Chapter Text
It was a good thing that they were on a mission leave.
Obi-Wan could not remember exactly what mission they had just returned from, but from what he could tell, it was long and dangerous enough that Qui-Gon had requested a break from missions for three months. Thank the Force for that - if they had another mission so soon after Obi-Wan had just barely figured out when in the timeline he had landed in, he would not know what to do. He could mess up the mission and die, and he was not really keen on death anymore, ever since he had gotten his second chance.
He spent his days in the archives, reading and studying and gathering as much information as possible, and he would have gotten away with avoiding actual training with his master for longer if the man had not dragged him by the ear to the training rooms. He’d forgotten what it was like to be a padawan, to answer directly to a master who was most certainly alive. However, he did not realise that engaging in lightsaber combat so soon after the Death Star was a terrible idea.
Throughout his two decades in the desert, he had certainly trained his hardest. It was so that he could protect Luke if and when the time came, and to preserve the remnants of the Jedi in himself. He had a particular fear that he would eventually forget the Jedi and their ways, and with this as a motivation, he kept up his form the best he could, at least until his body started breaking down and failing. His connection to the Force had weakened, though, regardless of however much training he did in the desert, manipulating millions and billions of sand particles in an effort to stay connected to the Force. There was a specific science to manipulating such small-scaled matter, and he was quite proud to say that he eventually managed to achieve this, even when his connection weakened and left him barely able to summon a cup to his hands.
Not only did he train in the ways of the Force during his exile in the desert, he had certainly ensured to carve every single lightsaber form into his memory, save for the ones that he never learnt, like Vaapad. Granted, he was still the most proficient in Soresu, it would be something that he would never be able to forget, but he honed his skills in Makashi and Djem So, knowing that a good offence was as important and vital as a good defence. He also tried his hand at Niman, to great success due to the lack of order it had, but it usually left him angry and resentful as he remembered that it was with this very form, that Darth Maul had used to kill Qui-Gon.
On bad days, all alone in the sweltering heat of the desert, he would find himself slipping into the first form Shii-Cho, tears streaming down his dry and blistered cheeks as his mind echoed with the memories of padawans and younglings laying scattered across Temple grounds, unmoving.
With all of this, Obi-Wan should not have had any problem sparring with his master in the training rooms, with the decades of experiences he had. Along with this, he did not have to relearn his body’s motor skills, as it was around this time he had reached maximum body development (to his woe, as even Anakin had been taller than him when he was younger than he was at this age), so there would mostly be no problems with going through all that padawan training again.
However, as his master sprung at him with Ataru, the green glow of his lightsaber illuminating his vision, he could not help but turn all his feelings to dust as he regressed and slipped back to a state of blank, cold focus, just like all those years ago when he fought in the Clone Wars. Only this time, his eyes were deceiving him, as his vision was flickering between his master’s figure and Darth Vader’s dark form.
He sprang up and deflected Qui-Gon’s blows with ease and strength, spinning and ducking and dodging each attack his master threw his way, his own lightsaber humming in his hands, a familiar feeling. This was the same lightsaber that he used to duel Maul on Naboo, the one that had been sent spiralling down the reactor shaft that he had been hanging over, forever lost. It was nice to have it back again, but he was struggling to not lose himself in the past… future?... as he matched his master blow for blow.
Slowly, Obi-Wan slipped into Niman, unknowingly so, as his defensive posture melted away and he took on a more offensive stance. He started to incorporate small uses of the Force and hand-to-hand combat, improvising his moves and polishing his fighting style. Memories floated by his mind’s eye, visions of slicing droids into two and fighting a war and trying to stay alive while keeping his own men alive. He was High General Kenobi, the Negotiator, and he was leading his men to victory, a killing machine on the battlefield, destroying waves of droids with twists of his lightsaber-
He did not notice the way sweat beaded on his master’s face, as his stamina was wearing out and the defensive stance he’d taken was beginning to weaken. He did not notice the crowd that had gathered around the two of them, younglings and padawans watching in awe, masters spectating with wide eyes, and Councillors looking on with surprised gazes. He was still seeing double even as he finally knocked Qui-Gon down to the ground and summoned his lightsaber with the Force, a blur of Vader and Qui-Gon making him confused and disoriented, and he mindlessly lit his master’s lightsaber, making a move to swing down at the enemy with the two sabers, to kill, to maim, to defeat, and-
His master yelled his name, and raised two hands in an attempt to stop him.
Mace Windu sprung forward, lightsaber ignited, as he caught Obi-Wan’s downward swing.
Obi-Wan came back to himself, and saw Qui-Gon’s wide-eyed stare and Mace Windu blocking his lightsaber from fully descending upon Qui-Gon.
His finger slipped off the lightsaber buttons, and the blades retracted into their hilts.
He dropped his master’s lightsaber, and lifted a trembling hand to his cheeks, which was damp with tears. And for the second time since he came back to the past, he fled the room, pushing through awed spectators and yet again, running from his fears.
~
Mace Windu clasped Qui-Gon’s hand and hoisted him upward, using the Force to summon the man’s dropped lightsaber and passing it to him.
Qui-Gon was frantic, and his eyes were following his fleeing padawan out of the room. He made to take off after him, but Mace held him back.
“Are you alright, Master Jinn?” Was the Councillor’s concerned inquiry, and the older nodded his head.
“I’m fine, but Obi-Wan is not.”
“Obi-Wan is not? He just tried to kill you! Of course he isn’t fine! Do you know what brought this on? Also, how did he beat you in a duel, when he has never done so before?”
That was true. Obi-Wan had never beaten him before, even though he was skilled with his lightsaber. The boy, throughout his apprenticeship, was fixated on the use of Soresu, a defensive lightsaber form that most of the time, was never enough to win a duel. He had tried teaching him Ataru, and though his padawan knew Ataru conceptually, he always fell back on Soresu no matter how much Ataru training he was put through. At first, Qui-Gon had been a little peeved that his own padawan did not prefer a form that he himself was well-versed in, but over time, he had gotten used to it. It had a charm to it, Obi-Wan preferring Soresu. Not many Jedi used Soresu, anyway, and it contrasted quite nicely to the Ataru that Qui-Gon always used.
So nothing explained why Obi-Wan was suddenly fighting with a hybrid of Ataru, Djem So, and ultimately, Niman, which was the most versatile and volatile form in existence.
“I don’t know,” Qui-Gon answered truthfully, and his eyes flickered to the door. “But we have to go find him. He isn’t in the best state of mind right now, and I suspect that this has got to do with that apparent nightmare he had…”
Mace nodded, and they took off for the runaway padawan.
The elder Jedi Master explained the situation to the Councillor as they followed the trail that Obi-Wan had left behind in the Force, he spoke about Obi-Wan’s nightmare, his extreme reaction to Qui-Gon waking him up, his unwillingness to talk about it later on. Mace nodded through the elder’s explanations, worried and rushed, and the two of them turned into an empty room that was typically occupied by younglings and padawans who self-studied holocrons and whatnot.
Obi-Wan was there, crumpled on the ground, with his right hand shoved over half his face.
His left eye, which was not covered by his hand, produced a constant stream of tears, trickling down his cheeks and dripping down onto his knees.
His left hand was gripped onto his lightsaber, which was ignited, and the two older Jedi gasped as they felt the Force around the padawan, seeing the colour of the blade that emerged from the hilt.
For it was red, the colour of a Sith’s lightsaber.