He didn’t seem too bothered by the fact that his master wasn’t around. Most new padawans would be suffering from separation anxiety by now. Xanatos would have tracked Qui-Gon down and made a scene.

“Well, why didn’t you go have lunch at one of the refectories, then?”

He looked up at her and the lost expression in his eyes pinched her heart. “I didn’t know if he was expecting to eat with me. Also, I – I don’t know where any of them are.”

“Oh, you poor pet.” It was anything Tahl could do not to grab him and squeeze him tight. She tried to find a good topic of conversation. “You were at the last Exhibition Spar?”

Tahl would not have thought it was possible for him to look even more uncomfortable. He finally looked away from her. “Unfortunately.”

Tahl clapped her hands. “Yes, with that white-haired boy. Oh, you were good!”

He hunched further into himself. “I acted in anger.”

“Well, yes. It happens to the best of us. I, for example, am very angry at Qui-Gon right now.”

He peeked up at her from under his lashes.

“But,” she continued cheerfully, “you will notice that I am not, currently, scouring the Temple and beating the sense back into his stubborn skull. The trick is to find an outlet for it until you can meditate properly and analyse it, accept it and release it.”

He looked at her dubiously. “Outlet? I thought I was supposed to release it into the Force.”

Yes! Communication. Give her an hour or two and the creche dirron-rolls and she’d have him eating out of her hands. And since he wasn’t her padawan, she could spoil him all she liked.

“Well, sure. If you can do that, it’s even better. Clear minds make better decisions. It takes practice, though and is, of course,” she adopted the tone of one of the Meditation Masters that had plagued her childhood, “not a replacement for actually meditating and discovering the root of the emotion.” From the look on his face, that Master still gave meditation instruction in the creche.

“You can laugh, you know.” She carefully leaned forward and just as carefully bopped his nose. “I promise I won’t tell Master Huir.”

That startled a giggle out of him.

“There, you see? Did Qui say something horribly condescending to you after your spar? Don’t pay it any mind; Qui was just being a grump. We were all terrible as Initiates. If he ever gives you grief over that again, just mention the time Plo re-arranged his rock collection. Don’t you like the tea?”

Obi-Wan started and immediately took a sip.

“That’s better. So. I know for a fact that Qui-Gon left for Bandomeer sans padawan. How did you convince him to take you on? And what in the name of the Force were you doing there in the first place?”

“Um.” Oh Force, Tahl could see the gears turning in his head as he redacted and re-arranged the facts. He and Qui-Gon together were going to be a menace. “We were actually on the same transport. I was going to the Agricorps. Then there was trouble between Offworld and some of the other miners heading there, and then there were pirates, and then we crashed. And when we finally made it to Bandomeer – uh.” Another pause as he obviously tried to condense the whole thing into something he thought was appropriate. But for whom, she wondered? Was he trying to make himself or Qui-Gon look good? “Well, it turned out Offworld was trying to break open the planet to access a rare mineral, and I found some evidence of it at the Agricorps station and then one of the deep-sea mining platforms, and Qui-Gon and I were able to stop it.” He was retreating back into himself; oh, not good. “That’s when he took me on as his padawan,” he whispered to his teacup.

“Well, took him long enough,” she said encouragingly. Unless the boy was completely useless in an emergency, she would have adopted him by the time the pirates came into the picture.

Wait – deep sea mines?

Deep sea mines were among the most dangerous, and if this was Offworld, there was a 90% chance it involved some form of indenture. They were brutal. Turnover was appalling. “What were you doing in the mines?”

He squirmed, eyeing the door. “Investigating.”

She crossed her arms. “And what was Qui-Gon doing?”

“Investigating something else.”

She let out a breath. “Oh, you’re good. I should take you away from him on grounds of the multiverse not being able to survive two obfuscaters of that calibre within ten feet of each other.”

His teacup rattled as he stared at her with huge eyes. His breathing sped up. “No, please, Master! I’ve tried to stay out of trouble, I really tried. He said… He promised…”

Oh, dear.

“No, darling. I was only joking. I’ve only just knighted my last padawan. I need at least a year to catch up on my shows before I take another one. You seem a sweet boy. You’ll do that old curmudgeon a world of good.”

Poor thing. Well, certainly seeing what went on in the deep-sea mines would be enough to make any thirteen-year-old straight out of the creche a nervous wreck. “Now, after lunch I’ll help you decontaminate the kitchen and we can get you some basic supplies. I hope you like sandwiches, it’s all Qui-Gon can make.”

He nodded warily, hands still shaking.

“Have you moved all your things in from your Initiate room?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what happened to them.”

She frowned. “Weren’t they boxed and shipped to Bandomeer with you?”

“I don’t think so. Everything went so fast. Nobody told me about any boxes, and nobody delivered anything to the Agricorps Station.” He shrugged. “It was only a few models. I probably won’t have time for them anyway.” Tahl could see he was valiantly trying to let them go.

“I’ll ask your crechemaster about them. Kybuck clan?”

He nodded carefully. “Thank you, Master. But I can ask them myself.”

“Need anything else? Do you have enough clothing?”

“I think so. Maybe some new pants?” He gestured towards the Padawan room. “Xanatos was older when he left, none of his things fit. And black,” he grimaced, “isn’t really my style.” He eyed her like a wounded eeopie. “Do you know what I should do with his things? I don’t have a box to put them in.”

Tahl blinked at him. “Whose things?”

“Xanatos’. There’s still a bunch of his things in his – in my room.”

What the kark? And speaking of –

“He told you about Xan?”

Obi-Wan shifted in his seat. “I, um, know what happened.”

“You poor thing. Well, he was a little beast. Charming, don’t get me wrong, but rather petty.”

He snorted. “Yes, I noticed.”

Wait, he what?

A sound at the door interrupted her train of thought. Tahl sprung up. “Ah, lunch!”

But the figure that strode through the door and almost bowled her over was carrying datapads, not trays. “Tahl? What are you doing here?”

Amazement gave way to fondness in Qui-Gon’s gaze and he automatically reached out to her. She sidestepped and gave him a cool look. “Feeding your new padawan, apparently.” She palmed the comm. “Marilo, dear, I have a starving child.”

“Yes, yes, it’s on its way. Patience is a virtue, Tahl.”

Qui-Gon’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Feeding my -?”

She huffed. “Your Padawan? Obi-Wan Kenobi? Auburn hair, grey eyes, made me tea, doesn’t have a place to sleep yet because you never, in all of nine years, thought to clean out Xanatos’s things? The one kneeling so darlingly polite in front of your couch table? That one?”

“In front of my –“ Qui-Gon turned away from Tahl and took in the rest of the room. “Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan gave him a little wave. “I introduced myself properly this time, Master. I made tea.”

“Yes. I see you did. Well done. I was not expecting you home so soon.” He held up one of his datapads. “I was told you would be monitored still for some time?”

“It’s remote, see?” He bent forwards and pushed some hair out of the way. A small device was nestled there, a blinking blue diode indicating it was on.

In an instant, Qui-Gon was on the floor. “Are you all right with that?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “The Syndicat put stuff on my forehead and temples. This is fine.”

Qui-Gon observed him for a moment. “It’s not.”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “Not really. But better than the monitoring equipment they had in the Halls.”

“I see. And this meal plan? Which came with a very strident note by Master Che herself; all in caps, I might add?”

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“No.” Qui-Gon sighed. “You have nothing to be sorry about. Well, this is certainly off to a good start. I’m sorry I wasn’t here, padawan. If I had known-“

“It’s all right, Master. I was catching up on some classes.”

“You don’t know what classes you’ll be taking. Obi-Wan, you’re not even in the system yet. That’s what I’ve been doing – trying to get the paperwork together. Yoda forgot to file my Statement of Intent and, well. Apparently there’s no provision for taking an Agricorpsman as a Padawan.”

Tahl caught the minute wince, the leak of embarrassment into the Force. “We always had etiquette and current events with the Junior Padawans. I just looked up what I missed in those classes.”

“Hmm. Did you also have Political Theory?”

Obi-Wan nodded.

“Write up a report on the transition of power between an absolute monarchy and democracy, on the example of recent events on Gala. Write it once with a focus on the interplanetary consequences – trade and so on – for Current Events, and once with the focus on Gala itself for Political Theory. I’ll inform the teachers.”

“You can do that?” Obi-Wan’s eyes were wide. “Use stuff from your missions for coursework?”

Qui-Gon smiled. “Of course. It’s the best way to make up missing classes.”

“But Master, I don’t actually know anything about supervising elections or any of that. I just tried to look busy so no-one would notice you were gone.”

“You did fine, padawan. The elections took place, didn’t they? Fair, with no foul play?”

Tahl would have to find a way to bottle the half-dubious, half-exasperated look on Obi-Wan’s face. Welcome to the wonderful worlds of Qui-Gon Jinn, where harmony is chaos.

The food came and while they ate Tahl ordered several boxes brought up from Stores for Xan’s things. He was a bit of a hoarder. She was surprised when Obi-Wan reverently placed Qui-Gon’s river stone on the night table.

“He must be very special,” she murmured into Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

“Or,” Qui-Gon coughed, pulling her out of Obi-Wan’s hearing, “I had nothing for his thirteenth birthday and Bandor didn’t offer much in the way of casual shopping.”

“He’s awful jumpy, Qui.”

“Yes. Well. We haven’t had much chance to settle in.” He glanced over at his new padawan, who was shoving Xanatos’s clothes into a box with an expression of fierce glee on his face. “Tahl, I don’t know if I can do this. I’ve called him Xan several times already by mistake and I almost lost him at least twice now. He’s brave and reckless and has a heart too big for this world. He feels so keenly, Tahl. He will Fall desperately trying to do the right thing and I have no idea how to deal with this.”

Tahl resisted the urge to shake the man in front of her. “No-one is Falling, Qui. He’s just a boy who was afraid of being sent away from the only home he ever knew. All the Senior Initiates are nothing but a bundle of emotions, you know that. He’s sweet. I like him.”

A smaller hand came up to Qui-Gon’s sleeve. “I won’t Fall, Master. I promise. I won’t do that to you.”

“You can’t promise that, Obi-Wan.” Tahl hated the way Qui-Gon’s voice cracked.

The boy tilted his head in thought. “I suppose not. But I’ll try.” Then his expression shifted and he said with a cheeky grin, “I can promise to put Xan’s porn collection to good use, though.”

“What? No! Padawan, you hand that over right now!”

Obi-Wan laughed. It was a lovely laugh. He finally looked his age. “May I smash it then, Master? It would be cathartic. I’m not that into dom/sub anyway.”

Qui-Gon looked so lost, Tahl had to laugh. “Quite right. You want something of better quality than that dreck Xanatos watched, in any case. I’ll see what I have. Have you had your Sentient Sexual Etiquette classes yet? Any preferred gender for your partner? Favourite tropes?” She threw the datapad on the bed and handed Obi-Wan one of Xan’s weird Talosi statues as Qui-Gon spluttered in the background. “Channel it, dear, and don’t forget to meditate later.”

Later, when Obi-Wan was busy getting them all dinner (and thus learning the way to the nearest refectory) Tahl grabbed Qui-Gon’s biceps. “Cathartic? I didn’t know you could destroy datapads quite so thoroughly with only a Talosian fertility idol. Qui-Gon Jinn, what possible beef could Obi-Wan have with Xanatos? I swear, if you’ve been comparing that poor boy to –“

Qui-Gon pinched his nose and tugged her towards the sofa. “What did Obi-Wan tell you about what happened on Bandomeer?”

***

Feemor stifled a yawn and crawled into his cot just as his comm beeped. He groaned. It had been a long day. The negotiations were going surprisingly well, as apparently mushrooms were a staple of the Kantari diet and the xenobiology report might actually help with long-term food shortages that were at the root of at least some of the two factions’ many disagreements. He was accompanying scientists from the two delegations to the rainforest in the morning. The Force really did provide.

He fumbled for his comm and turned it on. It was a text from Tahl.

“Child delightful. Q-G adorably overwhelmed, as he, of course, adopted him on a whim with no thought to consequences. X now head of Offworld Corporation; if you ever happen to come across him, give him a lightsaber through the gut from me. Haven’t told O-W about you yet; poor pet is already quite traumatised by X. But do come by when you’re in the Temple and I’ll introduce you.”

Of course, his next mission took him directly to the Outer Rim, trying to hold a planet together until the incubation period for their democratically elected leader was over and they finally hatched and went on solids and could take over the business of running the system. That took him almost seven months.

By the time he came home, Tahl’s door was guarded by a particularly annoying service droid and there was no trace of the new padawan anywhere.

Chapter Text

“Padawan.”

Komari winced as she pawed through a drawer in her room. She hated that tone of voice coming from her Master. Vape it, she'd packed yesterday, but just now in checking her belt she'd noticed her rebreather was broken. She had a spare around here somewhere, she knew it, she'd tossed it in with the rest of the knicknacks after her last mission, where – oh, kark. Yep. The one in her belt was the spare, because this one was – kark.

Kark.

The one thing Rael was ever good for was teaching her new swears, and since this one came from Mandalore it felt very appropriate. She stood tall. Closed her eyes and breathed in. Four. Held. Four. Breathed out. One-two-three...

“Padawan.”

Kark.

She plastered a smile on her face, turned around, leaving the mess in her room for after-mission-Komari to deal with (she was going to regret that one, wasn't she) and walked out of her room. She presented the broken rebreather to her Master. “Galidraan's not a water planet, right?”

Her Master stared down at her, his chocolate eyes glinting in disappointment. Oh, Force. Those eyes. “There is bound to be some water on Galidraan.”

“But the chances -”

“Always expect the worst, Padawan.” Yeah. She bet he had gotten that view after Qui-Gon’s padawanship. The Brat also always carried a rebreather with him. Qui-Gon could probably end up underwater on a desert planet. “Well, go get your spare. We leave in half an hour.”

Komari winced.

“What.”

“That is the spare, master. It must have cracked when I fell onto that walkway during the fight in the spaceport, last time.”

“And you did not check your belt after the mission.”

Komari slumped. “No, Master. I forgot. And I forgot to get a new spare from Stores.”

“How wonderful it is, then, that we have so much time in transit. You will be able to train you memory by memorising two new sonnets and a quatrain.” He held out a hand and an old, battered book of Serreno poetry flew into it. He held it out to her.

“What? No, Master, please! Siko – I mean, Padawan Duul will be there, we wanted -”

“To learn two new sonnets and a quatrain together? How fortuitous. Now, hurry to your jaibreian's and meet me in the hangar. Qui-Gon always has a spare rebreather or two in his rooms.”

Great. Now she not only had poetry to learn, she had to deal with Qui-Gon, too. She bowed as prettily as she could and stalked out of the room.

Oh, hey. Maybe the Brat liked poetry. She'd bet Master would forgive her if she gave the stupid book to Obi-Wan, saying he had seemed really interested and eager to discover Serenno poetry. For reasons she didn't get, Qui-Gon still hadn't brought the Brat along to tea (or dinner, or anything, really) and formally introduced him to Master, and he was always eager for news.

She practically ran to the lift and then to Qui-Gon's quarters and slammed her palm on the lock. The Brat's calligraphy scroll was missing – maybe he was doing a new one. He hadn't been happy with the one he'd made before for some reason and the kid was this horrible perfectionist. Oops. She vaguely recalled promising him she'd show him some tips. After this mission, for real. She'd invite him over to Master's quarters. Master would come back from visiting S-D or Auntie Nu and ta-da! His grandpadawan would be visiting! And he'd be happy. His voice was practically a purr when he was happy.

“Hey, Brat!” She called out as soon as the door shut behind her, “We're off to battle Mandos, just like in the holos! I'll bring you back some beskar!”

Silence greeted her. There were datapads strewn everywhere, every teacup Qui-Gon owned was perched in the weirdest places (who drank tea when watering their plants? There was one in a pot! The strangling vine was already wrapping its tendrils around it.) There was a musty smell.

Komari dropped her pack and strode to Obi-Wan's room. He sometimes got caught up in what he was doing and didn't hear people calling him. Except for Qui-Gon. Kid adored Qui-Gon for some reason and Komari had learned not to mention his name or she would get a blow-by-blow account of how great his Master was. Weird kid.

But when she opened the door, the room looked – empty. Unlived-in. The Brat was a neat freak (or scared of Qui-Gon finding a messy room, Komari wasn't sure which. Though it made zero sense because Qui-Gon was a slob. Not as bad as Rael, but... The man had a teacup in his planter.) But this wasn't neat. The room smelled like dead air, no-one had done his homework on the bed or put the empty scroll on the table aside to meditate with a plant (she didn't ask. It had seemed personal, or something.)

“Hey, Brat!” She threw the poetry book on his bed. She knew he didn't have lessons today. She couldn't believe she knew he didn't have lessons today. Her friends were going to be impossible if they ever found out how much time she spent with the Brat when he was between missions. And kriff, did that kid go on a lot of missions. It wasn't fair. She and Master spent a lot more time at the Temple than Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, and Master was a lot more experienced than Qui-Gon. Also Master had already raised three padawans to Knight, and Qui-Gon only one, and Feemor didn't even really count.

She opened the closet and found two sets of robes. Well, at least he wasn't playing Force-Find-Me, she wasn't in the mood.

There were some sounds from the fresher across the hall and Qui-Gon stepped out. His hair was a convaree’s nest and his beard looked like a spooked Tooka. She was pretty sure the bags under his eyes were about spontaneously collapse into black holes. His tunics had stains. Qui-Gon did unkempt, but never disaster and never stains. That was Rael.

“Komari? What are you doing here?”

“You look horrible,” she informed her jaibreian. “You should go back into the fresher and actually use it.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and pinched his nose. “Padawan Vosa. What are you doing in my quarters?”

She made a vague gesture at the room. “Is the Brat on a retreat or something?” She knew Qui-Gon had been back for at least a week because Master had grumbled continuously that he hadn't even commed yet.

“Who?”

“Obi-Wan. Skinny, weird eyes, weird hair, weird kid all around. Likes you for some reason.”

Qui-Gon blinked at her, his face falling into that stupid diplomacy mask that, on Master, always reminded her of an inquisitive raptor. But the Force around Qui-Gon was murky and spinning, somehow, and his tone, when he spoke, icy.

“Get out.”

Okay. What exactly had she said that was rude? The thing about the fresher, maybe. It is considered impolite to comment on another person’s grooming. Or lack of it. She vaguely remembered Master going on about that after some reception on some planet, early on in her padawanship. Or maybe the “for some reason” thing? It's not like Qui-Gon didn't know she wasn't his biggest fan; it had never seemed to bother him before. She glanced down at her chrono and winced.

“I didn't mean it that way, I'm sorry.” It's what her crechemaster had always made her say. It worked about 50 percent of the time which, considering, was not too bad. “Um, jaibreian – Master said I could ask you for your spare rebreather? Both of mine broke and we're leaving for a mission, like, now.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes. He seemed to be in pain. “Just take -” He gestured towards the little nightstand. “He kept his spare in there.”

“Wizard!” Komari leapt over and opened the upper drawer. There it was. It was still in its original case, helpfully labelled 'rebreather'. She snorted. “Brat. Only you.” Something niggled at the back of her mind. It spoke in her Master’s velvet baritone, which meant she should probably listen. “Oh, I mean, thanks.”

She grabbed the case and took out the rebreather. As she tucked it into a pouch on her belt, she asked Qui-Gon, “So where is he?”

“Obi-Wan doesn't live here any more.”

“Really? Wizard. I would have moved out ages ago. So why didn't he take his stuff to the Padawan dorms?” Komari had sometimes dreamed of having her own room in the padawan dorms. Of course, that would mean being farther away from Master. On the other hand, no nagging about lights out, or sweets before bed, or her music.

“No, Padawan Vosa. Not wizard. Obi-Wan no longer lives in the Temple. Obi-Wan,” he spat the name out the way Master said 'Xanatos', “has left the Order.”

Komari fumbled the seal on her pouch and the rebreather and three sewing needles came tumbling out. That didn’t make sense. The kid had talked of nothing but becoming a Knight – his lightsaber forms and his meditations and what classes were most useful based on the missions he'd had so far, Jedi rituals here, Jedi traditions there, and he had loved the Temple like no-one she'd ever seen. As soon as he caught sight of her somewhere he would grab her hand and drag her to some part of the Temple he had just discovered. She hated it. She didn't know why the Brat had latched onto her rather than Dlali, but he was constantly annoying her. Komari, look at this mural, it’s from some boring battle nobody cares about but me. Komari, I found this little scribe’s room between two of the cloisters, wouldn’t it be neat if we used this stupid wooden desk to do actual illumination? And somebody said your calligraphy is really good, can you help me make my orsek flow better? Komari, I'm going to do this meditation my boring master wants me to do and I found this great meditation room with a reflecting pool and water-lilies, want to come and navel-gaze with me?

Her eyes were wet. Why were they wet. She stared at Qui-Gon. “What did you do?”

He reeled back as though she had slapped him. “Nothing. He chose this.”

“Did he?”

She looked up into Qui-Gon’s eyes and there was guilt there. Pain. The Force wept around him like an open wound. She took a step towards him.

“What did you do?” Someone was screaming. It couldn't be Komari. Her Master taught her better than that.

“He wanted to abandon the mission,” Qui-Gon snapped. For some reason, he was holding her arm in a vice-like grip. When did she raise it? “He wanted to follow a pretty girl in her lost cause rather than finish the mission we were given.”

“What did you do?” She struggled against his grip, her voice hoarse and distant.

“I gave him a choice. He chose to leave.”

The words were real words but they still didn’t make sense. Obi-Wan kept his calligraphy inks and brushes dry and tidied away. Obi-Wan always had a spare rebreather. Obi-Wan labelled his rebreather ‘rebreather’ and bundled his socks together in his drawers.

“You threw him away.” The Force rang true with her words and she was going to be sick, right there on Obi-Wan’s carpet. She looked up at Qui-Gon and twisted out of his grip. “How dare you!” she snarled like a lothcat. “How dare you lose the only person I liked in this whole karking stupid lineage! At least Rael never pretended it was Nim’s fault! At least Rael never stood there like he didn’t care! How dare you!”

She scooped up her things from the floor and ran. She could barely see where she was going. She only just remembered her pack on the floor of the common room, was vaguely aware of a Master asking her something in the lift, the cadence of their voice like soothing an eeopie, but she couldn't make head or tail of it. Her breaths – big, sobbing gulps that echoed hollowly in her ears – took up her whole world. It took her three tries to get to the right hanger, and once she was there she barely registered the other Masters looking on, or Siko Duul with his soppy smile or the other padawan whose name she had never bothered to learn. She threw herself at her Master, who barely caught her.

“I hate him, Master, I hate him, I hate him!”

“That, Padawan, is not a word befitting a Jedi Knight.”

“I don't care. He lost the Brat. I liked him.”

Her Master's ribcage rose and fell beneath her. “I think,” the rumble of his deep voice against her ear soothed something deep inside her, “I think you need to calm down and meditate, Padawan. Come, it's time to leave.”

He settled his arm around her and her world was okay. “Now, Padawan,” he sat her down on a bunk. When had they gotten that deep into the ship. “Whom do you hate and whom do you like? What is the reason behind these tumultuous emotions? I know you can do better than that.”

She sniffled, feeling a headache coming on. “Qui-Gon. He lost the Brat. He was the only one of our lineage I actually like!”

“An amazing feat. I look forward to finally meeting him.”

“No, Master. Qui-Gon lost him.”

“What do you mean, lost him?”

“He left him behind on some planet. I don't even know where. He just – threw him away. On purpose.” Because it would never have occurred to Obi-Wan Kenobi to leave the Temple of his own volition. He wouldn’t just leave Komari. Not after the cortosis. Not after the meditation room with the reflecting pool. Not Obi-Wan. Not the Brat. Not Komari.

Her Master's silence was thunderous.

Chapter Text

Tahl's world was not behaving the way it should and she was peeved. Opening her eyes made no significant difference. Closing her eyes made no significant difference. Opening her eyes did not show the stark, sterile Healing room she knew she was in. Closing her eyes did not bring darkness. Instead, random images popped up, devoid of any relevance to reality, internal coherence or even, in some cases, sense.

“It's like a phantom limb,” the healers had told her. “Your brain is not used to not receiving any input from your eyes. It will subside.”

“Completely?” Tahl winced at the tone of her own voice. She hadn't meant to sound so ascerbic.

“There's no need for that. If your sight doesn't improve – no, probably not completely. But the phantom images will become less frequent over time.”

Tahl's world was not behaving the way it should and she was peeved. Qui-Gon was there, his robes rustling, his voice rough and soothing, making her tea, stroking her hand. But he wasn't accompanied by the rustle of smaller robes. There wasn't a soft voice that dipped and squeaked and broke as it told her about another secret of the Temple discovered. There wasn't a lighter set of footsteps bringing the smell of elderberry with them. There was no witii fruit next to her cup – a little private joke she had encouraged just to see the spark of mischief in those storm-grey eyes. None of the hands were hesitant, awkward, fiddling.

It was fine. Padawans had classes, Padawans had homework and katas to practice. Padawans had mind healers to go to, to discuss the devastation of war, the cruelty of those who should be protecting (Force knew her own was getting an earful). Padawans had friends and barely-tolerant lineage-aunts (and wasn't that a surprise).

But Padawans also had Masters, and this one was hovering almost as badly as that Force-stricken droid.

Oh, the kriffing droid. She could swear she heard Yoda cackling as he presented her with the second-greatest plague of her current predicament. Because she could turn down the Healer's offers as much as she wanted, but she couldn't refuse a gift from her great-great-great-grandmaster several times removed and Grandmaster of the kriffing Jedi Order.

“The pitcher of witii juice is two centimetres to the left of your cup,” the cursed thing informed her. “Your cup is fifty centimeters away, 30° to the right. Would you like me to pour the juice into your tea?”

No, no she did not. She didn't particularly want to repeat yesterday's disaster, either, but there they were. She carefully ghosted her fingers along her tray, trying to keep the movement slow because the healers had categorically informed her that they weren't treating her for self-inflicted burns.

“It will take time,” they said. “You don't have to master everything at once.”

It was indeed and she knew she didn't but she was scared, so scared, that if she let the stupid fawning thing take over simple tasks now that she wouldn't wean herself from it later, that she would become dependent and then what? Droids break down, droids have programming glitches, droids get Force-pushed into the nearest available wall for incessant nagging.

Tahl might possibly need to meditate.

Her hand tapped against the mug and she slid further, searching for the little jug. Padawans, now. Padawans were helpful, and sweet, and oh so horribly sarcastic when they were alone. Padawans also had classes and homework and katas and friends etc. and so would force her not to become too dependent on them. And Padawans definitely, she thought viciously as she found the handle of the jug and located her mug again with the other hand, definitely needed to be spending more time with a Master, and if theirs was too busy mother-henning a perfectly capable adult woman, then that woman could trap two aucfans with one net and have him attend her.

All right. Jug. Cup. One finger in the cup to gauge height of fluids because that was three times her cup had overflowed. Careful. Clink. Tip the jug. Feel the liquid reach the tip of her finger. Don't get overexcited. Tip jug back. Carefully put it down again, on the tray this time.

Drink tea.

“Don't look so smug,” she told the man lounging in her doorway. She shielded fairly strongly in the Halls of Healing, but Qui-Gon's Force signature was unique. He also had a very distinctive tread, and a habit of making little humming sounds of encouragement when someone was focused on a task.

“I assure you, my face is a picture of riveted encouragement.”

“Bah.” Tahl patted the space next to her on her bed. “I have the perfect solution.”

“Excellent.” The bed dipped beside her and a rough, long-fingered hand tucked a stray lock behind her ears. “What is the problem?”

“Tomorrow, you will take me home. We'll de-clutter some of my furniture so there's some space for simple katas and less things for me to bump into and we'll remove my knitting and research from Orykan's old desk.”

“The first I can follow. Not so certain about the second.” His hand stroked her back.

“You need to spend more time with Obi-Wan. I know he's horribly independent, but this is taking it a bit far, and I'm fairly sure you also have other things you should be doing besides hovering over me. So you can bring him with you to my rooms, study with him a bit, and then leave him with me while you catch up on whatever it was you were supposed to be doing this whole time. I can help with his homework and Obi-Wan can do some hovering-by-proxy and make me tea and set up all my datapads with the text-to-audio and voice-to-text functions and figure out how my fancy new braille pad works, and teach me Braille while he's at it. And we can put 2J-TJ back in his box and give him to someone who doesn't want to murder him.”

There was something wrong with Qui-Gon's signature. It was looping into itself, renting, bleeding.

“Qui-Gon?”

“I'll go tell the Healers you feel ready to go home.”

“Well, not without... And he's gone.”

What the vape was that about? She hadn't felt anything like that from Qui-Gon since – well, since -

Oh, kriff.

Since Xanatos.

***

“This is nice,” Tahl commented in a flat voice.

Tahl's world was not behaving the way it should and she was peeved. Qui-Gon had led her to her quarters, Toojay's slew of “helpful” hints only serving to overwhelm her when she was trying to concentrate. Qui-Gon had ensconced her into her meditation chair and discussed what furniture should stay and where it should go. Qui-Gon had moved furniture and called Stores to come pick them up while Toojay ran a running commentary on where everything went, and was moved to, and was moved back to so as to make room for moving something else, until she had no idea where anything was anymore. Qui-Gon had set up Toojay's charging unit and lined up her datapads to take to Communications. Qui-Gon made her tea.

“Yes, it is,” came the mild response. She tried to catch a hint of his feelings but all his shields were up. “I thought we could use a little break before we continue.”

Qui-Gon was now offering to organise her cooling unit.

“Indeed. But Qui-Gon, dearest, whatever in all of the Force's facets makes you think I would let you within two feet of my cooling unit.”

“I am, despite what my Master says, a fully-functioning adult. I am perfectly capable of organising a cooling unit.”

“I found a dead bird in yours, once.”

“One, I was a Padawan. Two, it was for a Recognising Species Characteristics class. And three, it annoyed Master.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I'm sure there's a fully-functioning adult somewhere in your quarters but I'm not convinced it's you. Obi-Wan actually uses a cooling unit for its intended purpose and is more likely not to sort the spreads with the mustard. And I miss the boy. Come now, Qui-Gon. You've kept me to yourself long enough. Let me enjoy having a Padawan I can give back; it'll be years before Orykan gives me a grand-padawan to spoil.”

There was silence.

Tahl tried to feel out Qui-Gon's signature. It was churning, uneasy, but his shields were too tight to know what exactly was going on behind them.

“Obi-Wan will not be coming.” His voice shook slightly.

“Why? Is he grounded? Did he finally let out that little spark of mischief and put dye in Mace's head creams? Or is he on a retreat? Maddi Colm's Mountain Survival was about now, wasn't it?”

“Obi-Wan will not be coming.” Qui-Gon's voice was a little steadier. “Not now. Not in a few days. Not in a few weeks. Not ever.”

The emotions churned harder behind his shields, but she couldn't parse them. “What happened?”

There was a spike of grief.

“No. Oh, no. Not -” she struggled to release the rising tide within her into the Force. Later. Grieve later, with Qui-Gon, who probably has not been meditating properly or accepting any help from friends or lineage. “That poor, sweet boy. Oh, Qui-Gon.”

Qui-Gon huffed. It sounded oddly bitter. “That poor, sweet boy, indeed.”

Tahl frowned and put down her cup. There was a bite to Qui-Gon's words that didn't make sense.

“Your tea-cup is on your left,” Toojay offered helpfully.

Tahl closed her eyes, wishing it made a difference as random images that looked almost like Obi-Wan flashed across her eyelids. “Thank you, Toojay. I knew that, you see, because I put it there myself. Now go sulk in a corner.” She opened them. The images remained. “What happened?”

“How much do you remember about Melida/Daan? After I – after we rescued you?”

“I remember you. Pain, and sightlessness, and you. Your voice, out of nowhere, like the Force made real.”

“You snarked me.”

“Well, yes. I needed to make sure you were real. I can vaguely remember you carrying me, and being put down somewhere. A lot of voices – so very young. For a moment I thought I had fallen asleep during creche duty. And Obi-Wan, feeding me soup and looking after me. After that it's all mostly a blur until the attack. I know the children were fighting. Trying to end the war.”

“I took you to the ship,” Qui-Gon said in a strangled voice. “You could barely walk.”

“Well, we made it, so I presume I did walk. Did I pass out before or after you put me on the bunk?”

He didn't answer.

“Qui-Gon.” She reached out, clasped his hands. “What happened?”

“It was – Two minutes in and of course he had already made friends. No, Obi-Wan doesn't – he didn't make friends, people spontaneously appear and are somehow his friends, just like that. The Young. Abandoned by their elders, forced to work in factories to make more weapons and ammunition to fight yet another war their elder siblings had already died for. And so there was a pretty girl with a pretty cause and he threw away everything I have ever taught him and he drew his saber on me.” The last was a howl more than it was words, a soul rent in two.

Tahl's breath caught in her throat. “Oh, Qui-Gon.” She knew what he had seen. Xanatos, sixteen and desperate and grieving and angry, pulling out his lightsaber. Xanatos, bile on his tongue and poison in his gaze. Another boy with a cause.

She felt her heart break as she squeezed his hands. “He's thirteen. It's a very dramatic age and nothing, nothing on that planet could have not made a sensitive boy like Obi-Wan want to help. Don't take it too much to heart. Have you found him a new Master yet?” Poor Obi-Wan. It must have been devastating for him, after Qui-Gon's initial rejection, but she understood. That scene would forever be between them, the second Padawan to raise his lightsaber against Qui-Gon in defiance. In the end, it was probably healthier for them both if Obi-Wan continued his training elsewhere.

Qui-Gon pulled away. “There is no new Master. There is no more Padawan. Obi-Wan Kenobi left the Order.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan? Who lapped up tea ceremonies like they were going out of fashion (which they were), who hated astronav and loved flying, who crawled around vents like a pilli-rat and had somehow gotten Komari Vosa to meditate with him?

“The ship. The ship. The ship again. One last favour for the Young, one last time. Destroy the Elder fighters. But I knew. After this one last time there would be another one last time and another and another and meanwhile you were dying.”

There was something heavy in her breast. Something that made her think she did not want to hear the next words out of Qui-Gon's mouth. But Tahl was a Jedi and a Jedi followed the Force and it was yodelling and swirling around Qui-Gon like a tear in the Universe. She got up to pace, realised she had no idea where anything was.

“Meditation seat behind you,” Toojay chirped.

She ground her teeth. “I thought I told you to turn off.”

“Actual instructions were 'go sulk in a corner.' Estimated proper sulking time has passed. How may I be of service?”

Steady, Tahl. If she crushed him to a pulp Yoda will only get abother, potentially even more annoying model. She breathed out, through her nostrils, trying to concentrate all her frustration into the sensation of warmth rushing out.

“Qui-Gon, why did Obi-Wan pull his saber on you? Why did he leave the Oder?”

His presence retreated and she could hear the heavy tread of his boots on her carpet. She automatically took a step or two to follow. “I told you. He wanted to use the ship. I said no. He – “ his breath hitched. “He pulled his 'saber on me and blabbered something about the Force telling him to help the Young.”

Tahl stilled her hands and focused on her breathing. “And you didn't believe him?”

“He's thirteen! They're all hormones and dramatic causes at that age! He saw a pretty girl in distress and just threw it all away!”

“Did he? And what did the Force tell you?” She was very proud of how even her voice was.

Silence hung in the air between them. When he spoke again, Qui-Gon's voice was hoarse. “The mission before the Jedi.”

“That's nonsense and you know it. As long as we're quoting inspirational Tenets to calligraphy for your walls, how about: 'The Force's will can be found in a farmer's hands, and wisdom in a Padawan's mouth?' Or: 'Judgement is a mirror of the soul.' Or: 'The Teacher is the windbreaker, the Student the bud.' Or –”

“Enough!” His breathing was heavy, his sense in the Force murky and distressed. “He made his choice. A girl, the glory of battle –”

Tahl tried to breathe through the pinching of her heart. She took a few steps towards his voice.

“Low table 15° to your left. Meditation mat 1.5 meters in front of you. Lampstand -”

There was a thump and Toojay was silent.

“Thank you,” Tahl allowed frostily. She gathered her thoughts. “Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan is not Xanatos. I doubt he saw himself riding to the rescue on a steed of pure light, lightsaber blazing. I think he saw exactly what we did: children. Abandoned children, fighting for peace.” Abandoned, like he had almost been. She reached out, willing Qui-Gon to come to her.

“A lost cause.” His voice was no closer than it had been.

“There are no lost causes when you are thirteen.”

“Exactly! Arrogant little boy. Impulsive, selfish, disdaining of my teachings...”

“OBI-WAN IS NOT XANATOS!”

 The air in her quarters seemed to ring with the echoes of her words, Qui-Gon's breath loud and heavy against the reverberating silence.

Yelling had felt good. Too good. She knew she hadn't only been yelling at Qui-Gon, but at the Healers, her eyes, Toojay and Melida/Daan, Melida/Daan which had taken so much from all of them – Tahl, Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan.

She breathed. Perversely, against the rhythm of Qui-Gon's short, ragged breaths – long drawn-out breaths to centre her again. Four in, hold for seven, expel for eight. Four in, hold for seven, expel for eight. Let the Force in, let it cleanse you, wash away the churn of emotions, smooth the fraying of your nerves.

When Tahl finally spoke again, her voice was steel. “Obi-Wan may have been wrong, or he may have been right. But I don't for one minute believe he did it to spite you, or for glory, or even for a pretty girl. I would have stayed, if I had been in any shape to help. And don't tell me that you didn't want to, either.”

“You were dying.”

“Then you should have let me die.”

She could sense the shock that travelled through Qui-Gon's body, felt the revulsion, the misery. And she was suddenly so very, very weary. Her hands were shaking slightly and she was cold and teary and she wanted nothing more than her bed, if she could ever find it with Toojay turned off.

“Get out.”

“But Tahl – “

“Qui-Gon, listen to me very carefully. Right now, I would rather be alone with Toojay than be in a room with you. Get. Out.”

Tahl's world was not behaving the way it should and she was done.

As soon as she heard the door whoosh behind her lover, her soul, the man who had left a thirteen-year-old behind in a war he could not win, for his wounded pride, for the heart his previous child had broken, for his love of her she burst into tears, knees hitting the mat on the floor (1.5 meters, Toojay? recalibrate your sensors, you superfluous scrap pile), and she wept and howled and pounded the floor until nothing was left of her but wracking, hiccuping sobs, and sleep.

Chapter Text

“Yes,” Feemor told the annoying little droid one more time. “She does know me. Please at least ask her if she will see me.”

“You are not on the list of Master Uvain's visitors within the last three months.”

Feemor closed his eyes, breathed in-three-four, breathed out-three-four. “I would have been on the list if you had let me in last time.”

“You were not on the list of Master Uvain's visitors within three months prior.”

“Because I was on a mission. Because I am a Jedi. We do that – leave the Temple, go on missions, come back, want to see our friends.”

The droid processed that for a moment. “Master Uvain has a guest.”

Once more. Breathe in-three-four, breathe out-three-four. “Then go ask her when I should come back.”

“Please state your name.”

“Is your memory unit faulty?” Calm, Feemor. Crushing a droid with the Force does not look good on the yearly review for the Council of First Knowledge. “Feemor,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Tell her it's Feemor.”

“Toojay,” a familiar voice scolded from inside Tahl's quarters. “Who are you babbling to and why aren't you letting them in?”

“They introduced themselves as Feemor. We are unaware of anyone within your relationship circle with that name.”

“Oh, go update your databanks. No, wait. Serve the tea first. Then go update your databanks, preferably somewhere I don't have to see you.”

“Master Uvain –”

“Or hear you. Feemor! Come in!” Tahl strode towards him, hands stretched out before her in greeting – an unusual gesture, for her. Feemor clasped them in his. “How were your mushrooms?”

“Oddly relevant.” He moved in to embrace her. Was she clinging? Tahl never clung.

“Well, as our good friend likes to say, the Force…”

“Works in mysterious etc. Yes. Then I had to go babysit the Ocoola Collective until their new Nest Leader hatched, and when I came back, your flying tin can wouldn't let me in.” He pulled back a bit and finally realised why the flying tin can was there. “What happened?”

Tahl shrugged. “A war. Got caught unawares like a new Padawan. Qui-Gon made it in time to save me but not my eyesight.” Her Force presence curled in on itself.

“Ah, Tahl. You on the list for prosthetics?”

“They'd have to take out my eyes. I'm not ready for that yet. There have been plenty of blind Jedi; Force, there are enough Jedi who come from species that never developed eyesight. I just need some time to adjust.”

“Okay.” Her eyes, striped green and gold, had been her most striking features. Now they were slightly filmed, though still bright. He tried to gauge if she were up to teasing. “Vain, aren't you?”

There was a little gasp from behind Tahl. Feemor peeked over her shoulder to see a student – an older Initiate, maybe, though he wasn't particularly good with Mon Calamari ages. “Well, hello.”

Tahl gave a long-suffering sigh. “Feemor, this is Bant Eerin of Kybuck Clan. She is definitely helping me out with a project for the Archives. She is very definitely not here for any other reason.”

“Of course,” Feemor answered with a grin. “I will definitely be telling Orykan that the next time I talk to her.”

“Oh, be quiet.” She slapped him lightly on the arm. “Now come tell me how you've been.”

She led him, her steps sure, to the centre of the room where two meditation chairs flanked a low table holding the oddest holoprojector Feemor had ever seen. He reached forward and tapped a tubelike construct.

Tahl must have heard it. “It's a type of memory putty,” she told him as she sat down, checking first with a hand to make sure the seat was behind her. “An electromagnetic field forms it. It's very clever and very useless. My brain is refusing to process what I'm feeling.”

Feemor leaned forward again. The tubes had junctions and access points and a large, square area – “Are these the Temple aqueducts?”

There was a pause. “Yes. We noticed a discrepancy in the Archives. Bant spends a lot of time there, she's been helping me try and resolve it.”

Feemore nodded, realised she couldn't see him, and answered: “Makes sense.” A lie for a lie. First, why ask an Initiate? While the aquatic Initiates had access to some of the water tunnels, Masters would give you a better overview. Second, why give a task like this to someone who is unfamiliar with the technology necessary to do it? He would assume it was make-work, but Auntie Nu didn't hold with that sort of thing. “You should ask Kit. He used to practically live there.”

“Kit?”

“Master Fisto?” the little Mon Calamari – Bant, was it? – perked up. “Yes, he knows them all! But he's off-planet right now.”

“Oh, is he?” Tahl's voice dripped amusement.

Band squirmed a little. “He doesn't have a Padawan.”

Ah. Senior Initiate, then, probably.

Feemor stared at the model some more, then suggested: “Look, why don't you draw what you feel out? You won't be able to see the lines you make, but putting down the shape of it yourself as opposed to just feeling it out might help? I know I always draw my own map if I need to commit a path to memory.”

Tahl ghosted her fingers over the model, then sighed. “It certainly can't hurt to try. My pads are on Orykan's old desk.” She turned. “Toojay, you flying piece of scrap metal, are you going to bring any tea or do I have to spill it on my rug myself?” She turned to Feemor. “I made it. I just don't trust myself to bring it over here yet.”

“I can get it.” He got the drawing pad from the desk and the tea from the kitchenette and looked for a place to sit. “You've misplaced most of your furniture, Tahl.”

“Yes, well. I wasn't expecting this many guests, and my shins have been thanking me. Maybe I should get some folding chairs or something.”

“Cushions,” Feemor suggested, settling down cross-legged on the floor.

“So,” Tahl reached out, and Feemor guided her hand to the teapot. “They sent you to the Ocoola? How was the brooding?”

“Boring. Most policy-making was put on hold until the hatching anyway. I was just there so they could point to someone in case anyone asked 'Who's in charge?' Rael was vaguely helpful, which was weird on so many levels.”

“Rael Averros? Oh, Force, yes. That man was a mess. But I suppose you can't be Yan Dooku's apprentice without internalising at least the bare bones of how politics work. When did you come back?”

“About two weeks ago. Tried to see you, but your attack droid wouldn't let me in.”

“This would have been what date?” She handed a cup to Bant and reached out for the teapot again, brushing her fingers over it until she found the handle.

Feemor frowned in confusion, but told her.

“And you've been in the Temple since?” Tahl was off her game, probably because she was concentrating on not spilling the tea. She was usually more subtle. He wondered what she needed to know his comings and goings for.

“Nah. Escort duty, snotty-nosed Senator's kid. Good egg. Horribly naïve. Got back yesterday. Is it important?”

“Not terribly. I want to get used to remembering things I hear rather than read. I thought I'd try out my handy new text-to-audio function on your mission report. I've always found the Ocoola interpretation of democracy fascinating. Why trust what a politician says, anyway? Elect your leaders before they're born!”

Another lie. But why? Why were the dates during which he was on mission so important?

“So what’s the gossip?” He heard a little gasp from the other side of the table and winked at Bant. Poor little thing, he was probably destroying all her preconceived notions about Knights all at once.

“I don’t know, I don’t eat at the Refectories right now. Too much noise. You tell me.”

“Hmmm.” He leaned against the meditation chair and thought back. You got most of your gossip in the Refectories, though the salles were good for it, too, especially the showers. Who had he talked to, lately? He'd sparred with Drello, but they weren't much to talk. So whom had he eaten with?

“Ah, Cin's been worried about thefts. Might be pranks, but they seem to be escalating.”

“Who is Cin and why is he worried?”

“Assistant Battlemaster? The promotion's new but the worries are not. Which is probably why he was promoted.”

“What was stolen?”

“Well, I got the feeling Cin knew but couldn't or wouldn't tell. Table next over, though – this was the West Tower Single Knight's, I don't know why, but it attracts all the dunderheads. But they have pasta nests in diyya sauce once a month, so... Anyway, neighbouring table said someone had lost all their Padawan beads, someone else their saber and – oh, get this, two Sith holocrons and the Fire-Crystals.”

“Ugh. Why do people have to gossip? It only makes things worse.”

“Exactly.” Feemor grinned. “Knight Kadeesh has dyed her tendrils red, and I heard from her ex-roommate that she used the wrong dye the first time and ended up in the Halls of Healing.”

“Oh, I wondered what she was doing there. Told me she had been thrown into a barrel of acid on a mission, the naughty child.”

“I saw Master Filu in the Single Knight's Lower Levels, and the man looked horrible. Who's he sharing the twins with?”

“Master Gllgni, but he's on an extended mission. I hear their synchronicity is coming along well.”

“That probably explains the daytime drinking.”

“Nooo. Filu? Qui tried getting him drunk once. It beccame a hilarious game of exchanging glasses with the Force.”

“Don't worry, Master Sinube saw him home and confiscated the booze. I think they were talking about having Filu's old padawan move in until Master Gllgni gets back, but I might have misheard.”

“Tiplar and Taplar are so sweet, though.”

“Also fifteen.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Intercultural was abuzz about a Padawan that left. Probably got it wrong, as usual – I remember one incident when I was a Padawan where some kid refused a Master and decided to go home. Left the Master looking a bit silly, but no harm done. By the time the rumour mill was done with it, the kid had challenged his own Master to a duel because he wanted someone else to train him and was exiled after they lost.”

“Oh, wow. I don't think I ever heard that one.” Tahl shifted in her seat and there was a strangled sound from Bant.

“But what if it's true?” she asked, timidly.

Feemor shrugged. “So what if it is? Being a Padawan is different from being a student. Different stress, different expectations. Sometimes you don't find out something isn't for you until you are in it. There's nothing wrong in leaving the Order.”

“But what if – what if it were someone who loved it, who loved being a Padawan, who never wanted anything more in his life than becoming a Knight? What – what could make someone like that give up their dream? What does it mean for everybody else?”

“Dreams change, Bantling,” Tahl answered softly, her Force presence curling around her, bittersweet. “There is nothing wrong in that. He didn't leave because he didn't like the Order, or because he didn't love his friends. He left because he found another dream to follow. That doesn't make it wrong for people to want to stay, just because one person wanted to leave. It doesn't have to affect your dreams.”

“But what if all my dreams had him in them?”

“Oh, Bantling.” Tahl sighed, her voice hoarse. “Don't pin your dreams on a person. People leave, grow apart, die. Does Docent Kiyar still do the meditation sessions on letting go?”

“It's mostly babies with broken toys,” Bant grumbled.

“Oh, Force, that can be traumatic,” Feemor cut in. “I remember when I managed to tear my stuffed purrgil beyond repair. I cried on and off for months. Docent Kiyar helped me see that the memories I had of it were more important than those I might have had. Same goes with your friend. And anyway, you can still write or comm. I know it's not the same, but he isn't gone.”

Bant shook her head, but her shoulders relaxed slightly. “We've already lost Gehren.”

“Gehren? That tousle-haired boy?” Tahl asked. Aha. Knows her friend circle. 'Bantling.' Tsk.

“No, not Garen, Gehren. She wanted to see her family again but they couldn't find them. So she just – left. She didn't even say goodbye. He- he went after her and we thought we'd lost him, too, but he came back. They were almost caught by slavers but she still didn't come back.”

Feemor nodded sadly. “There was this kid in my creche – I forgot their name and believe me, that was deliberate – cried for their family all the time. The crechemasters didn't know what to do because the family was abusive. Family went to court, there was a whole circus. I never found out what happened to them.”

“Oh, I remember that. My Master kept an eye on it – they ended up with social services a year later. Found a family, a good one. Not everyone is well-adapted for creche life, some do better in nuclear families.”

Feemor nodded. “Bant, this will not be the last person in your life to leave, or disappear. But try to remember the joy they brought you. Surely it was worth it, even if they're not here anymore?”

Bant nodded jerkily, then said: “He used to stand up to Bruck. Not – not well, not the way you were supposed to, but he didn't let Bruck push him around. It gave some of us younger ones – well, we knew he was looking out for us.”

Tahl smiled. “There you go. And now, you are old enough to step up.” The air was thick with a syrupy sadness Feemor couldn't grasp. Whatever was behind that Padawan rumour, both she and Bant were shaken by it. The reaction seemed excessive, even if Bant knew the kid. Like he'd said, they could still write or comm. But maybe his family wouldn't allow it. The crecheling Feemor had lost had been younger than him, new; he hadn't really known them at all and, in the selfish way of children, had mostly been annoyed by their incessant crying. He had lost most of his people older, to fate, the Force. But he did understand what it was like when someone walked away from you.

Tahl made an aborted gesture with her hand. “Ugh. I do like the speech-to-text, but it means I can't take notes during a conversation. Feemor, you'll have to give me all the juicy details about Filu again, so I can write them down later. The twins are from my clan and my old crechemaster always pesters me about them.”

“Why... Why would you write down gossip?” Bant asked.

“You could learn Braille,” Feemor suggested.

“Ugh. Tactile impressions are worse, as demonstrated by this wonderfully useless bit of technology right here.” She gestured at the projector on the table. “Still, I suppose it's a useful skill to have, and as the healers are constantly reminding me, I might get used to it in time.”

“Obi-Wan could read Braille,” Bant chimed in timidly.

Whoa. Bant-who-is-helping-Tahl-map-out-water-pipes-and-will-not-be-her-next-apprentice-no-siree-bob knew his elusive jaibreian?

“Could he.” Tahl handed Feemor a teacup, only slightly wet on the outside. The Force around leaked – not grief. Not anger. Something deeper and more raw.

“He learned it because he heard there was someone in Clawmouse Clan who was blind, just in case she wanted to send him a note.” Her chin tendrils quivered, and the wistful sadness coming from her was once more not quite grief. “He was what – seven human standard? She didn't even know he existed and, as far as I know, still doesn't. He knows three different sign-languages, too.”

“Yes.” Tahl's hand clenched on a witii fruit Feemor had left on the tray. “Yes, he's sweet like that.”

Feemor opened his mouth to ask more when Tahl's head snapped up. “Qui-Gon's coming. The door to my bedroom is that one.” She pointed. “I'd hurry, unless you want to actually talk to him.”

“Your bedroom,” Feemor remarked dryly as he got up, taking his cup with him. “That's your idea of a good hiding place from Qui-Gon?”

“Feemor, for shame. Bant is right here. Now go.”

Tahl's bedroom had been given the same minimalistic treatment as her living area. The bed being much too far from the door, Feemor made himself comfortable on the floor and sipped his tea.

“Feemor and Qui-Gon have had a falling out,” Tahl was explaining, presumably to Bant. “And because they are twits, instead of talking it out like the adult Jedi they both are, they avoid each other. I don't recommend it. It makes party invitations very awkward.”

“No, Master Tahl.”

The door opened and Feemor reflected on how, as full-grown man in his forties, he still had a physical reaction to hearing Qui-Gon's voice. It had been – too long. Too long, too much, too painful. He had heard it, occasionally, the past seven years. While the Temple was certainly big enough to avoid anybody for any length of time, at the same time there were only so many places to be. He had avoided the Intercultural Refectory, but there were only three Single Knight's Refectories and Qui-Gon sometimes met up with people there. It was, perhaps, the Will of the Force that each time, Feemor had managed to avoid greeting him; each time, his heart beating a tattoo in his chest; each time, his hands trembling with fear, or rage, or some other emotion he spent a lot of time meditating on. (Betrayal, hurt, hurt, hurt.)

But there was a new brother out there, and maybe the kid could use someone who didn't cast as big a shadow as Xanatos, and was a little better socialised than Komari Vosa. So he listened, and worked on regular breaths and letting his emotions pass through him, to be examined later, and braced himself to stand up and open the door.

“Qui-Gon, lovely to see you as always, but Bant and I aren't finished with the water supply access points, yet.”

“No. No, I. I needed to talk to you.”

“Should I leave, Master Jinn?” Bant Eerin's soft voice intruded.

“No. First –“ There was a pause and Feemor could almost see Qui-Gon taking a breath and centering himself. “Initiate Eerin, you may tell your creche-mates that Obi-Wan is well.”

“You've heard from him?” Tiny buds of hope poked up through the grief.

“Yes. He sent a message to Grandmaster Yoda.”

“Is he coming back?” There was yearning in her voice, in the Force. Hunh. The Force wanted Obi-Wan Kenobi back as well, which left Feemor wondering: back from where?

“That will be up to him. Now go.”

“Yes, Master Jinn!” Padding footsteps, the door. Tahl and Qui-Gon were alone, and Feemor steeled himself, even started getting up, when Tahl spoke.

“He contacted you?” Her voice was soft, yet it had a bite to it that Feemor couldn't grasp.

“No. He contacted Yoda.” Footsteps, someone sat down. “They did it.”

“What?!” Elation rolled out; Tahl, he thought. “Oh, good job! How?”

“I don't know. But it's falling apart. Someone murdered Cerasi – do you remember Cerasi?”

“I'm not sure. One of the leaders?”

“She was there at your rescue.”

“Oh, her! A darling. Was she using toy grenades for a distraction or was I hallucinating that?”

“No. You weren't hallucinating. She taught Obi-Wan the slingshot – I'm not certain we should let him come back on those grounds alone.”

“Hmmm. He'll be a menace.” Some more sounds. “She's dead?”

“Yes. Obi-Wan is requesting mediation and investigation from the Temple. Her death reignited old grievances; he's afraid the war will start again. He says – he says he's lost what standing he had with them.”

This was sounding grim. A war – Tahl had mentioned a war, a war that had taken her eyesight, a war Qui-Gon had rescued her from. Was this the same one? A rescue from Qui-Gon might have included his Padawan, though all things considered it was still a bit early for him to be going back out into the field. Though if what Dooku and Komari had said was true, they had been on enough missions already that they might be considered broken in as a team.

There was a clink of teacups. “So, are you peeved because he managed to win a war without you, because he had a standing to lose, or because he contacted Yoda rather than you?”

“I'm not taking him back.”

“Yes, dear. Now, allow me to use my amazing powers in the Cosmic Force to divine the future: Yoda is sending you back to Melida/Daan.”

“Melidaan, now. There's a Change-of-Designation form on the Chancellor's desk as of this moment.”

“Already? I'm impressed. How old were the leaders, fourteen?” Fourteen? Okay, granted, a lot of planets thought that young blood kept a political system from stagnation. The Ocoola leader was nothing but a hatchling. Still. Feemor vaguely remembered being fourteen. He had been happy enough to leave most of the important decisions to Master Tarrik and, if he was being honest with himself, it was the wiser decision.

“Not more. Only a half-a-dozen of them were even that old. It's not surprising their political system is failing, considering.”

“Qui-Gon.”

“Tahl.”

“First of all, there are dozens of systems with rulers that age.”

“Most of those systems balance their youth somehow – older councillors, ministers – or when the entire governing body is young, the head of State is older, to temper their – enthusiasm – with experience. And those children have spent years studying political science, economics, trade law...”

“Yes. Isn't it nice that these children have – or had, as the case may be – someone who studied political science, economics and trade law to help guide them? Almost as if the Force were providing.” Tahl's tone was the melodic sing-song she used when she was really twisting the knife in the wound.

All right. So. A war, involving children. The children had won. Good for them. But it sounded as though Qui-Gon had gotten separated from his new apprentice in the middle of it. Which happened. They were Jedi. Sometimes you got separated in a firefight, sometimes apprentices got kidnapped or needed to crawl through vents for you or were infected with a mind-control device. But it also sounded as though he had left him there.

“Three years of three hours a week of Initiate classes in political systems does not make him a fully-trained politician.”

“No, but it does make him better suited than someone without three years of three hours a week of 'Introduction to Political Systems'. You are going, of course.”

“Am I?”

There was a slight thump, and a grunt from Qui-Gon. “Don't make me make Toojay annoy you to death. Of course you're going. One, I know for a fact (because Yoda and I spent a lovely afternoon griping about it while he got a full dose of the horrible droid he inflicted on me) that the Council is less than happy with you right now and that you can't afford to spite them. Two, you are curious to know how they did something you thought was impossible, Mister The-Force-Works-in-Mysterious-Ways.”

“I didn't think – I thought they couldn't do it alone. That is not the same as thinking they couldn't do it all. I even contacted Yoda –“

“Who told you to bring it before the full Council. Have you?”

Silence.

“And third, and I can't believe I need to say this again, Obi-Wan is not Xanatos. This wasn't a fit of pique. Obi-Wan didn't do it because he felt betrayed, or unappreciated, but because he wanted to help.”

“We can't help everybody.”

“No. No, of course not. It's the most painful lesson he'll ever learn and it is one that every single one of us have had to learn over and over again. It's why younger Jedi retire and join the Archives. It's why there's always someone at the retreat at Senna Kenn, or off learning from the Jedha or the Kel Dor Sages or the Whills.” A cough. Feemor had heard through the Temple whisper network that Qui-Gon had spent a year or so with the Whills at some point after Xanatos. They were an odd sect, but of course Qui-Gon Jinn couldn't simply go off on a meditative retreat in a nice jungle or something, like normal people. “But Obi-Wan not only succeeded, he is invested in that success. He is setting aside his pride and contacting us to help where he knows he cannot. An official demand for aid from a governing body, just like Yoda suggested.”

“Ah, no. As far as I know, they're treating it as a 'Jedi in Distress'. He's been stripped of his rank, and that is concerning. He and Cerasi and the boy, Nield, they were – a unit. It took about ten seconds and it was as if he had always been there. I still don't quite understand how that boy makes friends.”

Tahl's smugness permeated her whole apartment. Feemor wouldn't have been surprised if the neighbours came knocking, too. “So. You never answered my question. Are you mad at him for succeeding or for contacting Yoda instead of you?”

The silence stretched on until Toojay's mechanical voice jarred everyone out of their contemplation. “Your tea is cold. Would you like me to warm it up?”

“No. Thank you. I will drink it cold. Now power off and shut up.”

“You'll need him later.” Qui-Gon's voice was mild.

“She is voice-activated. So?”

“Tahl, who will I find?”

More silence, and a sigh. “I don't know, Qui-Gon. Someone brave. Someone scared. Someone grieving. A boy, Qui-Gon, who has seen war. The sort of person we are meant to save.”

“Protect.”

“Yes. Sometimes we're too late to protect, and so we save. Sometimes we're too late to save, and so we grieve. Obi-Wan is alive.”

“He looked so – thin. Tired.” There was a hitch in his voice and Qui-Gon, thinking he was alone in Tahl's apartment, let down his shields. And there it was again, that almost-grief, tempered here with hurt, betrayal, and – “I almost loved that boy, Tahl.”

“Maybe if you had scrapped one word from that sentence, we wouldn't be here. Now go get ready and bring our boy home.”

“And if he doesn't want to come?”

“Then make sure he has what he needs to start his new life properly. That boy has been abandoned twice. Whatever he choses, don't abandon him again.”

“I- I didn't...”

“No. You didn't abandon him on Bandomeer. You said you weren't ready to take on a Padawan and you were right.” Qui-Gon made a strangled noise. “But we did. The Order. We sent him away before his birthday. He never got his things from his student quarters – his whole childhood is gone, which is a good lesson on letting go but a lousy one about compassion. He didn't get a proper goodbye from his friends nor even an escort to a place that is not set up for training. He was thrown away for being desperate to have what we had been telling him he should want and because another boy was just as desperate as he was.”

“Bruck had more time. He's... It seemed like he was doing better.”

“Yes. It did seem so. But even when he did, nobody wanted him. Because he hadn't always been perfect.”

“You don't have to be perfect to find a Master. Look at Tholme's boy – have you ever been on a mission with those two? I did it once. It's appalling. They enable each other. And... Well, Rael. Nim was a cheeky little thing. And Komari almost slapped me, before she left for Galidraan.”

“You surprise me.”

“I caught her.”

“Ah. To be fair, I almost slapped you, and I usually like you. Komari doesn't like anybody except Dooku and Obi-Wan.”

“She has friends.”

“It doesn't mean she likes them.”

“At first, I thought – on the way to Bandomeer, he changed, he seemed to accept his fate, but I thought he was pretending. He kept looking to me, hope in his eyes. And then it would go away but it always came back. So I thought he was pretending, the way Xanatos used to pretend to learn a lesson and stubbornly keep going on until the Council felt they needed to intervene.”

“Obi-Wan is not –”

“I KNOW!”

“No, Qui-Gon. I don't think you do. Of course hope came back. Very hard thing to stomp out, is hope. And Obi-Wan is made of hope.”

Qui-Gon's voice was strangled, small. “When will I finally be free of him?”

“Never. But remembering him and grieving him is different from holding on to this stupid ideal of him you know is wrong. Obi-Wan will never be as brilliant, as quick as Xanatos. But Obi-Wan will never be as sly, as cruel as Xanatos. He will lash out, as young boys do, but he won't cut deep, and cut again, and sneer and deride – oh, ask me how I know and I'll tie you to a chair and throw Orykan at you – and while he has pride he will never knowingly be selfish.”

“Knowingly?”

“How easy is it for us, adults, to separate the will of the Force from our own feelings? How easy is it for a boy just entering puberty? Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan won't be the boy you left behind. But he will be Obi-Wan. Promise me you will not look away out of fear. Promise me you will see him.”

“I- I will try, Tahl.”

“Yes, well. All I know is, whatever you were doing with the Whills, I don't think there was a whole lot of self-reflection involved.”

A spike of guilt, of something left unfinished, from Qui-Gon. “They tried.”

“Good for them. But you need to stop letting Xanatos hurt the people around you. Not physically, though please, Qui-Gon, keep Obi-Wan  away from him if you possibly can, we do not need another Bandomeer. You need to let Xanatos go. He's hurt me, because I can't bear to see you in pain. He's hurt Obi-Wan because you can't see the difference between an angry, selfish boy and a desperate, compassionate one. And you know who else he has hurt.”

“I haven't seen Feemor since the funeral.” Qui-Gon’s voice was thick with pain and – hurt.

Well, at least his evasion tactics had worked. It was – nice, to know that Qui-Gon was still hurting, that whatever he felt for Feemor, it wasn’t indifference. It hurt, to know Qui-Gon was still hurting, and it hurt to know he hadn’t been able to work past it enough to know that Feemor had been hurting, too.

“He's around. He's not that hard to find. There's even a directory.” Noises, a chair scraping. “Toojay! Wakey, wakey, and tell me what drawer I put the stickers in.”

“Top right, in the back,” chimed Toojay's voice. “I will get them for you.”

“You will not.” There were sounds of rummaging. “Here, Qui-Gon. Pick a sticker.”

“You want me to bring stickers to a war zone?”

“Not the point, but now that you say it, take the whole package. Those kids could use something silly and useless and colourful. No, take one for yourself. This is the first time you've uttered Feemor's name since your absolute debacle with Dai Bendu. I swear, I know Dooku taught you better, he was tutoring me at the same time.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. And now shoo. You don't want to miss your flight.”

“I'm piloting.”

“Force help me. Then go and make sure you do the pre-flight check correctly. The technicians always growl at me when you skip steps.”

“You will be here when I come back?”

“Unless our thief decides to upgrade to bombs, yes. I won't be going anywhere for awhile.” Bitterness pinged through the Force.

“Now who needs to let go? Come here.” There was the sound of a soft kiss. “I really don't know what I would do without you.”

“Get scolded less and let your stubbornness lead you face-first into a wall. Tell Obi-Wan I miss him.”

“I... Do you want to hear his message?”

“Yes. Gimme. Now go.”

The door slid shut and there was the sound of someone falling into a chair with too much force. “You can come out now.”

“I almost did. This time...”

“Oh, no. That would have been a disaster. But considering he actually remembered you existed for once, you might try it when Obi-Wan's home.”

Feemor sat in the seat across from her. “What is he like?”

“Qui-Gon? Stubborn, wise, infuriating as always, but with an extra helping of grump. Obi-Wan was getting him out of that.”

“No, Obi-Wan.”

“Oh. Sweet. Helpful. Jumpy. Also stubborn, which works better with Qui-Gon than you would expect. He's sensitive and empathetic with all the upsides and downsides. Give him another year and he'll have Qui-Gon wrapped around his little finger.” She swallowed, turned away. “Would have had.”

Feemor reached out and held her hand. “What happened, exactly?”

“No. Some other time. I promise. Just – not now.”

“Okay.” Feemor wondered who he could get the story from. Yoda would cackle and ask him why he was so interested in a Padawan that wasn't his own and sidetrack the conversation to more “interesting” young Initiates. Tracking down and interrogating a student he wasn't intending to take on was a bad look, so asking Bant Eerin was out also. Maybe he could subject himself to another one of Dooku's teas in the hopes Qui-Gon had spilled the beans to his old Master. At least the cake was good and Komari had actually spoken to him like an adult last time. “Do you want to watch his message?”

“No. But you should.” She fiddled a bit with the projection sphere, then handed it over to him. “He knows Braille. Of course he does, the curious little mouse. I miss him, Feemor.”

He squeezed her hand again and spent a frustrating few minutes trying to find the projector slot on her sensory machine.

“I'll watch it later. Use the holoprojector on the desk.”

He looked older – Force, had it been over half a year since they had caught him in a freezer unit? Almost a young man, now. He felt a lump in his throat. “He hung up on Dooku, once, you know.”

“What?!” That startled a laugh out of Tahl. “He must have been awfully contrite about it.”

“He was a little busy being locked in a freezer unit. Dooku's half in love with him already.”

He was thin, so thin, his collarbone like a knife's blade under his fraying collar, the bones on his wrist jutting out from sleeves too short for him, patched and patched again with careful stitches in a style achingly familiar. “Those are my stitches.”

“What?”

“He's wearing patched clothes and the stitches – they're mine. I learned them on Taloo, some old man who made his living patching people's clothes; he showed me how to make the most of little cloth and still make them pretty. I taught them to Qui-Gon, but you know how he is with sewing.”

“Considering I've been the one patching his clothes since you were knighted, yes.”

“Did you teach him that?” It couldn't have been Qui-Gon, whose large hands could crochet or knit or make Force-sculptures but fumbled with needle and thread.

“No. I've taught him to boil eggs and make porridge and noodles. I was slowly working my way up – those two were seldom at home, that made it rather difficult.”

“Do you think ...”

“Qui-Gon? Maybe. He's got good visual memory, even when he can't do a thing himself. Or Qui-Gon still has some tunics that you patched. He's not as bad as Rael but he does keep things forever if they're still in one piece.”

The boy's hand was trembling next to a holster with a blaster that looked older than Master Sinube. His hair was long and scraggly, messily held back in a ponytail. His eyes were the dull sheen of those who have seen too much death, a long way away from the lively, focused young man politely telling his grandmaster to call back at a better time. Yet this boy he had never met, may never meet, carried a little bit of Feemor in him. Suddenly, he was tempted to go visit Yoda, after all.

“Why was he sent away?” Feemor had too little context for Tahl and Qui-Gon's argument, but that had stuck. We abandoned him.

“Too aggressive. Let himself be baited into fights. Too angry. He was just short of thirteen.”

“Why wasn't he chosen before?”

“I don't know. I still had Orykan, I wasn't looking at Initiates. I do know he's snuck out of the Temple a few times, but I don't know why. That could be a black mark. He's sensitive. It makes him shy, or could make him aggressive, I suppose, under the right circumstances. He's hard-working, but not brilliant, not the way Xan was. A soft light, easily overlooked, but steady. What I don't understand is why they sent him to the Agricorps. He's about as open to the Living Force as a brick.”

“He'd have had fun with Qui-Gon.” Talking about him – somehow, his name flowed from his lips easily, this time, with only a small pang in his chest as he said it.

“Fairly strong in Cosmic, I think, from the one time I meditated with him.”

Feemor stared some more at the boy's stiff frame, pride and humiliation, duty and pain etched in the set of his shoulders and his trembling hands, clenching and unclenching at his sides. Then he executed a picture-perfect bow and the message switched off. Feemor realised he hadn't heard a word Obi-Wan had said.

“I wanna go.” He had forgiven Qui-Gon, hadn't he? Forgiven in thought and, he had hoped, finally in mind as well and he had been ready to go out and surprise him and hopefully be acknowledged, maybe even embraced.

He hadn't been ready to be angry at him all over again, over a boy he had never met.

Tahl laughed. “That wouldn't work. Qui-Gon knows his duty. He'll help those poor children find their friend's murderer and set up a working government. He'll make sure Obi-Wan knows he can come back. Your emotions – both of you – will only get in the way.”

“I don't have a padawan.”

Tahl pat his knee. “I have dibs. He knows Braille.”

“I want to meet him, regardless.”

“As soon as possible.”

He didn't, of course, because there was another mission, and then he was being called in front of the Council to be interrogated about Xanatos, of all people, who wasn't dead after all (which he knew), and had been infiltrating the Temple for some time (which he hadn't known); and then Xan was dead, really dead this time, but so was an Initiate from Telos and there was a trial before the Senate where he wasn't called to testify, but Obi-Wan was and Qui-Gon, in a fit of parental feeling, had taken the boy off-planet for a change of scenery at the same time that Tahl got her first off-planet mission since Melidaan.

And then, shortly after she left, on the way to Qui-Gon's suite because this was getting slightly ridiculous, Feemor saw a little student, barely twelve, lashing out and yelling. And when he asked him why, the boy told him his only friend was dead, and everyone was saying he'd betrayed the Temple, and it was all Obi-Wan's fault, and now no-one would want him because everyone knew he'd been Bruck's friend and he was dead.

Looking down at his grieving, angry face, Feemor remembered another Initiate no-one had wanted, the one they had abandoned, because he was scared and he was angry and he was desperate, and went to tell Yoda he was going to be a great-grandmaster once again.

Chapter Text

Komari grimaced at the bottle of Atollian Gin Zana held out. She wasn’t a liqueur girl by any means, but she had yet to find any redeeming qualities to gin. But it was that or Korn, which was arguably worse. She accepted it and squirmed back into the nest of mattresses and sheets pulled from the bunks of Padawan Dormitory Cherekh. The good thing about Padawan Zana Oplin was that their Master didn’t lock the drinks cabinet. The bad thing about Zana was that, when it came to alcohol, they had no class.

Zana flipped their tendrils back from their face and unscrewed the Korn. “Any news on your probation?”

Komari shrugged. Another good thing about Zana was that they didn’t beat about the bush. And they weren’t Komari’s friend, exactly, so they could bitch and groan at each other without caring enough to judge. They’d kissed once, too, and it had been kinda nice. Maybe they’ll mess around a bit tonight. Anything to take her mind off that clusterkriff that landed her in this situation.

“Master says I’m not ready. I don’t get it. I mean, I get that it was a catastrophe, I just don’t see what we could have done differently.”

Just as Zana opened their mouth, the dorm door slid open. Their Masters would have been impressed at the level of Force control exerted to hide the bottles. But it was only a kid, creeping in and halfway up to a top bunk just near the door, staring at them like a tooka in the headlights.

“Scram, kid.” Zana threw a pillow at them. They flinched, dodged, and rolled up onto the bunk in one fluid movement, and it was only due to hours and hours of practice against kriffing pebbles (“No technologically advanced civilisation uses projectiles, Padawan. But there is no rule confining us to those planets using blasters.”) that Komari stopped the – it was. It was a kriffing pebble.

“The kriff?” Zana shrieked as they plucked it out of the air where Komari had arrested it.

The figure scrambled back and tucked itself into the shadows of the bunk.

“No-one else is authorised for the dorms tonight,” Komari told them. “We checked. If you locked yourself out of your room, it’s not our problem.”

There was a small snort. It was an oddly familiar snort. “Don’t have a room.”

“Well, where do you usually sleep?” Zana sniped. They were fairly quivering. Komari could relate. Two perfectly good bottles of alcohol languishing under pillows while this little prick threw stones at them.

“The Council” – their voice was bitter – “told me to go back to my old rooms.”

“These. Are. The. dorms,” Komari pointed out, enunciating every syllable. Kid didn’t seem very bright.

“I know that. But I roomed with my Master.”

“So?”

“So I don’t actually have a Master right now.”

Zana and Komari winced. Not having a Master was not a good thing until Knighthood at least.

“The Force take them in,” Zana offered. Oh, right. Komari echoed the proper words of grieving a few beats too slow. Oh, Master would have words about that. Good thing – for once – that he wasn’t here.

“Oh, he’s not dead,” the kid said scathingly, and Komari was becoming more and more certain that she knew them. “He’s just not currently my Master.”

Ouch. Ouch.

“Was he a sleemo or something?” Komari asked, trying for sympathetic. It was rarer than the other way around, but if she was a Padawan who suddenly found themselves without a Master, she’d rather other people assume she had done the leaving. There, see? Empathy. Take that, Mind Healer Otharr.

Silence.

“Well anyway, you can’t stay here,” Zana told them. “It’s not allowed if a Master doesn’t authorise it. Maybe he got you down for your own room, instead?”

Another pause. “He probably forgot.” The words were small, defeated.

“You’ll get in trouble for sleeping here unauthorised,” Zana insisted.

“Is that more or less trouble than for drinking in the dorms?” They sounded listless, as though blackmail were energy they didn’t actually feel like expending right now. “I slept behind a potted plant last night and beneath the Great Tree the night before, only it’s raining and it’s the North Hall’s rotation for the watering droids tonight.”

“Room of a Thousand Fountains?” Zana offered.

“Do you know how many nocturnal species are there on any given night? Anyway, I don’t want to be too far from my – from my old rooms.”

“Okay, fine. But we were here first, so scram.” The most this dragged on, the more Komari realised just how much she wanted to talk about Galidraan with someone who didn't look at her judgingly. If she'd done something wrong, why couldn't they just say? Master was usually good at that. He knew Komari was bad at context clues. And what's more, who knew when they’d have a chance to do this again? It was pure luck – or maybe the Will of the Force – that her Master had a late-night meeting and had agreed to the sleep-over.

She snatched the pebble from Zana’s hand and frowned at it. It wasn’t a pebble, exactly. It fit well into the curve of her palm and was almost completely spherical. “Kid, why are you throwing Breggle stones at us?”

“I’ll go.” He was barely more than a shadow, slinking down from the bunk with his arms full of cloth.

Komari gave up. “Oh, fine.” Zana stared at her. She rolled her eyes and said in a sing-song, “Compassion should inform a Jedi's every action / for in the other we find ourselves.” If she never had to look at another poetry book again, she would die happy.

“Since when do you care?” Zana sniped.

“I'm on probation.”

“Yeah, and they're breaking the rules. We'll get in trouble if we don't call anyone, and if they come” – Zana waved a hand at the little nest they'd build. “I'm not cleaning this up just to put back together again when the Masters are gone and then cleaning it up again tomorrow morning.”

Komari shrugged. “We'll say we thought he was allowed. We're not supposed to be doing this” – she repeated Zana's gesture, taking in the mattresses, pillows, blankets and hidded booze – “which is why we checked the roster, but they won't know we did. Just leave them. The way they look, they'll be asleep soon anyway.”

“My eyes will definitely be closed. I will see nothing and hear nothing,” the voice from the gloom agreed with pathetic eagerness.

“Fine,” Zana grumped. They took out a pack of cards and they played two hands of Sabacc.

“You think they're sleeping?” Zana asked finally.

Komari probed with the Force, but they didn't even blip. She shrugged. “They can't squeal on us, anyway. Not without getting into trouble themselves.”

Zana brought the bottles out. Komari steeled herself and took a chug. Ugh. It was even worse than she remembered.

“So what did happen?” Zana asked.

Komari took another gulp, almost coughing as the burn hit. “We got there. The governor said there were Mandos killing civilians. We went to the town. Lo, there were dead civilians. We went in the direction law enforcement said they came from. Lo, there were Mandos. Master asked them to surrender so they could be turned over to local justice for a proper investigation. They started shooting. So we jumped down and –“

“You did what ?!?”

Komari turned to the shadowy bunks. “Oi. That's very active not-hearing.”

“You were facing a heavily-armed opponent – they were heavily-armed, yes?”

“Well, yeah. Mandos. Armour, blasters, rifles, those weird little shrieking rockets, the works. Mandos.”

“From an advantageous position – you were on buildings?”

“A kind of ridge. They'd camped in some kind of circus – you know, with cliffs all around? I think that's what it's called? It was all covered in snow.”

“You were on the top of a ridge and people started shooting at you from the bottom of the ridge and you jumped down? What in the name of the Force made you think that was a good idea?”

“Look, nobody asked for your opinion. And that's not why I'm on probation.”

“So why?”

“I don't know! It's what I'm trying to figure out. Just – shut up and go back to sleep.”

“I can't. If I'd let any of my squad make such an Elder-brained decision, Nield and Cerasi would have booted me out.”

“They had jetpacks! What does it matter?”

The Padawan slithered down from the bunk and strode towards them, his arms crossed. Kark, his clothes looked like someone had shredded them – threadbare and patched and patched again. He must have come back from a pretty long mission with no spares. “Because people don't shoot well aiming up. There's the glare of the sky, and the angles – topography hides half of what's going on. Down? Down is easy. You see everything, no glare, and if you run out of ammunition you can simply start dropping things on people's heads. I don't know why their commander thought corralling them into a depression like Tunik for a beater hunt was a good idea, but it's no reason to jump in with them!” The closer he got, the more agitated his hands, the more clipped his consonants and no, no, it couldn't be, as familiar as he sounded, he couldn't be, it didn't look like him and it did, taller, thinner, a teenager and not.

“Brat?! What are you doing here?”

He stopped short in mid-rant and gave her a Look. It was. It was Obi-Wan's 'are you being obtuse on purpose' Look, from eyes so sunken they were shadowed by his occipital ridges and a mouth that was barely more than a razor-thin line, and it broke her.

“Lecturing you on battlefield tactics, apparently.” He deflated. There was no other word. From a vibrant, self-assured young man he fell in on himself, like a collapsing black hole, a skittish Padawan once more. He avoided her eyes. “Sorry. I'll go.”

Komari surprised Zana and Obi-Wan and, to be honest, herself by grabbing him and squeezing him tight. She wasn't a hugger. She didn't even hug her friends, not even the ones whose company she kind of enjoyed.

She found herself on the floor with her arm twisted behind her back. She laughed, throwing back her hair. “You're alive!”

His hands on her wrist were trembling. “Debatable,” he wheezed, as his nails dug into her arms.

“Brat, get off me. Did Qui-Gon finally get his head out of his arse and go back for you? Did you make him beg? Please tell me you made him beg.”

There was no answer. The pressure on her wrists increased. It was starting to hurt.

“Padawan, stop!” Zana yelled.

“It's only Obi-Wan. He's –“ She yelped as her shoulder twisted painfully. “Hey, Brat. That hurt!” Ow. Her shoulder felt as if it was about to pop out of its socket. “Brat! It's Komari! I'm gonna teach you that ligature with the Osk, remember? You showed me that cute pool with the fish and the water-lilies. I got you a piece of beskar!” She screamed that last part and the pressure finally, finally relented.

She pushed off the floor and stared at him. He was struggling in Zara's grip; only her greater size and leverage prevented him from getting free. “What the kriff is wrong with you?”

He looked like Komari used to feel when there was too much static. Noise from people and the Force and movement and colour and none of it made sense, except the grounding presence of the crechemasters and later, Master and his gazillion rules and contingencies. Obi-Wan looked like he had run out of contingencies and reset to factory settings. Which, apparently, was “feral”.

“Um. Brat? Breathe.”

He didn't hear her. He twisted, grabbed Zana's upper arm and almost had them. Zana's grip was weirdly loose and he was trying to take advantage, but they were heavier and – Force, what the kriff? Was that his arm? It looked like a stick, like it would snap if you breathed on it too hard. Komari tried not to panic.

Right. Panic. The crechemasters had used to run their hands up and down the sides of her body, trapping her back into the here-and-now. Touching him was probably not a good idea. Master, though, had given her breathing mantras. She was pretty sure they only worked because of repetition, but she tried anyway. “Hey, Brat. Come on. Breathe the three Tenets, hold on to the Code, let go of it all.”

He wasn't hearing her. “Brat! Come on! Obi-Wan!”

He stilled like a trapped loth-cat.

“Breathe the three Tenets, hold on to the Code, let go of it all.”

He stayed still, hyperventilating slightly.

“Breathe the three Tenets, hold on to the Code, let go of it all.”

“I don't know what that means.” It was a whisper. He still wasn't looking at any of them.

“Oh. Breathe in three counts for the three Tenets, hold it for five counts for the five lines of the Code, and exhale while saying them both in your head.”

(Peace over anger. Honor over hate. Strength over fear.

There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no death, there is the Force.)

He tried it, struggling to breathe evenly. “That's quite a long exhale. Even with the New Code.”

“Yeah. I usually shorten them. You know –“ she took a breath and spoke as quickly as she could as she exhaled, “Peacehonourstrength. PeaceharmonyknowledgeserenityForce.”

He gave a choked laugh. “Komari.”

“Shut up. You're not my Master.” It felt good to say it to someone, even if he didn't actually deserved it. It felt like everyone was her Master, these days, except her own, who spent more time brooding than he did actually trying to explain what the kark she had done wrong. She was supposed to meditate and figure it out herself. Well, that was certainly going swimmingly.

Zana looked at him dubiously. “If I let you go, will you bite me?”

He looked shocked. “Of course not!”

“You almost broke Komari's arm. Not that she doesn't deserve it, but still.”

“What did I do this time?” She tried to think back. Zana usually didn't care how snarky or inappropriate she was about things, but Master had warned her that everybody had their limits.

“On general principle.” But they let go of Obi-Wan.

The Brat – for half a second there, he had been Obi-Wan, and now... Deflated was a good word. She turned it around in her mind. Deflated. Like a balloon, empty and wobbly. He wobbled in the Force, too. Invisible one minute, there the next, twanging like an instrument string, off-key.

They stood staring at each other for what felt like hours. Komari suppressed the urge to stretch her shoulders. That had been a good take-down, and he had leveraged his lighter weight well.

“I got you a book of Serenno poetry,” she finally said, because the silence was getting on her nerves, and he was looking at them like a half-drowned, feral tooka.

Her perked up. Of course he did. “Really?”

Sort of. “Yeah. It's in your room.”

He deflated again. Why? Oh, right. He was here because he didn't have a Master.

“Did something happen to Qui-Gon?”

He shook his head.

“So why are you sleeping behind potted plants?”

He gave her a pained look. “He's not...” He glanced at Zana and clammed up, staring at the floor with its mess of blankets and mattresses. Right. Discretion. It was a thing, apparently.

She sat down, cross-legged. “Well, I'm on probation. Sit down.” She took out the bottle and uncapped it. “Gin or Korn?”

He shrank back wrinkling his nose. “I can't. I'm on probation, too... I can't step out of line even more.” He visibly gagged and took another step back. “Please? We used it as disinfectant. There was this one kid, not more than ten, she'd steal... We couldn't keep her away from it. She died in a raid, she couldn't run – “ He collapsed into a ball. “We tried. She found all the hiding places. But there was hardly any bacta and the Elder veterans kept the stills running and otherwise it was infection and...”

Komari put the cap back on. What the kark? “What kind of planet did that son of a parasite-ridden strill leave you on?”

Zana sat down, too, hand hovering hesitantly above the Brat's back. “What the kark, kid?”

He shuddered, breathed. Komari could vaguely hear him muttering “Peacehonourstrength. PeaceharmonyknowledgeserenityForce.” He took another breath. “Peace is in there twice.”

“Peace is important, Padawan,” Komari said in her best Master Dooku voice.

“Always at peace, a Jedi should be,” Zana chimed in with a horrid impression of Master Yoda.

Obi-Wan snorted and a small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Yes, peace is important.” He uncurled, his weird not grey-not-blue eyes clear and limpid. “So why did you give up the advantage of high ground?”

They were really doing this? Now? No way. “I don't want to talk about it. Why didn't you have enough bacta and what drove a ten-year-old to alcoholism?” Two could play at this game. Question, counter-Question. The first hesitant exchanges in the sparring of diplomacy. See? She listened.

“Well,” Obi-Wan drawled and oh, she had missed this, “we could talk about Arcani pakkus instead. Did you know they are one of only about two hundred species in the known galaxy to have a menstrual cycle, humans included?  They use electromagnetic fields to navigate, which is why they don't do well when taken off their home planets. Oh, and they eat gravel because they don't have stomach muscles, it helps grind their food. They're called bezoars. The stones, not the pakkus, who, obviously, are called pakkus. Except in the Wiswa Jungle, where they're called At-ati, which, funnily, means pit-eaters, because instead of eating gravel they eat the pits of agrar-fruit they find in the faeces of...”

“Ugh, fine. You win. Spare me the pudu stomach-stones.”

He grinned a pale imitation of his shy, happy grin, whenever he got her to do what he wanted. It was embarrassing. She'd once caught herself actually telling other people about the mural in the South Arcades. Ugh. If she started talking about pakku stomach-pebbles, someone should just kill her right there and then.

He made himself comfortable, sitting cross-legged as he tucked a length of cord back into his obi. And then he gave her his full attention. That was probably it. He had always been so excited about things. So interested. And for some reason, that interest extended to her. Komari. Arguably one of the most difficult Padawans in the Temple, though there was this Kiffar kid a year or two below her who seemed to be giving her a run for her money, if you believed the rumour mills. But Obi-Wan Kenobi, for whatever reasons of his own, found her worthy of his full attention.

In the end, she shrugged. She didn't remember why. They had started shooting and it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Komari, why did they start shooting?”

She tensed. Why, why, why?

Not “what did you do.” Not “what did you say.” But he could have said it. It was what everyone else said. It was what her Master asked her, whenever there was an incident. But she was better at it, at thinking before she talked, at least on missions. She was doing better. It wasn't fair – they couldn't just assume... She was doing better.

“You were gone,” she mumbled instead, because that was it, wasn't it? She had gone to see him and he was gone, and Twit-Gon Jinn had just left him, and the only person besides her Master whom she genuinely, truly liked in this whole Temple. Yes, she had friends, but with Obi-Wan, it never felt like he just tolerated her. Zana was here for mutual grousing. Dlali and Greeka were just too good-natured to tell her to kark off; she knew they got tired of her sometimes. Obi-Wan sought her out. Obi-Wan gave her his full attention.

And Obi-Wan was gone and there were dead babies and people whose hostility made the Force feel sour and rotten and no faces, no faces, just blank metal like the training droids, blank metal and hate and it had run up and down her frayed nerves, raw, exposing them to the tension-filled air, and her body had felt too tight and there would be no Obi-Wan when she got back from what was already a nightmare. No exasperated meditations in hidden-away rooms, no murals and paintings and tapestries, no obsession about the right calligraphy brush and how much to water plants.

A hesitant touch. She grasped his hand. A landline. “I brought you back a piece of beskar,” she told him, her voice floating in a void. “I don't even know why. You were gone.”

“I'm here.” Soft. Gentle.

She tried not to rock, but it came anyway. She hated it. The crechemasters had said it was normal, that she should let it happen if she wasn't on a mission where focus was important, but she hated it. It was so easy. So easy to get lost in it, to let everything rise, rise, rise, in the rhythm, rhythm, rhythm, and other people didn't do this, other people knew what to say when and what not to say and she tried not to care, she wouldn't care, she didn't care, but this? This was proof, proof, proof that she was broken, broken, broken.

Another hand grasped hers, she had two hands in hers now; one, two, bony and rough and squeezing slightly and singing. Hands don't sing.

It was a karking lullaby.

The tune was one she recognised from the creche, but the words... The words were not.

“One day the bombs will turn to rain

One day the mines will bloom and grow

One day the sound of blaster fire

Will turn into the bluest snow.

One day we will have Elders

Who themselves once were Young

One day we will be free

When the war is done.

There you go, little one. There you go.”

Komari grabbed him and this time, he didn't fight her. He let her hug him and cry into his hair as she rocked – not obsessively this time, but to rock him, real in her arms, to soothe someone who sang lullabies about the end of war. He was tense and stiff in her arms and that was wrong, too.

After way too much time, she realised Zana was watching. Had seen all of it. Komari had never... Not even in front of Dlali. Well, there went the grousing sessions and the stolen booze.

She sniffed and let go of Obi-Wan, who was still stiff as a board.

“What happened to your flesh?” she asked him. “You're all hard bones.”

Zana held out a handkerchief, because that was the sort of person their Master was, ensuring they always had an emergency handkerchief in their obi, to wipe their mouth with when eating on a mission, to bind a cut. That was the sort of person Obi-Wan was, with his neatly-marked rebreather case and his rolled-up socks. But now he had no handkerchief tucked in his obi, but instead a length of cord that could send rocks flying.

He took it from Zana and handed it to Komari. “All of mine are gone,” he apologised, because it was the Brat and he apologised for everything. Including not having a handkerchief tucked in his obi, as if that was a normal, person-thing to do.

“We were on the ridge,” she began again. “And Master had just told them to surrender, and they'd be treated fairly. There was this one Mando – he came in just as we arrived. It looked like he was in charge, everything about him was aggressive, and I –”

“You did something.” His tone wasn't unkind. It unmade her.

“I thought... I just said that if they didn't come, we'd fight them.” Because they would have. Duh.

Obi-Wan seemed to hear what she didn't say out loud. “Well, yes. Of course you would fight if they attacked. Everybody knew that. But saying it...” He closed his eyes. His eyelids were blue, almost translucent. “It was like that with the Melida and Daan. Every so often, they'd meet with us. Everyone knew that the fighting would start again. But until someone said it – it was like, for a moment, everybody was playing pretend, and as long as they played along, there was hope. A little imaginary world where the words of poison their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had spoken into their ears just didn't exist. But reason? Perhaps. Reason could exist. Because it was just pretend. Until somebody said what everyone knew and shattered the illusion.”

“The leader told them to fire on us. I think. They must have been talking over comms in their helmets, but he pointed at us and suddenly all the Mandos opened fire. So many died...” She tried to shrug it off. “I didn't even like most of them.”

Thankfully, neither Obi-Wan nor Zana said anything. Siko Duul and she hadn't had an opportunity to mess around in the bunks because, surprise, surprise, her Master had a staggerring amount of Serenno poetry memorised that he could inflict on her despite her best efforts to ditch the book. So now she knew a little more Serenno poetry than she did before, which was about 100 % more than she actually ever wanted to learn, and knew less about kissing than she would have liked.

If she ever made it to Knight, guess what she was doing to her own Padawan. No reason she should have to suffer for nothing.

But now Siko was dead, so she'd never know if what Padawan Eltrand had said about his lips were true. There were some Masters she had known from sight, others who had occasionally graced Master's quarters. Red, blue, yellow-white blood staining the snow, kybers silent.

“We found out it wasn't even them,” she whispered. “It was some other group. They'd been putting down some guerilla fighter camp elsewhere when the village was attacked. Master went back to the governor's to free the leader, but he was gone. We couldn't... Master couldn't... he couldn't get him to say where.” She saw the raw fire in her Master's coal-black eyes, two gleaming embers of fury. She saw them burning with justice and if she concentrated hard enough on them, she couldn't hear the governor's screams. “So I got a whole bunch of Masters and Padawans killed and almost all the Mandos and it wasn't even justice.”

Obi-Wan sighed. Looked down at his nervous, nimble fingers, all bone. “Cerasi. She was – she was who everyone was fighting for, really. Peace was such an abstract concept – none of them had ever really known peace. Just times when no-one was fighting. They fought for her, and then someone killed her. Because peace was such an unknown, it scared them. Nield, her best friend, thought it was his fault. Her own father...”

“Which one's a father, again?” Komari had learned all the names of family units. People were always being introduced as someone's child, parent, sibling, nibling... Keeping track of it all sounded exhausting, so she didn't. She filed them in her head as “family connection”, which seemed like it should be enough, but somehow some connections had greater weight than others and... Force, was she happy she had creche-mates, a Master and the rest of the Jedi Temple, and no-one was supposed to be more important to her just because of the connection. Master liked keeping in touch with the lineage, but he didn't expect her to be attached to them, just polite. It was refreshing.

“Progenitor.”

“He got her carrier pregnant. Got it.”

“Its... In most cultures... Oh, never mind. They both thought it was their fault, because they were being stubborn, ready to put peace on the line for nothing but rooms of cold stone. But it wasn't. They didn't pull the trigger. Mawat did. Mawat who... Do you know, he adored Cerasi. He said he wanted power, but he felt so... lost. He didn't know what peace was, you know.” He shuddered, and looked up to her. “You shouldn't have said it. But the leader was the one who decided to fire.”

She knew that. She did.

So why hadn't she ever considered that she had acted badly? If she was so sure it wasn't her fault? She acted badly all the time. Her Master said that was what being a Padawan was for. Acting badly and learning from your mistakes.

They were usually able to salvage her mistakes. She could keep her mouth shut at most diplomatic functions, now. So why, oh why had she opened it this time?

“There weren't any left. Just the leader.” She hugged herself. “Fatt? Fitt? Something Fitt.” She looked desperately up at Obi-Wan. “I should know his name, shouldn't I? I should care.”

“Do you?”

“Not about his name.” She bit her lip. “I guess... I care that we got it wrong. About him? Maybe? I want to know what happened to him.” That was the same as caring, wasn't it?

“Then find out his name,” Obi-Wan told her softly.

She cared about Obi-Wan, and she hadn't known it until he was gone. Maybe she did care about things, only she couldn't always tell. And maybe it wasn't at all the same, caring for the Brat or for some Mando. Maybe caring didn't have to be an emotion. Maybe caring could sometimes be a duty, instead.

“You know this would have gone tits-up regardless, right?” Zana interjected. This was the sort of warm commiseration Komari had sought them out for. Not this soul-wrenching, tear-inducing whatever-it-was the Brat had forced on her. “The leader came in hot. Everyone was being double-crossed. They were Mandos. Someone would have shot you eventually.”

“But not because of me. And just – just a few seconds. If the leader had had time to calm down... Maybe... I dunno. Maybe we could have talked, found out the truth.”

“They're Mandos. Why would they bother explaining themselves to Jedi?” Zana scoffed, and suddenly Komari was glad the Brat had turned up after all. Because she was on the cusp of something, something big. Emotions were weird, for Komari. She had them out of sync, or the wrong ones, or sometimes none at all even though it felt like she should. It was easier not to bother.

The Brat had the right ones, she thought. But he had too much of them. And he was punished for that, too. But he didn't decide not to bother. Instead, he stayed on a planet where the idea of peace was so scary someone killed their friend to avoid it. Where a ten-year-old got themselves killed because they were too drunk to run. Where bacta was scarce and, to judge with what was passing for the Brat's wrists right now, so was food. Where he learned to throw stones without the Force.

Well, kriff. She should've tried harder to hit Qui-Gon, that day.

Anyway, maybe it didn't matter if she took forever to figure out what she feeling, or felt the wrong thing. Maybe she could still care, in her own way. Because, she thought, that was the difference between a Jedi and the police, or a Senate mediator, or just about anyone. A good Jedi needed to care.

She made a face. Well, that was intense, and probably good, but it was enough for now. Force knew there would be enough meditation in her future where she could untangle all of that.

She dug into her bag. “I have half a Dejarik cake. You?”

Zana brandished a sack of Temple crisps – fried and dried vegetables sprinkled with herbs.

“I didn't bring anything,” the Brat said contritely.

“Yeah, well, you weren't invited.” Komari rummaged around in her bag some more. “Here's your beskar. Can you show us how to use that thing?”

“What thing?”

“The stone-throwing thing.”

“Oh. It's called a sling.”

He brought it out and his Force presence flared, still wonky. She shook out the tangle of cords and pressed a slice of cake into his hands. Was he supposed to be eating that? Last time he had a re-feeding schedule or something, and he hadn't been anywhere near as thin as now. Oh, well. Some food was better than no food, right?

He bit into it and didn't bring it back up, so yay.

The Brat, for whatever reason, also had a collection of Breggle stones in his obi. “Found them on the roof garden,” he explained, embarrassed. He showed them how to place them in the little pouch at the centre of the cord – anything round or oval, he said, or they didn't fly right; the Young had used toy grenades, too, and what the kark, who made toy grenades? – and swing it, and when to release one end of the cord. They set up a shooting range by propping up a mattress at the far end of the room and hanging stuff on it as targets.

It was fun. When was the last time Komari had had fun?

Every so often, they would press another snack into his hands and he would look at it in puzzlement. After a while he stopped eating them. He tucked the vegetable snacks into his worn belt pouch and gently set the cake aside. Zana and Komari exchanged glances but didn't say anything.

They started hitting things with the sling, which was cool.

The Brat was just showing how you could get more velocity by twirling the sling around your head before releasing when the door opened behind them. In a blur, the Brat pivoted and sent his stone flying in the other direction –

Where a hook-nosed, dark-eyed, stony-faced man stood in tan Jedi robes, one hand raised, the stone hovering in the air.

The Brat's eyes went wide and he started to shake. He bowed, too deep, the type of bow they make Initiates do when they really, really mess up. Blocked the pipes in the underground tunnels and flood the whole of the methane-breathers level type of kark-up. He swallowed, said something that came out low and raspy.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Forgive me, Master. I reacted, I didn't...”

“Your reaction time is commendable. Your situational awareness is not.” The stone fell to the floor. “I will be informing your Master of this.”

“Yes, Master. Only – ”

Master Dooku swept in, the shivering Padawan forgotten.

“Komari.”

She winced. “He was showing us how to use a sling. That could be useful, right? If we don't have our sabers or can't use them?” There had been a mission like that, where the energy from their sabers could have ignited the atmosphere. At least, the atmosphere immediately around them, which at least wouldn't have had global repercussions but would have been pretty uncomfortable for Master and Komari. Crispy was probably pretty uncomfortable. “And... It's just woven cord, so it doesn't register as a weapon?”

“I see.” His gaze swept the room, with its disarranged mattresses and their sleepware strewn everywhere.

“We were going to tidy tomorrow morning.”

His gaze sharpened and Komari turned to see what he was looking at. Oh, kriff. Kriff, kriff, kriff. They hadn't bothered hiding the bottles again. “We only had a sip,” she said, and realised it probably didn't make it any better.

He turned to Zana. “Padawan Oplin, does your Master know you were planning to drink tonight?”

Zana, who for some reason was never really afraid of Master, nodded. “I said we might. She said it was okay.”

“And did your Master know she was agreeing to donate two whole bottles to the cause, or did she assume you would be having a glass of wine at dinner?”

Zana looked away. “It was only a sip, anyway. The kid got all fussy about it.”

“I will be informing her, as well. You will have to tidy on your own, I'm afraid. We have been summoned before the Council.” He looked down his nose at Komari. “It is therefore quite fortunate that you are not intoxicated.”

“Yes, Master. What do they want?”

“We shall see.” He turned, his robes sweeping against the Brat's scuffed and worn boots. He stopped to regard him. “Your clothing is a disgrace. You should go requisition a new set immediately.”

That was rich, considering his first Padawan was Rael karking Aveross.

“I can't, Master. I don't have a Master to authorise it.”

“Then the Council of Reallocation should have authorised it. See to it.”

The Brat opened his mouth, then closed it. “Yes, Master.”

“They didn't give him a place to stay, why would they give him clothes?” Ah, kark. Contriteness. Contriteness was the key right now. Not opening her big gob, not after that was what had gotten them into trouble in the first place.

Then again, caring. This was caring, wasn't it? And that was good. Generally speaking. Surprisingly, her Master's dreaded “there is a time and place” (and how can you tell?) didn't come.

“How so?”

The Brat cringed. Master's disapproval spiked in the Force. “A misunderstanding, Master, that's all.”

Komari rolled her eyes. Where was the snappy General now? “They told him to go back to his old rooms. But he lived in-suite and it's taken.” Was that a lie? Sort of? A lie of omission. Very important in diplomacy. Of course, if she de-omitted, she could get Qui-Gon into a lot of trouble. And kark, did she really, really want to. But she also wanted Master to have a good opinion of Obi-Wan. If she told him who the Brat was now, he might not see past the trembling mess who tried to brain him with a slingshot.

Which, come to think of it, was epic.

The Brat bowed low again. The scars on his neck – it had been almost a year, now, shouldn't they have faded more? – stood out red and gnarly on the peaks and valleys of his vertebrae.

Master hmmmed. “Let me see your arms, Padawan.”

Hesitantly, he presented wrists that looked like they belonged to a toddler.

“Have you received a re-feeding schedule from the Healers?”

There was something to the Brat's gaze, now. Something. His weird who-knows-what-colour-they-wanted-to-be eyes were clouded, their pupils tiny pinpricks. He weaved in and out of the Force – panic. That was it.

“... No?”

“Then you will present yourself to them first thing in the morning. I will see about your status with the Council.”

“Thank you, Master, but I was told to report elsewhere tomorrow morning.” It was a whisper. Kriff. The hesitant, confused kid she had met for the first time in the Healer's ward had been Captain Confidence compared to this.

Master raised his eyebrows. “By someone with more authority than a Master?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Hmph. Come, Padawan. We will be late.” He swept out, trailing Komari behind him.

“Will you really talk to the Council?” she asked.

He didn't answer. After a minute or two, as they turned into the corridor heading to the lifts, he remarked, “That should never have left the Mind-Healers unattended.”

“He just got back, I think. But will you? He slept behind a statue last night and the night before he spent under the Tree. Don't know where he's been showering, or cleaning his clothes, but I think that's his only set. I don't think he even has access to the blanket closet, and that's open even to Padawans who live with their Masters.”

The lift dinged. They got on, nodding to a Trandoshan Knight spattered head to toe in orange goo. They gave a weary nod back. Komari flicked her hair back over her shoulder. “I need to cut my hair,” she complained, after it slid back. “It's annoying me.”

“Why the sudden interest in a Junior Padawan?” her Master asked.

It wasn't sudden. She shrugged. “I'm trying to care more,” she said.

“You wouldn't have otherwise?”

She thought about it. “It would have bothered me, I guess. But I probably wouldn't have said anything.”

“Why?”

She thought about it. “Too much...”

“Trouble?” His tone was dry, but not judgemental.

“No. Yes. Too much...” She could be honest with Master. She knew she could be honest with Master. It was still hard. Hard to put things into words. “I have too much to think about, all the time. To be careful of. To remember. It's hard to... To keep things in mind for other people, too.” She flailed slightly with her hands. “I know I need to shut up more. But maybe, sometimes I need to say more, say other things instead?” She groaned. “I don't know.”

Her Master nodded. “Ah, to be sixteen and the centre of the world. No – “ he raised a hand. “All my Padawans were self-centered at sixteen, in different ways. You are, perhaps, the most self-aware of them. It does not always do you favours.” The Trandoshan Knight snorted slightly as he gave the goo on his robes a desultory shaked. It was caked on well. Komari glared at him, but Master made a positive sort of hum, so that meant? Maybe the Knight had Padawans of his own and understood. Commiserating? Kriff, she was too tired for this. “Yes,” Master continued, “that Padawan's physical and mental state is a disgrace. I will be addressing them. You know his name?”

She nodded, unwilling to tell him. He still liked Qui-Gon. He wanted to like the Brat. This wasn't how they were supposed to meet! Obi-Wan would be in their rooms, they'd practising calligraphy or something and Komari would be showing something that made him beam. The Force was so pretty around him when he was happy. Master would come in and, look! It's the Brat! I made it so you can meet him!

“But for now, you need to center yourself, Padawan, before we come before the Council. Join me in a walking meditation. Oosin's third sonnet, perhaps, and you can tell me why you think you need to care more.”

Komari sighed. “Yes, Master.”