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Chapter Text

To be a Temple Guard is not a specialty or a profession. It is a sacred duty, to which any Jedi Knight, or Master, may be summoned.
—Kolloma Ree

19 BBY
Coruscant

Obi-Wan’s cries were trapped behind the mask of the Temple Guard, his voice raw and desperate, but Anakin heard nothing. The only sound was the sharp hum of Anakin’s blue lightsaber as it swung wildly, each strike driven by a rage Obi-Wan had never felt in his former Padawan. The fluid, but fast and controlled movements of Djem So were nowhere to be found — only reckless fury, a fury so chilling it made Obi-Wan’s heart stutter.

Anakin’s eyes glowed a sickly yellow, matching the harsh light of Obi-Wan’s own saber pike. The sight made his stomach churn, once familiar warmth of his Padawan now replaced by something dark and cruel. Only years of experience kept his hands from shaking.

With a quick motion, Obi-Wan deactivated one blade of his pike, holding it in his right hand as he fell into the defensive opening of Soresu. He had to buy as much time as possible to ensure the others could get the younglings to safety.

“You! Obi-Wan!” Anakin’s voice cut through the chaos of blaster fire.

Obi-Wan did not flinch. He stood firm, staring down at Anakin and the clones — clones who now felt as cold and detached as Fox had that one time.

59 BBY
Space

Obi-Wan jolted awake, his body shivering from the bone-deep cold. It was the kind of chill that could only be compared to the presence of a Sith — no, not just any Sith, but his Padawan, Anakin, himself. The rage, the betrayal — it felt like Anakin was right there in the room with him. But no, the truth was simpler, though no less troubling. He had forgotten to close the door to the ship’s sleeping quarters, which for reasons beyond his understanding, were located next to the carbon freezing unit. He should really look into repairing it, or one day he might freeze to death in his sleep. The thought was unsettling, he needed to stay alive long enough to bring down Palpatine and his Sith Master.

From beneath his bunk, the Holocron hummed, its familiar marching tune intertwining with the battle cries of the kyber crystals in his pike and the mournful notes of his lightsaber. It sounded similar enough to a war song to gnaw at Obi-Wan’s nerves. 

He sighed. 

Obi-Wan needed tea. 

He rose from the bunk, stretching his stiff limbs and leaving the fight thirsty melody of the singing objects behind. He even shut the door, hoping against hope that it might somehow silence the noise, at least just a little. 

On the small table, a cup of cold, disgusting tea from the night before sat waiting. He rinsed it out and made a fresh one, savoring the warmth of it as he sipped slowly, eyes closed in an almost meditative trance. He let the steam rise to his face, grounding himself in the moment. The datapad and the kom’rke he had been studying remained forgotten on the table. The Holocron, sensing Obi-Wan’s distraction, let out a displeased hum. Obi-Wan could not help but wonder if a Sith had created it just to torment him personally.

He sighed again, this time more heavily. He needed to leave the Mandalorian Space Sector, and fast. He had not even intended to end up here. The hyperlane he had jumped after visiting Ahch-To had nearly killed him twice before spitting him out somewhere in the Gordian Reach. He had sworn off using that lane ever again. Then, barely avoiding Dooku on Serenno — who had looked younger than Obi-Wan had ever remembered him to be — the more familiar Hydian Way taken him this far. Now, he was en route to Coruscant, or at least to somewhere in the Mid Rim. He was not sure whether to head to Naboo or keep flying. But the Force… 

The Force kept tagging him, again. 

He was not sure where it was leading him, but he was not going to ignore it. He was his Master’s Padawan, after all. Even if he usually did not like places the Force directed him to.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and took another sip. His suspicion about the destination was growing stronger, though why he had to be there was still unknown to him. 

His gaze fell back on the black-and-green kom’rke. Justice and duty, if his memory served him right. The kom’rke were ancient and bulky, paint on them was scratched in places, yet they still should be wearable, though perhaps they were a little large for him. They did not have any hidden blades or darts. Despite their apparent age, the colours remained vibrant. These kom’rke had belonged to someone familiar with the Holocron beneath his bunk. And that connection was one Obi-Wan would rather not dwell on, not until he had dealt with the Sith.

But it seemed that avoidance was no longer an option. 

Obi-Wan took another, much larger sip, his mind racing as he tried to recall what he knew about Mandalorian history. Most of what he had learned had come from Satine, and though her views had been biased, she had not had a tendency to exaggerate, she had not had to, really. Mandalorians were warriors. They were violent and ruthless. Jedi knew that fact first hand.

And right now, they were at war with each other.

It was not time for Galidraan yet, but before that came the death of the Mand’alor. Obi-Wan paused, trying to remember the name. Mereel, was it? He had read something of his after the time on Mandalore. But that was still a few years off, so why…?

The Force enveloped him, its waves dissolving the chill of his nightmare. It beckoned him, urging to trust its guidance.

It was warm. 

Obi-Wan had always known the Force to be cool as the rivers of Alderaan near the mountains — calm, steady, and serene. But this warmth… it was something he had felt upon waking in the past. It had taken him quite some time to realise that it had not been unusually hot on Jedha, neither the TCU of the stolen ship had been broken, it had been the Force. The Light Side so strong, so lively, and not hurting. Obi-Wan had struggled to stay grounded and not lose himself in its waves the first time he meditated after the realisation.

He finished his cup of tea, feeling the warmth of the brew settle in his chest before deciding to make another and go to the cockpit. He needed to adjust the ship’s trajectory, steer it closer to the heart of the Space Sector. At least it was not Mandalore he was heading to.

Obi-Wan paused. He was not, right?

The Force nudged him gently, pulling him toward the control panels, its comforting embrace doing nothing to reassure him.

The cockpit was cold and impersonal, the kind of place where Obi-Wan could almost feel the emptiness that lingered. He figured the ship’s previous owner had planned to sell it before he liberated it. Otherwise, Obi-Wan might have a problem.

The Holocron rested on top of the nav computer. Obi-Wan’s eyes lingered on it for a moment before he took a deep breath, acknowledging his frustration and then releasing it into the Force. He had almost thrown his perfect cup of tea at it. It was an unbecoming behaviour for a Jedi Master.

Karking Holocron.

Its soft hum seemed almost amused, like it was quietly laughing at him. Obi-Wan took it in his hand, lifting it from its resting place, and placed it on the co-pilot’s chair. The Holocron loved flying. Obi-Wan could taste its quiet awe in the Force every time the ship went into hyperspace. He doubted it had been created before the invention of the hyperdrive, so its enthusiasm seemed to him as something weird. Especially considering it had absolutely enjoyed travelling through that Sith damned hyperlane that almost killed Obi-Wan.

“So, where to?” Obi-Wan asked aloud, raising his second cup of tea to his lips and taking his first sip, before setting it carefully in a holder.

His hands, guided by the Force, entered the new set of coordinates. The nav computer was doing some calculations as Obi-Wan’s eyes fell on the name of the planet.

Concord Dawn.

The homeplanet of Jango Fett.

Who was alive and a kid right now.

—#—

Obi-Wan docked the ship with practiced ease. To his mild surprise, he was even granted the permission to do so. Though that might be because his ship was of Mandalorian origin. He did all the necessary post-flight checks before rising from his seat.

The Holocron hummed, its displeasure palpable in the Force.

“No.”

A nudge from it nearly sent him stumbling.

“No,” Obi-Wan repeated, firm. The Holocron was more stubborn than his Padawan when he had his mind set on something.

Anakin.

The name struck like a blow. He shut his eyes, bracing against the familiar ache that came now every time he thought of his former Padawan. The Force stirred around him, reaching out or perhaps it was him reaching first. Either way, it offered a quiet comfort, urging him to let go, to share the weight of his grief. Even the Holocron softened its marching tune to something that almost resembled a lullaby. Albeit one of a military kind.

Obi-Wan exhaled and picked up the Holocron, tucking it into a pouch on his belt.

“Alright, let’s go,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re quite persistent, aren’t you?”

He walked past the kitchen when he was practically shoved into the table by the Force and the Holocron alike. He caught himself, eyes narrowing.

“Are you serious?” Obi-Wan asked incredulously, “I am a Jedi. And they weren’t given to me.”

The Holocron… scoffed?

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you’d be so kind as to open, it might be easier to communicate,” he muttered.

Choosing to ignore the attitude for now, he continued to his quarters. He grabed his lightsaber, securing it beneath his poncho on his back, — Force, how he missed his Jedi robes — strapped the short-range blaster on his thigh, — how uncivilized — and, finally, he checked the vibroknife in his boot. Obi-Wan could not exactly use his preferred weapon here.

He straightened, satisfied, though experience told him no amount of preparation would stop trouble from finding him. One way or another, they always did.

Obi-Wan turned to leave and was stopped by the Holocron again.

“I’m not wearing those kom’rke,” he repeated. “Not mine. And too big for me,” the Force felt around him as if he was lying. He was not lying. “Alright, if I take them with me. Just take them. Will you be satisfied?” Obi-Wan felt as if he was losing his mind a little.

Silence was his answer.

Obi-Wan was going to take it as a ‘yes’.

—#—

Obi-Wan moved through the sparse market of some city without drawing too much attention, the kom’rke snug around his wrists. The beskar’gam pieces made the Mandalorians less suspicious of him, which should not be shocking, but he was used to Satine’s people eyeing every type of armour with dislike even in best of times.

These were Mandalorians Jedi younglings whispered about late at night, long after the lights dimmed. These were Mandalorians from the horror stories of his youth.

Obi-Wan pushed the thought aside as a scent caught his attention. It was citrusy and spicy, softened by the faintest trace of sweetness. He came closer to one of the stalls. Now that was a good tea blend.

Shig.

The word came to mind. He had brought it to the Coruscant Guard Headquarters once, along with other choices. Fox enjoyed it. Even Satine had favored it over Naboo’s blend. Obi-Wan personally thought nothing could compare to the taste of Alderaanian tea.

“Su cuy’gar. Can I have some of your shig?” The words of the Mandalorian language flowed easily from his lips, though his accent softened the usual roughness, making it sound not as harsh. The figure in front of him was in purple Beskar’gam — a colour Obi-Wan had never seen used before — tilted their head in that all-too-familiar Mandalorian manner when they met something new or intriguing.

“Su’cuy,” the Mandalorian said, motioning toward the cans, which one?”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan stroked his beard thoughtfully, “the one that smells— spicy?” he racked his brain for the right word, “hetikleyc?”

The Mandalorian snorted, the noise sounding weird through the vocoder. “I think you mean ‘janad’. It’d be this one. Has cinnamon in it,” the word ‘cinnamon’ sounded strange and Obi-Wan needed a second to realise it had been said in Basic but with a distinct Mandalorian lilt. “How much do you want, kid?”

Obi-Wan blinked, swallowing instinctive ‘I’m not a kid’. He had not been called one in a long time. The Holocron laughed at him in the Force.

“One can will be enough. Do you have—” He cut himself off mid-sentence and not because he did not know the proper translation for filter paper.

The Force screamed danger.

He did not sense the attacker. Did not know where the assault was coming from. He just moved, vaulting over the counter, tackling the Mandalorian in purple beskar’gam to the ground, almost getting stabbed by them in the process. A slug tore through the wall where the Mandalorian’s head had been a moment ago. The shooter had aimed for the T-visor.

“Crinking hells,” Obi-Wan muttered, already hearing the telltale clicks of blasters being drawn, thankfully, not at him. He rolled off the Mandalorian, reaching for his own weapon, “so much for not drawing attention,” the Holocron’s marching tune was full of anticipation. “Are you al— Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Will be even better when I kill that hut’uun,” the Mandalorian growled, sprinting to their feet with their blaster already in their hand.

“Kryze!” Another Mandalorian in red and gray beskar’gam rushed towards them.

Obi-Wan barely stopped himself from flinching, his gaze landed on the kom’rke. They were mismatched. One was gold with the sigil that was vaguely familiar to him. Satine had worn a pendant shaped like it.

“I’m fine, doc.”

“You, verd?”

“Alive,” Obi-Wan shook his head, pushing away memories and trying to dispel the Holocron’s call for blood. No, not blood. Retribution.

“We caught the Kyr’tsad scum. ’alor Mereel’s on his way.”

Obi-Wan masked his confusion. ‘Death alliance’? ‘Death group’?

Obi-Wan barely resisted pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course they were talking about Death Watch, they were at war with them.

“Kriffer tried to kill me. His life’s mine to—”

Oh Force, did he just save Satine’s parent?! Was the Mandalorian in purple beskar’gam Karalin Kryze?! Did he just unknowingly change the timeline? The rising panic was squashed for now. He would have time to meditate on it later.

The Holocron poked him mokingly in the Force. Obi-Wan shot back a wave of annoyance with a vague ‘Shut up or open up and talk’, holstering his blaster. It seemed his assistance in tracking the attacker was not needed. What with them being dragged — literally — onto the market road by a togruta in green and blue beskar’gam with no buy’ce on.

“It’s yours, Kryze,” a distorted voice came from Obi-Wan’s left. He froze, making sure his hands were nowhere near his blaster. Or his hidden lightsaber. No need to cause another scene. “I’ll just ask them some questions. You are, of course, welcome to supervise.”

Probably Satine’s mother inclined her head, “No need, Mand’alor.” She looked at him, “I’m in your debt, kid.”

“…kid?”

“No debt,” Obi-Wan shook his head, he knew how serious the Mandalorians were about it so he added, “I was saving myself, you were just in the trajectory of my escape route.”

“So you talk posh, but don’t know how to say ‘spicy’,” she took off her buy’ce. “Karalin Kryze, well met,” she extended her hand.

Obi-Wan knew a trap when he saw one. Just not what kind. He ran through every Mandalorian custom he could think of in his head.

“Ben of clan Kybuck,” Obi-Wan introduced himself, a little amused, clasping her forearm firmly, “well met, Kryze.”

“Before Mand’alor I announce that I, Karalin of clan Kryze, am in debt to Ben of clan Kybuck,” Kryze looked at the Mandalorian who had startled Obi-Wan.

“I accept,” Obi-Wan said in his most serene Jedi-Master-like voice, “Karalin of clan Kryze.”

Jaster Mereel, who had been watching the whole exchange with interest, gave a nod. “The hut’uun’ll be yours by sunset.”

Kryze had a bloodthirsty smile on her face. “Good.”

Obi-Wan was glad Satine had been pacifistic politician. So kriffing glad.

—#—

Obi-Wan slipped away when no one was watching, lamenting that in the end he had not managed to buy the shig. At least the Force had stopped yanking at him the moment he had pulled Karalin Kryze out of the line of fire. Small victories.

“Oi! Kybuck!” The Mandalorian called just as he was about to go into his ship.

Obi-Wan turned around, a little confused, catching something in his hand instinctively.

It was a can of shig.

“Oh… she didn’t have to,” he mumbled, blinking. “I would have bought it.”

“Kryze insisted. Figured you aren’t sticking around for long,” Mereel cocked his head to the side, the gray of his beskar’gam blinking in the dim light.

Obi-Wan almost bowed. Almost. Instead, he offered a small smile.

“Ret’urcye mhi, ‘alor. May the Stars be on your side.”

The Holocron’s ever-present marching tune resonated with the Force around them, charging it with some emotion Obi-Wan could not name.

“Ret’urcye mhi, Kybuck,” Mereel looked at his ship in interest, repeating, amused, “ret’urcye mhi.”

22 BBY
Coruscant

To be honest, Obi-Wan was not sure how to feel. He was honored, truly. The Temple Guards were highly respected among the Jedi.

But for Obi-Wan to become one meant leaving Anakin — his just knighted Padawan — alone in the midst of a war. Not just any war, but one on a galactic scale.

Jedi were not generals, not anymore. They were peacekeepers, tasked with ending wars, not waging them. Few truly grasped this distinction.

“It is an honor, Master Drallig,” Obi-Wan said with a bow. “But may I ask, why now?”

“The Council was reluctant,” Master Drallig answered, his presence in the Force carrying a knowing weight. “They wanted you back in the field, fighting on the frontlines.”

Obi-Wan nodded, concealing his hands within his robe sleeves. He had suspected as much, and while he understood the reasoning and would gladly jump into action if it meant saving lives and winning in this conflict faster, he could not shake the chill of the Dark Side that lingered every time he meditated ever since Rattatak.

“You are the Master of Soresu, Kenobi,” Master Drallig said, his gaze stern, as though Obi-Wan was an unruly initiate again.

“You believe the Sith are here on Coruscant, and that Count Dooku is not the Master, but the Apprentice.”

“I believe you’re a great protector. Our younglings, our history, our culture must be protected,” Master Drallig said, moving toward the stands and picking up one of the lightsaber pikes. “You’ll be a representative of the Jedi Order in the Senate.” Obi-Wan suppressed a wince. “Or one of them, anyway. It doesn’t matter. Your duty’ll be to safeguard the Temple.”

Master Drallig extended the double-bladed lightsaber toward him, holding it parallel to the floor.

“And my recent injuries will provide a fitting explanation for why I am to remain here on Coruscant,” Obi-Wan mused, taking the pike gingerly. It was heavier than his lightsaber, the hilt wider and longer. Yet it felt right in his hands. The kyber crystals inside hummed in unison. They were eager for action. So unlike his own crystal. “I will take the Vows.”

Chapter Text

“Our people have suffered time and again. From division and squabbling factions. Mandalore has always been too powerful for any enemy to defeat. It is always our own division that destroys us.”
―Bo-Katan Kryze

19 BBY
Coruscant

“Talk to me, Obi-Wan! Or does your precious Order still mean more to you than I?!” Anakin’s lightsaber crashed down. “Or are you too ashamed, Master? Because I achieved what you never could!!”

Obi-Wan met every blow — block, parry, retreat — his silence as impenetrable and impersonal as the ivory-gold mask hiding his face and trapping his pleas.

The comlink chimed.

“We got most of the younglings to the ships,” Feemor’s voice came through, strained, “some of ours— they turned on us.”

A blaster bolt shot past Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Get out without me.”

“Obi-Wan—”

“Go!” In one fluid motion, he leapt onto the top of the stairs, turning, the ignited blade of his lightsaber pike angled downward, gaze locking onto the figure below. Anakin’s, his brother’s, face was twisted into something ugly and unrecognizable.

“I have brought peace, freedom, justice, and security to my new Empire!”

With a snarl, Anakin jumped.

59 BBY
Concord Dawn

Obi-Wan just started pre-flight checks when the Force around him buzzed. This time, though, it was not the urgent push to act, change, save, but a steady, insistent pull. A call. The sensation Obi-Wan had become accustomed to. There was a Temple here. And it was calling to him.

The Holocron’s song cut off so suddenly that Obi-Wan glanced at it in alarm. Only to be hit with a wave of emotion so overwhelming it nearly stole his breath. Joy, grief, home.

“Do you want to go home?” His voice was gentle.

The almost frantic Force around the Holocron reminded Obi-Wan of younglings bobbing their heads in ‘yes’.

“Alright,” he got up from the pilot chair, letting the Force guide him… to his sleeping quarters.

He had a bad feeling about it.

—#—

Obi-Wan was on the outskirts of the settlement, close to the dangerous parts of the planet. Not that anywhere on this planet would be safe for him if the Mandalorians discovered what he carried in his bag. Mereel might champion change, yet Obi-Wan could not predict his reaction to a Jedi.

The night was falling fast, its shadows thickening. He welcomed it, hoping the darkness would help him hide.

He reached out, and the Force answered, its warmth curling around his fingers as he focused on the buried stone structure beneath his feet. It did not feel like a Jedi Temple. Nor did it have the oily sensation of a Sith. Instead, it was muffled. Distant. As if something stood between him and the strange, thrumming energy beneath the earth.

It reminded him of the troopers when they had fought on the battlefields, of Alpha when they had been captured and he had spat and cursed Ventress out, of Fox when he had led his men, tricking the order, on his Padawan, on Vader.

A shiver raced down his spine, yet somehow, his body relaxed. This not quite Force was as fierce and unyielding as every Mandalorian verd he had ever known.

The entrance revealed itself at last: a narrow passage leading down into the depths. A Temple disguised as a mine? Or perhaps a mine repurposed as a Temple. Obi-Wan glanced at his bag, where the Holocron lay unnervingly silent.

Drawing a steadying breath, he stepped inside, letting the kyber in his lightsaber pike guide him. The Guard’s quarters would be first, then. The darkness here was thick, so much like…

No.

Not like Coruscant.

That night had been cold. Suffocating. The Force itself had screamed, its voice a chorus of thousands of Jedi dying, of their lights snuffed out in an instant.

Here?

No agony. No echoes. Just an odd, stubborn calm.

And colour — so much colour. Even in the dim torchlight, the walls bore faded murals, intricate tapestries, remnants of a place that had once been alive. It was enough. Enough to keep the memories at bay.

The corridors twisted like a labyrinth, but the kyber’s pull was steady. It was leading him forward and it would lead him back.

He turned, stepping into what had once been a training salle. Though lit only by flickering Force-powered torches, the space felt cozy. Obi-Wan allowed himself a small smile as he set his bag down, retrieving the Holocron before taking out his pike.

There were empty stands for practice lightsabers and Temple Guard’s pikes in a corner of the training salles. But they were not what caught Obi-Wan’s attention.

The armour.

Not the beskar’gam. And not Temple Guard robes he was used to.

Only the mask matched his own.

Slowly, Obi-Wan withdrew the ivory and gold mask he had been issued so long ago. His fingers brushed markings on it. Once, he had hated this thing. Had not been able to look at it without wanting to airlock it into the space. Even though it was one of the last remnants of his duty. His people. His home.

Now, he just felt… hollow.

“Oh,” a voice smooth and amused cut through the silence, “you’re one of mine, verd’ika.”

Obi-Wan startled violently, his mask clattering to the ground as he ignited the pike.

The blue hologram tilted its head, studying him with keen interest.

“I— What. What?” Obi-Wan’s voice was rough with shock. “Who are— Mand— Who are you?”

Obi-Wan stared at the opened Holocron, his grip tightening on the lightsaber pike. He forced himself to lower it, just slightly. It was not a Sith artifact; he had known that from the start. But it was Mandalorian, and Jedi and Mandalorians had a history written in blood.

“I suppose a lot time has passed my own children don’t remember me,” the Mandalorian mused, glancing down at his flickering blue form with a grimace. “Blue?! I was sure I’d at least be in white hues. Or red. Red’d be better,” he sighed, eyeing his beskar’gam in something akin to despair. “I’m Jedi Knight Tarre of clan Vizsla, he/him, well met, my verd’ika.”

“Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, he/him,” Obi-Wan replied automatically, powering down his pike. Tarre Vizsla? The name tasted like the ashes of the burned Archives. “Well met, Mand’alor.” A beat. “I must admit I’m a little confused as to why would you call me your child? I’m not of clan Vizsla.”

“You’re wearing my kom’rke,” Knight Vizsla said, amusement threading his voice. “You’re a part of my vu’traat, one of the vu’ramikade,” He nodded toward the fallen Temple Guard mask.

Obi-Wan did not know those words. ‘Vu’ramikade’ sounded somewhat familiar, though. Did it mean ‘commander’? No, that was ‘al’verde’.

The word ‘vu’traat’ threw him off completely.

“I apologise, but my knowledge of Mando’a is— lacking,” he smiled tightly. “And you were rather insistent I wear the beskar’gam pieces.”

Knight Vizsla scratched his head, looking thoughtful, “vu’taar is— ah, I believe, special forces in Basic,” he hummed. “Ramikade means commandos, vu’ramikade were highly trained ones.”

“I am— the Temple Guard,” at Knight Vizsla’s blank look he repeated, “Guard of the Jedi Temple.”

“Guard? Guard?” Knight Vizsla asked. “Aran?” And again, this time saying Mandalorian word in frankly atrocious Basic manner.

“Yes.”

“My elite squad became a group of—” Knight Vizsla looked insulted. “I left them my lightsaber, my kom’rke, and they turned my learners into— into laandur—”

“I would not say we are weak,” Obi-Wan cut in, remembering the word was sometimes used as an insult. “We pro— we protected our ade, our home, our culture. We were the first and last defense,” he sighed deeply, grounding himself in here and now with the help of the Force of this Mandalorian Temple. “Now that I think of it,” he mused, “I’m not surprised a Mandalorian created Temple Guards. What with the anonymity vows.”

“You hadn’t been just Guards,” Knight Vizsla shook his head, unclipping his buy’ce — it had the same markings as his mask — from his belt. Obi-Wan wondered if they were supposed to be gold as well. “N’eparavu takisit. In the end, you were the only defense. I felt it. You were strong.”

“Were we?” Obi-Wan closed his eyes. “Do you want me to leave you here? I can find the archives or some othe—”

“No.”

Silence stretched. Obi-Wan waited.

“You— the Holocron it might get destroyed or stolen. It’s not going to be safe,” and it was probably a stupid thing to say with Knight Vizsla being Mandalorian. Being Mand’alor.

“Take that armour,” Knight Vizsla decided and nodded to the old Temple Guard armour. “Not beskar, but it has cortosis in its weave. You’re a vu’ramikad, you earned it.”

“Cortosis—” Obi-Wan repeated slowly, “cortosis— where— I’ve never—” he got up from the floor, coming closer to the armour, touching it gently. “It is extremely rare. Even in your time, Knight Vizsla, it was.”

“You earned it,” he repeated.

“I have no use—”

“Yes, you do,” Knight Vizsla’s voice sharpened. “I feel your resolve in the Force. And I sensed the Sith. I know you’re planning to defeat them now to stop the genocide of Jedi.”

Obi-Wan’s mind was racing. Did he know? Had he felt wars? The Excision? Galidraan? Battle and Seige? Did he feel the echoes of Concord Dawn’s Force, humming around them as a healing wound? This was not a mere hologram. Knight Vizsla was sentient, present in a way no Jedi Holocron should be, yet not for a moment had Obi-Wan truly sensed the telltale stain of Sith. Knight Vizsla was a Jedi of Old, he was a Knight of the era mostly lost to the Corusant Temple. Still…

“Jetiise and Mando’ade—”

“I was Mand’alor.” Knight Vizsla interrupted. “I know my people. I was also a Knight. The jetiise were mine too. I’d be surprised if there were no kov’nyn.”

Obi-Wan almost laughed. That. That was an extreme simplification of millennia of bloodshed.

However, it was not what Obi-Wan’s mind latched onto.

“Mando’ade kov’nini sa murcyur,” he murmured, recalling the phrase from his Padawan days.

“That vi do,” Knight Vizsla agreed, poking him teasingly in the Force. “Now take the armour,” he sobered up, “then we go to the karyai. Best place to meditate. Better than the Room of the Fountains.”

“It was— is the Room of a Thousand Fountains now,” he put the armour in his bag. It was lighter than he expected. “Who wore it?”

“My Padawan,” there was a smile in Knight Vizsla’s voice, “my kid. It should fit you, verd’ika, you are near the same size they were. Though finding Goran and adjusting it might be a good idea as well.”

Obi-Wan hummed, scratching his beard, deliberately not thinking of his own Padawan. Maybe he should meditate in the karyai and not on the ship.

“No kom’rke here, though?”

“No,” instead of explaining Knight Vizsla just said, “you have mine. They were given to Jedi. The beskar’gam is reforged to one’s liking, but the battles, the history, the blood all lives within it. My Master, her Master, her Master’s Master were my aliit. I left kom’rke with them when I left and had new forged.”

“Alright.”

—#— 

Obi-Wan emerged from meditation amongst faded, mismatched pillows. The Force here felt lazy, like a tooka basking in sunlight.

“Why did you open now?” He asked, eyes still closed.

“Do you not feel it?” 

“What?”

“The Force. The Ka’ra. They started singing in joy when you touched down here?” Knight Vizsla’s voice was a voice of Mand’alor. Of Old Jedi. “You are where and when you needed, just as I.”

That was a non-answer of a politician. Before Obi-wan could ask more — a deafening boom shook the ground above. Obi-Wan’s hearts skipped a beat.

“And it seems like your assistance is required again,” Knight Vizsla observed dryly.

Obi-Wan really, really disliked Death Watch.

Another explosion rattled the walls. He snatched up his bag — now heavy with new armour and two lightsabers — and flung it over his shoulder. Pillows scattered as he jumped, calling the now closed Holocron with the Force to himself. It went into his belt pouch.

He raced through the corridors, mourning the historical artifacts flashing past he had not gotten to study. The Force’s whispered promises of later would have made him pause had he not been fighting for the past four years.

Priorities.

The entrance came into his view when he turned the corner. Using the Force to leap the last few steps out of the Mandalorian Temple, Obi-Wan blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness outside.

The blaster fight ahead was eerily silent. No shouted orders, just the crackling of plasma and pinging of bolts ricocheting. It was nostalgic.

Except he had a blaster in his hands. And quite heavy bag on his back.

He reached the settlement’s edge just as a blue-armored Mandalorian with the red sigil of Death Watch on his shoulder spun toward him. Obi-Wan cursed, diving to the side as a bolt seared past his ear. His return shot found the gap between buy'ce and neck-guard. A sharp intake of breath was his reward.

“Didn’t you run away after I invited you to eat with us?” Karalin Kryze’s voice rang out as Obi-Wan ducked behind cover.

“Well, as you can see, no,” Obi-Wan called back. “Didn’t want to miss all the fun.”

“Were so sure we’d be having a friendly get together with these assholes?”

“You called one of them a hut’uun, don’t hut'uune run in droves?”

A short bark of laugher was his answer.

There definitely was some quick, silent exchange between True Mandalorians over the comms in their buy’cese.

“We’re trying to lure them away from the town. No need to step on Journeyman Protectors’ toes even more,” Kryze told him. “Head for those trees, Montross’s team’ll cover us.”

Obi-Wan peered around the corner, shooting at the Death Watch members in sight.

“Won’t they turn around and scatter?”

“No. That route’s cut off for them,” Kryze sprinted past him, shouting, “three!”

Obi-Wan bolted for the trees, shooting as he ran, mentally cataloging the enemy. Two were locked in hand-to-hand with the medic he had met earlier. Two more — three, he sensed three in the Force — were laying down blaster fire, while four others were aiming somewhere to the left where Montross’s team had to be.

He leaped forward, trying not to enhance his jump with the Force to avoid even more attention, holstering his blaster and drew the vibroknife. He landed on the back of a Death Watch member, taking aim at Kryze. She was using her jetpack, flying toward cover while providing aerial support. He stabbed them in the neck where beskar’gam was not protecting them.

Obi-Wan cringed as the Force presence flickered out. He tucked into a roll — relocating the bag from his back to his chest — as the body fell, finally reaching cover beside Mereel, who was already shooting at the Death Watch fighters overwhelming the medic.

“Nice one,” he commented. “Where’s your ‘gam, di’kut?”

Obi-Wan paused, almost missing a good opportunity to throw still bloodied knife at the Mandalorian trying to murder members of Montross’s team, who were crowding them from behind and leading them to where Mereel and he were hiding.

“My ‘gam?” He glanced down at himself, “my skin?” He muttered, bewildered. A stray bolt forced him to duck, and he drew his blaster again. Though with only two Death Watch members left, his help was hardly needed.

The medic put one down with a point-blank shot to the throat. Kryze dealt with the last, dropping from the sky and snapping their neck.

The silent to this moment, Holocron perked up in interest at that.

“Beskar’gam,” Kryze clarified, stepping over the body and going to them. “‘alor Mereel here’s Concordian. They butcher Mando’a like it’s their job.”

Mereel’s buy’ce tilted in a way that radiated disapproval that Obi-Wan could practically taste in the air.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan held up his hands, showing the kom’rke he still wore, “don’t really need more.” And before anyone could add something more, he inquired, “butcher how?”

“Like when your Kalevalan accent slips and you start talking in a drawl, mashing words together,” Kryze said, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “But don’t you worry, kid. You still sound like a—” she paused, searching for the right word, “—princeling,” Kryze finally settled on, using Basic with, interestingly enough, Alderaanian lilt.

Obi-Wan shook his head in amusement. He moved the bag back onto his shoulders and holstered his blaster. A wry chuckle escaped him.

Knight Vizsla wanted him to keep talking to these Mandalorians. The Holocron’s Force signature buzzed with excitement that increased every moment.

“I’ll take it as a compliment, alor Kryze.” He scratched his beard, watching Mereel's squad approach while searching the Force for hostility, which was hard to do because of the Holocron. A sudden realization struck him. “Don’t you have a kid?”

Where was baby Jango Fett? Had he not been adopted by now?

Mereel’s buy’ce tilted to the side. The medic and Mandalorian in green and blue beskar’gam — Obi-Wan guessed it was the togruta he had seen by their buy’ce — tripped in their steps. The Mandalorian in mostly black beskar’gam with a same-coloured cape who had to be Montross snorted.

“No. Should I?”

Kryze took off her buy’ce, shaking her head with laughter.

“Not all Mando’ade adopt kids right away when they see them,” she said, though Obi-Wan could cite plenty of evidence to the contrary from his Padawan days. “‘alor has too much flimsiwork to have a kid,” Kryze added teasingly.

“Yeah, his kid would battle datapads for attention, not Kyr'tsade,” the togruta chimed in, their conspiratorial tone clear even through the vocoder.

“And suffer through endless history lectures on our culture,” with sympathy said the medic.

Other Mandalorians with mythosaur sigils were exchanging glances with their T-visosr, clearly communicating with each other over their comms.

Obi-Wan blinked, the only tale of his own confusion.

“N'eparavu takisit,” he said carefully, wishing for his cloak to hide his hands. He clearly was missing some knowledge on this part of history. Turning his gaze to the woman in purple beskar’gam, he wondered if he really had saved her. Something to meditate on. And, possibly, talk to Knight Vizsla about. He knew more than he let on. “I am quite late already,” he said at last. “So if I’m not needed, I’ll take my leave,” he turned to face Mereel fully.

“Ret’urcye mhi, Ben of clan Kybuck,” a moment later Mereel extended his hand. “If you find yourself in need of a friend—”

Obi-Wan gripped his forearm.

“No debt,” he shook his head, the words coming out sharper than intended. “Truly, no debt this time.”

Memories flashed before his eyes — Satine’s desperate confession, Sundari burning, the darksaber’s pained cries in Pre Vizsla’s grasp, Maul’s sick obsession staining the Force, the scalding cold darkness that was almost more suffocating than…

He forcefully stopped that line of thought.

“It’s personal,” he admitted, ending the handshake.

Obi-Wan knew he was a terrible Jedi. No matter how hard he tried, he could not escape Qui-Gon’s first impression of him. There was always some truth in it. So what one more un-Jedi truth spoken aloud?

22 BBY
Coruscant

“Master?..” Anakin's voice cracked, his face slack with disbelief. “You’re—” He floundered for words, hands twitching at his sides. “What do you mean you’re staying on Coruscant?”

Obi-Wan folded his arms into his sleeves, the picture of Jedi calm.

“Well, you did say we have to inform Chance—”

“That’s not what I meant and you kriffing know it!” Anakin raked fingers through his still awkwardly short hair. “You hate politics! And politicians!”

“Jedi do not—”

“Obi-Wan!” His name was said with something between betrayal and panic.

A weary sigh escaped Obi-Wan’s lips, “Anakin,” he said softly, “I’m not exempt from the war. You’ll simply... see less of me.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Isn't that what you’ve been wishing for, Padawan mine?”

“It’s not— what about Ahsoka?”

“Of course, I’ll enjoy watching over her when she’s in the Temple for classes,” Obi-Wan scratched his beard, considering. “Perhaps when you’re planetside we can have actual Lineage dinners.”

“Master Yoda is banned from cooking,” Anakin said immediately.

“You as well.”

“Insects are—”

“—not enjoyable food.”

“They are!”

Obi-Wan arched a single, unimpressed eyebrow.

“You’re not telling me something, Master,” Anakin’s eyes narrowed.

Obi-Wan felt the burn of guilt slither down his spine.

He could not tell Anakin — his dear Padawan, his brother in all but blood — the truth. Yet the thought of lying to him sat like a stone in his chest. So he said nothing, clinging to the fragile hope that one day, Anakin would understand. That he would see there had been a reason, a good reason, for him to remain at the Temple.

Even if, for some reason, Master Drallig’s words sat like bile in his throat, bitter and unconvincing.

Chapter Text

“Defense will not slay my enemy.”
“You lack the physical strength required for the powerful attacking strikes of Djem So or the other aggressive forms. You must rely on quickness, cunning and, most of all, patience to best your enemies.”
—Darth Zannah and Darth Bane

19 BBY
Coruscant

Obi-Wan remembered only in fragments.

One moment, he was killing his brother — Anakin’s scream ringing in the Temple walls. The next, he was fighting off clones in white and blue armour. Then, his lightsaber pike clashing against Temple Guards, their blades a blur of gold. 

Youngling trembling in his arms. The bodies of his friends strewn across the stone floor. Another Fallen Jedi in beige robes lunging at him. The dark, silent, cold Archives. A small body pressing closer and closer to him. 

He ran. To the hidden exit and down, down, down, into the lower levels, where the air burned the eyes and nose. The youngling whimpered against his chest. Somewhere along the way, he lost his Temple Guard’s outer robes.

Corries spotted him.

Speeders rushed past as he fell even deeper into the bowels of Coruscant.

Quinlan’s old safe house. The air inside thick, stale, and barely breathable. 

Gently — oh so gently — he took off his mask. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Obi-Wan murmured in Dai Bendu, hugging the child impossibly tight, wrapping him in his Force presence. Drawing onto the protectiveness of the kyber crystals of his pike.

The kyber of his own lightsaber cried with them. 

59 BBY
Space

Obi-Wan meticulously examined each piece of armour laid out on the small table before him. Unlike beskar, cortosis did not gleam under the white light of his flashlight. Instead, its dull brown surface seemed to almost absorb the brightness. The armour had been stripped of all paint, save for the mask he had left at the request of Knight Vizsla.

The hyperdrive engine hummed in the background as Obi-Wan turned the breastplate and pauldrons over in his hands. When the pieces met, they did not clang like metal but struck with a dull thud, more reminiscent of plastoid than any alloy he knew.

“Why cortosis?” He glanced up at the open Holocron, noticing that Knight Vizsla now wore his buy’ce.

Setting the armour down, Obi-Wan studied the cuisses, noting their difference from the motun’bure most Mandalorians — at least from his observations — opted to forgo. The faulds were expected, though unlike the thin durasteel ones he had worn beneath his Temple Guard robes, these were bulkier, heavier and overlapped the plackart in a way sometimes kama did.

“It was their protection,” Knight Vizsla answered. “Vu’ramikade earned it after completing their training, then passed it down to their learners or children.”

“So not all in the—” Obi-Wan hesitated, carefully sounding out the last word, “—vu’traat.”

“Of course not,” Knight Vizsla shook his head. “The cortosis itself was the symbol; along with the mask’s markings. My squad earned both. They were my strategists, my advisors. The elite unit I trusted with governing, fighting, and protecting. Not all were Jetiise. Only my kid and two others.”

Obi-Wan took a moment to parse the last part. He would have to get used to Knight Vizsla slipping into his native tongue mid-sentence without even realizing it.

Frowning, he looked over the armour again. It had been built to endure; every piece had been designed to let Knight Vizsla’s Padawan swing the lightsaber in wide, powerful arcs, take hits, and retaliate without a pause.

“Where are we going?” Knight Vizsla asked before Obi-Wan could open his mouth.

“Taris System,” he tapped the table in thought. “I may as well retrieve an artifact before setting course for Naboo. Or Coruscant.”

That earned him the distinctive Mandalorian head tilt.

“Ta—”

The hologram of Knight Vizsla flickered out abruptly, the Holocron snapping shut and clattering to the floor. Obi-Wan froze for a moment before summoning it to his hand, probing its presence in the Force. The Holocron’s usual marching tune returned with renewed vigor.

Wincing at the undercurrent of displeasure, he observed as the kyber crystals of his lightsaber pike reached out, intertwining their Force signatures with the Holocron’s, effectively masking Knight Vizsla’s distinct aura. He had not sensed it the first time, but now, attuned to the subtle shifts in the Force around him, the phenomenon was unmistakable.

“How interesting,” he murmured.

This was not something he had ever encountered before. Whatever it was, it stopped — blocked — the Holocron from opening. Obi-Wan glanced around, extending his awareness as far as he dared. The Holocron in hand, he moved to the cockpit, still puzzling over the anomaly.

Outside, stars streaked past in a blur of blue and white. The nav computer indicated he had just crossed the border out of Mandalorian Space.

“Huh.”

He gazed at the Holocron again, reaching into the Force in an attempt to sense that uniquely Mandalorian vibrant thrum the same way he would try to connect to the Living Force. It was barely there, nearly drowned out by the currents of the Force energy he was used to. Any further probing only left him dizzy, just a little more and he would give himself a vertigo from how rapidly everything flew past the ship in the Hyperspace.

“You can’t open, can you?” Obi-Wan sat the Holocron in the co-pilot chair, intrigued.

Knight Vizsla’s feelings on the matter radiated through the Force — sharp and unmistakable. This was not just inconvenience; it was an unexpected limitation. Suddenly, his earlier complaints about the blue hologram took on new meaning. It had not been mere aesthetic preference about his beskar’gam’s appearance.

No, Vizsla had clearly experimented extensively with Force artifacts, but something had gone wrong during his creation of the Holocron.

—#—

Obi-Wan was sipping shig when his ship dropped out of hyperspace on the edges of the Taris system. With a gentle tug on the controls, he eased the ship to a stop, leaving it drifting just shy of the asteroid belt. His gaze fell to the Holocron resting beside him. 

“I need you to be quiet,” he warned, voice low. 

Closing his eyes, he reached into the Force. He did not know the artifact’s exact location, but Sith relics had a way of announcing themselves. And Obi-Wan had grown painfully familiar with their signatures. He had encountered enough of them. 

This one, though, he knew too well.

He had sensed it before — faint, lingering around the clones. At the time, he had written it off as some quirk of theirs, just trauma response to a war they had had no say in. He should have questioned it.

Should have.

The Force in the Taris system was a wound half-remembered. A scar so old its edges had blurred into the skin, yet still ached when the air turned damp. It carried the ghostly hum of lightsabers left abandoned in battlefields, the sour tang of promises rotted on the tongue. 

It tasted of parents turning their weapons on their young. Of children’s whimpers smothered in smoke. 

And hope.

Hope that the blood-soaked lesson had seeped deep enough. Hope that the next generation’s hands would stay clean. That their lightsabers would remain unignited in the places where trust grew.

Obi-Wan clung to it, if only for a fleeting moment. The Force embraced him, radiant and honeyed, like the first brush of dawn after a night of fighting, like the hushed warmth of the creches, where laughter lingered in the air as the last notes of a lullaby. He drew in a deep breath, letting the Light saturate his lungs, before steeling himself to seek out the cloying, sickly sweet rot of the Dark Side.

Hands on the flying controls, eyes shut, Obi-Wan followed the Darkness, a thread of corruption clinging to his senses like a web. The first asteroid loomed, and he tilted the ship into a dive. The proximity alarm shrieked; he silenced it with a flick of his fingers. He threaded between two spinning slabs of rock, their pocked surfaces so close they nearly scraped the hull. A sharp jerk to the left, then he cut the thrusters mid-roll, letting momentum slingshot him through a gap no wider than his ship’s height. Obi-Wan fired reverse engines. The ship lurched to a dead stop in the heart of the asteroid belt, hovering before an unremarkable chunk of rock.

A beat of absolute stillness.

He opened his eyes.

There.

The artifact was there.

—#—

Obi-Wan sighed, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. His hands were filthy, and his Temple Guard mask was sealed tightly over his face — his only protection, since he lacked an enviro-suit helmet. The ship hadn’t come with one either, likely because its previous owner had been a Mandalorian clad in full beskar’gam.

The small sphere nestled in the hole he had dug looked utterly unremarkable. Just another chunk of asteroid, no different from the countless others he had discarded to reach it. Even up close, it felt strangely ordinary. Almost too unobtrusive. He pried it free and gave it a careful shake. Something rattled inside.

Obi-Wan prodded the artifact in the Force gently, so he would not get stuck playing the role of its mindless good soldier. A shiver ran down his spine as cool, needle-thin tendrils of Dark Side latched onto his presence. They were faint. Insignificant. The kind he might have dismissed as a chill in the Temple’s halls. It was the same creeping, patient rot he had sensed since childhood on Coruscant. The Darkness that had seeped into the cracks, festering unseen while they steadfastly believed in the Sith’s demise.

He shook them off, grasping for the childish hope of a brighter future in the Force of Taris System. Obi-Wan knew he would not be able to fully purge the web-like stench of the artifact, not without proper meditation, and certainly not while maintaining direct contact with it through the Force.

Methodically, he began constructing mental shields layer by layer. A temporary barrier against the oily corruption.

Something was wrong.

Obi-Wan opened his closed eyes — when had he closed them? — and rose from his kneeling position. He needed to get back to his ship. Now.

Clutching the sphere in his hand, he pulled his hood lower and subtly looked around, letting the build-in scanners of his mask do their job, not risking to extend his awareness just now. Then, a soft click — the casing shifted slightly in his grip, abruptly severing the artifact’s Force presence entirely.

So it had not been damaged. Just opened, likely from the impact of asteroids colliding.

He sprinted up the open ramp, passing through the shimmering ray shield. With minimal use of the Force, he carefully scanned the cargo hold before proceeding forward. The airlock door hissed open, revealing the still-malfunctioning carbon-freezing unit and main engine room. Another sealed doorway brought Obi-Wan to the ship’s core section.

As the door closed behind him, he hesitantly removed his Temple Guard mask. A sharp hiss of released pressure broke the tense silence. Blinking as his eyes adjusted from the mask’s HUD to the ship’s lighting, Obi-Wan made his way to the sleeping quarters.

He froze. The Holocron sat atop his bunk.

With a sigh, he took it and stashed it securely beneath his bunk alongside his mask, lightsaber, and pike. The only thing left for him to hide was the artifact. Obi-Wan studied it in his hand, considering his options. In theory, he could leave it with the rest of his belongings now that he knew the casing was secure. But it was better not to risk it.

Obi-Wan returned to the cargo hold. He did not have much here, but the vents seemed like a secure enough hiding spot. After removing a metal panel, he placed the sphere inside the floor, then glanced out. Only rocks and empty space met his gaze. He rose from his crouch, suddenly alert.

Something was wrong.

“Is that a blaster, or is someone just happy to see me?” Obi-Wan mused, slowly raising his hands.

He reached out with the Force, trying to pinpoint the presence behind him. He had not angered anyone enough to warrant being hunted. Not yet, at least. He had not uncovered the Sith Master’s identity or interfered with their plans. The only possible threat was Death Watch, seeking revenge for his aid to Mereel, but even then, he doubted they would waste resources tracking down one man, especially one who had not worn full beskar’gam.

Yet the Force presence, muffled as it was, felt familiar. Someone he had met before. In his time. Not in the past.

“You stole my ship,” a modified voice came.

Whoops.

Obi-Wan kept his tone light, even as he subtly shifted his stance. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Are you Kyr’tsad?”

“Now, that’s rude.”

The moment stretched.

And then, in one fluid motion, Obi-Wan dropped low, twisting as he swung his arm up, slamming the Mandalorian’s wrist aside. A blaster bolt seared past, striking the ray shield behind him. With his free hand, he wrenched the weapon free.

The Mandalorian wore sand-gold beskar’gam with T-visor outlined in red. It was the tri-dagger on his kom’rk that finally clued Obi-Wan in. He resisted the urge to massage his temples. Of course, the ship he had liberated had to belong to Kal Skirata.

The punch came fast, aimed straight at his face. Obi-Wan caught the fist and yanked, using the momentum to haul Skirata off-balance, but he expected it, rolling with the motion and dragging Obi-Wan down with him. Cold beskar of the tri-dagger grazed Obi-Wan’s ribs as he twisted to break free.

Something was wrong.

With a sharp jab enhanced by the Force, Obi-Wan struck at Skirata’s throat — right between the buy’ce and the neck guard — then jumped away. He landed in a crouch, breathing hard with adrenaline.

Skirata moved first again, charging at him with his tri-dagger raised. Obi-Wan got ready to faint to the side — when a deafening explosion rocked the asteroid and the ship they were on with it. The second blast nearly knocked Skirata off his feet; Obi-Wan threw out a hand to steady himself, barely avoiding a face-first fall.

Then came the sound of blasterfire followed by a third, smaller explosion. The sound of the starship getting blown up was intimately familiar to Obi-Wan.

Someone had just destroyed Skirata’s ship.

“How about we put our fight on hold for now?” Obi-Wan suggested. Technically, Skirata could still try to throw him out, but that would be stupidly reckless.

“Only because you saved Kryze, tayli’bac?” Skirata didn’t move, even as the roar of a third starship echoed outside. It had to be close.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan rose, ready to sprint for the cockpit, but Skirata remained planted in his path.

“Swear it.”

“On my honour.”

The buy’ce tilted slightly, considering, before Skirata jerked a sharp nod.

They reached the cockpit in seconds. Obi-Wan sealed the loading ramp while Skirata dropped into the pilot’s chair, buckling in and starting up pre-flight checks. Obi-Wan took the co-pilot’s seat, running through his own diagnostics.

Oddly, they moved like a well-oiled machine. As if Obi-Wan were fleeing another tight spot with Alpha. The familiarity was jarring.

The ship lurched upward, Skirata veering so sharply that Obi-Wan would have fumbled with inputting the hyperspace coordinates had he not been accustomed to reckless flying. Instead, he calmly raised the shields, “how good are you at dodging asteroids while under fire?”

He was ignored.

“How’re those calculations coming?” Skirata barely avoided a collision with a rock the size of their ship as blasterfire streaked past the right side.

“Need the opening and the hyperdrive to warn up.” Obi-Wan cursed as they almost collided with another asteroid. “And preferably not to crash into the rocks!”

“Ne’johaa!” Skirata dove down. “Who the kark is it?”

“I have no idea!”

“They’re shooting at you!”

“They blew up your ship first!”

“This is my kriffing ship!”

The blaster bolts hit the ship on the next turn.

“Crin—” Obi-Wan did not get to finish as monitors flashed red with warnings.

“Me’va—”

Skirata’s snarl cut off as Obi-Wan vaulted from his co-pilot chair, shouting: “hyperdrive!”

Obi-Wan ran out of the cockpit and sprinted past the kitchen area and the sleeping quarters to the door that would lead him to the engine room.

Suddenly, he felt an oppressing chill trying to claw its way into his head, obliterating his first mental shields, feeding the still-lingering corruption.

It was as if he was back on Zigoola. Obi-Wan could barely concentrate enough on pressing the right button on the control panel. The ship shuddered violently, sending him crashing into the wall. The last thing he heard was Skirata’s stream of curses in Mando'a.

22 BBY
Coruscant

Obi-Wan twirled the powered-down lightsaber pike in his hand, adjusting to the unfamiliar weight and balance. The longer hilt reminded him of a short, double-edged spear. The added length disrupted his footwork. His movements were unsteady and almost clumsy, but he found himself enjoying the challenge of adapting his fighting style to a new weapon. 

“You’re better than most who don’t use a lightsaber staff,” came a voice from the side. 

Obi-Wan stopped mid-motion and turned to see a blonde man in Temple Guard robes, though notably without the mask, standing at the edge of the training salle. 

“Well,” Obi-Wan mused, “I’ve fought with an electrostaff on quite a number of occasions. Or against them.”

“Feemor,” he inclined his head, coming closer. “A spar?

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he returned the gesture. “It would be a pleasure.”

Feemor ignited his lightsaber pike in a smooth motion, two golden blades flaring to life as he settled into a ready stance, one end forward, the other angled back in a balanced guard.

Obi-Wan, still adjusting, ignited only a single yellow blade, holding the pike as he would his lightsaber in a traditional Soresu opening stance. 

Feemor’s brow arched, “only using one end?”

“For now,” Obi-Wan said as he stood relaxed, waiting for the first attack. “I’d hate to accidentally behead myself,” he added cheerfully in explanation.

Feemor scoffed, amused — and lunged, striking in a wide arc, using the end of the pike that had been at his back. Quite predictable movement that Obi-Wan deflected, sidestepping. Only to duck down sharply as the second blade sliced toward his neck. And just as swiftly as he had attacked, Feemor disengaged, doing the Makashi salute with a flourish.

“Pretty form for a pretty man,” Obi-Wan quipped, shifting his own pike behind him, the tip of the blade pointing downward as he stood unmoving, watching.

The length of the hilt was still throwing him off, so he did not add his usual flashy twirl of the lightsaber. Feemor almost tripped at his words, his gaze sharpening, as Obi-Wan smirked, snapping his pike up to guard.

Feemor struck again, this time with a rapid series of thrusts, each blade alternating in a dazzling display of control as he spun, duck and even jumped, not sticking purely to Makashi he definitely favoured. Obi-Wan parried or sidestepped them all, but his unfamiliarity with the pike made his counters slower than usual because he had to constantly remind himself of all the difference between it and his lightsaber. A near-miss grazed his shoulder, and he exhaled sharply, leaping back.

“You have two blades, use them. Or you’ll be recognizable,” Feemor chided, pausing in his defense stance, the pike in front of him in one hand tilted a little, protecting his face and feet, another hand behind his back with his body turned sideways.

They circled each other. Obi-Wan waited for Feemor’s next attack, not shifting to ignite his second blade or change his loose stance with two hands on the hilt in the opening stance of Ataru. Feemor was in no hurry, though, not lowering his guard, his eyes locked on him. Obi-Wan arched his eyebrow, exuding calmness.

A feint — then a slash at his throat. Obi-Wan dropped low, swiping his lightsaber pike at Feemor’s feet, managing to singe his boots just a little before Feemor somersaulted over him.

“You’re right, dear,” Obi-Wan swung his pike, aiming unignited end of his pike at Feemor’s hands, holding the weapon. Feemor stepped back, avoiding the blow, but Obi-Wan struck with another end of the pike, using momentum to make it stronger. Just as they crossed their blades, with a quick motion of his hands, Obi-Wan struck with another side of his pike, igniting the second yellow blade hair’s breadth from Feemor’s throat. “Two are way better than one,” he said teasingly.

Feemor’s checks flushed a little. For a heartbeat, his lightsaber pike wavered in the air before its blade stopped aimed at his torso.

“Your stance isn’t good,” which was true, Obi-Wan had found the ignited blade of his own weapon dangerously close to his shoulder without a way to really change his grip on the hilt. “If your opponent strikes hard, you’ll actually end up beheading yourself,” Feemor powered down his lightsaber pike and Obi-Wan followed suit. “And you talk a lot,” he broke eye contact for a second, appearing flustered, “your opponent won’t hear you when you in the mask.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan scratched his beard, “and here I thought I did well. Well then, I hope you have more advice, Master Feemor.”

“It’s Knight,” Feemor corrected, though his lips twitched. “And I’m happy to help, Obi-Wan.”

Chapter Text

“A Temple Guard’s mask and robes confer anonymity, and symbolize emotional detachment. During Guard service, you surrender your identity, your weapon, and everything else. Only your commitment to the Order remains.”
―Kolloma Ree

19 BBY
Coruscant

Obi-Wan was somewhat aware of when he had found Dex and secured the way off Coruscant, at the very least, for the youngling in his arms. But before leaving, he needed to see Bail. He had to know what had happened to Padmé and to her child. 

The agony in the Force swelled like a storm, thicker, heavier, as they got closer to the highest levels. It was so overwhelming that the youngling whimpered in his arms, his small body trembling. Tiny fists clutched the borrowed shirt. Obi-Wan pulled him closer, wrapping his Force presence tighter around the youngling, while his hand moved in slow, soothing circles.

And then he felt Ahsoka.

Her presence flickered in the Force, hiding so radiant, so alight beacon that for a heartbeat Obi-Wan was lost in memory — sunlit curls, a boy’s too-bright smile, the excited, ‘hi. You’re a Jedi too? Pleased to meet you,’ and faint warmth of a handshake. The youngling stilled, breath catching, then reached out clumsily, drawn to the pure light. 

“Master Kenobi?” Ahsoka turned the corner, her wide eyes locking onto him. “Is that— Are you— the Temple—” Her voice cracked as tears welled up, her arms tightening around the child she held. 

“Oh dear one,” Obi-Wan stepped forward, carefully pulling her into an embrace, soothing her through the Force, “I hoped you weren’t on Coruscant.”

“I wasn’t. Rex and I—” his head was filled with white noise, drowning what Ahsoka was saying as he latched onto the captain of 501^st name. Obi-Wan back at the Temple, making sure younglings were on the spaceships while men in white and blue were leading the siege, trying to secure artefacts and knowledge with his fellow Temple Guards, standing still at the entrance waiting for the first blaster to fire. Only to realise Anakin, his former Padawan, his brother, was not dead, he was a besieger. “—Master Kenobi?”

He stepped away, gripping her shoulder. She was still so young no matter all the hardships she had lived through as a Padawan and then as someone who had chosen a different path. Obi-Wan knew she was strong.

“Rex?” The name burned his throat with betrayal he struggled to let go.

“Do you remember Fives?” Ahsoka asked quietly, “there’s— there’re chips in troopers’ head. I don’t— someone gave the order, they had no choice. They— Did you feel it, Master Kenobi? It’s like they aren’t there. Like they are just—”

“Droids,” he finished for her, thinking of Fox. Of all the men who truly became slaves. Before shoving all his tangled feelings in the Force.

“Is—” Ahsoka took a shaky breath. “This is Luke,” she said, nodding to the child in her arms, “he’s Skyguy’s. Guess the tooka’s out of the bag? Or did you suspect Padmé and him were a thing?” She tried to smile. “Do you know what happened to him?”

And suddenly it became clear to Obi-Wan that Ahsoka did not know. She had no idea her Master — her Skyguy who had stood by her when no one, not even Obi-Wan, had — had Fallen. Worse, had become the Apprentice, had led once their men against the Temple.

He should tell her. He had to. But his heart was breaking just imagining it.

“Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan begun, looking at her young face, at the love and respect for Anakin she held in his eyes, at Luke in her arms cradled with reverence, “I’m sorry,” her breath hitched, her eyes glazing over with fresh tears. “Go to Tatooine.”

He should go with her. He should turn away from the Senate, from the graveyard of the Temple. But the Force whispered otherwise, urging him to let her go. She would be safe. It was weak, barely heard amongst all the screaming, and it made Obi-Wan hesitate.

“I can take Grogu too?” She asked uncertainly, “you know where I’ll be after you—” she trailed off.

“I can’t ask this of you, dear one.”

“I offered.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a moment.

“I need to see Bail.” He almost choked on his words, “go back to the Temple,” he exhaled. “Remember Dex? He can get you and children away from Coruscant. I’ll find you as soon as I can,” he gently deposited Grogu in her hands.

Ahsoka nodded, “May the Force be with you.”

“And with you,” without hesitation, he pressed his forehead to hers in a final farewell.

59 BBY
Taris

Something murky loomed over him, inspecting him with silent scrutiny. The Force hummed uneasily, but it did not scream danger, not yet. So Obi-Wan remained still, his breath slow, his eyes closed, letting himself sink into the state of half-meditation, soothing his broken shields.

The cold he had felt — the Dark Side he had felt lashing at him like a flashed flood. But Obi-Wan’s mind was a desert, parched and vast, and his shields were not stone to be shattered or cut, but dunes to be reshaped. The onslaught had gouged deep, but the icy water had rushed too fast, getting swallowed by the dry sand. The Darkness had writhed, stuck in the quicksand of its own making, clawing for purchase and finding none.

The quiet song of his lightsaber reached his ears, breaking through the echoes of pain. Obi-Wan let it pull him back, strand by strand, until his mental shields were no longer mud, but sand again.

“Did you take off your helmet?” Obi-Wan croaked, sitting up but keeping his eyes shut. The ship’s harsh lighting would only worsen his nausea.

“Nayc.”

It meant ‘no’, right? It started with the same sound, so it had to. Obi-Wan frowned. Either he was concussed, or this was another lingering effect of the Dark Side, since Mando’a slipped from his grasp so easily.

His mind felt detached, floating in that same eerie quiet he had experienced in hyperspace after leaving Coruscant’s orbit — past the wreckage of attack cruisers, past the chaos. It had not been true peace, but for the first time in a month, he had not needed to be on guard. He had been numb then, barely remembering to breathe. 

Now was no different. Even the blurred presence of Skirata in the Force reminded him of the Holocron’s then. As if sensing his thoughts, Knight Vizsla reached out, his presence brushing gently against Obi-Wan’s mental shields, lending him strength to reinforce them even further.

For just a moment, he was at peace.

Then the reality came crashing down, forcing him to shove his emotions into the Force without properly processing them. One day that would not work. Today was not the day. Thankfully.

“Me’vaar ti gar? Gar kovid?”

“I don’t understand you,” Obi-Wan admitted honestly.

A gloved hand gripped his chin, tilting his head up. “Open your eyes,” the accent was harsh, sounding even more so with the vocoder in Skirata’s helmet.

A beat after, Obi-Wan did, wincing slightly. His nausea did not worsen, it was a small mercy.

“No visible injuries,” Skirata muttered, turning Obi-Wan’s head side to side. “Headache?”

“I’m fine.”

Skirata did not dignify that with a reply, waiting. He switched the light on his gauntlet with a tri-dagger, flashing it in Obi-Wan’s eyes.

“Mild,” Obi-Wan grimaced. “I know my eyes are pretty, but let’s not do anything drastic.” He tracked the weapon as best he could with his gaze.

“What’s with the helmet?” Skirata switched off the light, moving away from him.

Obi-Wan carefully got to his feet, suppressing a shiver. Knight Vizsla’s fiery Force presence curled around him briefly before retreating, letting the kyber in his lightsaber pike hide him once more.

“Just curious,” Obi-Wan said, glancing around, he had fallen into the aft section of the starship. “Your carbon freezing unit’s malfunctioning, by the way.”

“It was fine,” Skirata said flatly. Obi-Wan could feel the judgment in his stare, even through the T-visor. “Who’s hunting you?”

“They targeted you first,” Obi-Wan hummed, smoothing down his hair as he weighed his answer. “I don’t even know your name.”

There was a pause.

“Mando,” Skirata said, stepping closer. No weapon drawn — yet. But the threat was clear. “And unless it’s Kyr’tsad, which I doubt, I suggest you answer the question.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly, raising his hands in surrender. He was suddenly grateful for the gauntlets he had worn since Concord Dawn. Maybe they might give Skirata a second thought before murdering him. Though considering he had woken up at all, they already had.

“You saw me hiding something there,” he inclined his head to the side, gesturing to the cargo hold, “it’s an artefact I’ve been studying. I’ve only read about it in the ancient texts. It’s quite a fascinating if vile thing,” he closed his eyes — just for a second — and Fox flashed behind his lids, red armour and a dark void in the Force. “I’ve finally got my hands on it. Needless to say, some parties are... displeased.”

Obi-Wan heard Skirata muttering something in Mando’a that sounded suspiciously like ‘another one’ if his sluggish brain was to be believed.

“Are they going to follow you or that thing here?” Skirata jerked his chin toward the ramp. Obi-Wan did not hear telltale hum of the ship’s engines, so they had to be on either Taris or one of the moons. He glanced to the main engine room, hyperdrive had been damaged, but Obi-Wan doubted Skirata would not be able to repair it himself, so why was he still on board?

“Are you helping me?” Obi-Wan asked.

Skirata snorted, the sound like durasteel grinding on durasteel.

“No, but Kryze’ll make sure my ancestors’ll have to drag me if I let you die or leave you here stranded.”

Obi-Wan exhaled. Thank the Force Satine had chosen pacifism.

—#—

Taris reminded Obi-Wan of Coruscant with its levels. Though there were much — much — less of them. The similarity was jarring enough. He had not expected the Middle City to be the most dangerous part. It was not even deep enough to qualify as a proper underlevel. It felt like he was taking an evening stroll through Monument Park.

And it was wrong because he felt the Force prickled with warnings of beings following their every move with sneers on their faces, of illegal deals in the alleyways, and of weapons being at the ready at any moment.

“Missing Kih’dabe, Mando?” Skirata tilted his head, amusement palpable enough Obi-Wan could feel it even through his beskar’gam.

“You know my name, and I don’t wear enough pieces of beskar’gam for you to think I’m traditionalist, so you can use it,” Obi-Wan said musingly. “Kih’dabe? You mean Keldab’ika?” He was fairly certain that was what Mandalorians called the district. At least in his time. Moreover, Mandalorians were not ones for renaming things. Too much bother.

“Always forget you call it that,” Skirata muttered, his hand drifting toward the blaster in his leg holster as someone moved too quickly in their direction. “So?”

Obi-Wan tugged his hood lower, grateful for the face mask he had acquired. His gaze flicked to a figure perched on a building just beyond Skirata’s right shoulder.

“On your four,” he said without breaking stride.

Seemed like Mando’a was coming back to him. His concussion was not that severe.

“Tail?” Skirata continued walking steadily toward what Obi-Wan assumed was the tech shop. He himself had never been to Taris before.

“A bounty hunter,” Obi-Wan extended his senses, slightly tilting his head, he could feel them almost perfectly, “unconfirmed if Mando’ad, but in armour.”

Skirata took a moment before replying.

“Your displeased party?”

Obi-Wan wished it was.

“Hired by them,” he glanced at Skirata, “no need for you to catch a blaster bolt. Go buy the wires the ship needs. I’ll handle this.”

“They got a ‘puck?”

“No.”

“No official contact,” Skirata nodded, turning right, giving Obi-Wan another glimpse at their pursuer. “We’re allies for now. And you still owe me that fight, Kybuck. Don’t know if you’ve read the Codex, but by all rights, I’m not going to leave you.”

Obi-Wan suppressed a sigh. Mandalorians could be so weird sometimes. Then again, Skirata thought him a fellow Mandalorian, abandoning him to fight an outsider might stain the man’s honour.

—#—

They made it back to the hangar quickly after securing the tech. The bounty hunter tailing Obi-Wan had not made a move — a small mercy, given the civilians crowding Middle City’s streets. Most residents were armed, but a firefight would have drawn too much attention.

A dingy spaceport was a better battleground, though Obi-Wan would have preferred keeping the fight far from the ship as well.

“Think the contractor is palnetside?” Skirata hit the ramp release, gesturing for Obi-Wan to board first.

Obi-Wan absently moved to stroke his beard — only to remember the mask covering the lower half of his face. He exhaled sharply, reaching into the Force, careful not to let his presence flare like a beacon to an umbramoth.

The Sith were masters of subtlety. They slithered through the Force’s currents, dissolving into shadows, leaving no trace of the Dark Side to betray them. And now they lurked in wait, biding their time before striking.

“I don’t think so,” Obi-Wan murmured. Unless Palpatine had lured them here to kill them and all the witnesses. The latter seemed unlikely. It might catch Jedi attention.

Skirata pried open the damaged wiring panel that thankfully was not sparking or smoking inside anymore. Just as he was about to start exposing one of the wires, a sharp knock echoed through the cargo hold.

“Come out, come out, dar’manda hut’uune,” a voice sneered, distorted by a cheap vocoder. “I’d hate to scratch this beauty.”

Skirata’s blaster was drawn before Obi-Wan could blink, aimed squarely at the ramp.

“Who the hell you are calling dar’manda, shabuir,” Skirata snapped, motioning for Obi-Wan to follow him as he stepped out.

Obi-Wan did, his hand hovering near his holster, not yet taking his blaster out, which agitated Skirata.

“Five hostiles,” Skirata muttered, jerking his chin toward their positions, “three in beskar’gam.”

Obi-Wan had already sensed them, plus one more. A sniper? Likely perched on a nearby roof. More hunters than he had expected Palpatine to hire. And three were Mandalorians. Why risk involving them?

Historically, Sith and Mandalorians had been allies more often than not. But not now. Not when the Senate had pulled strings to ensure the New Mandalorians held power.

A cold realization settled over him.

The Senate.

The Senate had sent the Jedi to slaughter Mandalorians — to crush the Haat’ade, when Death Watch had almost been delt with. The Sith did not want allies, they wanted tamed warriors who would die choking on their arguments rather than shoot to kill. New Mandalorians were just that.

Skirata shook his head. Instead, he signaled air support, tapped his buy’ce twice, then pointed at Obi-Wan, and at the cover ramp provided. Blaster in hand, Obi-Wan mourned the vibroblade he had left buried in someone on Concord Dawn.

Outside, five guns trained on them. Obi-Wan’s gaze flickered over the attackers and locked onto the sigils marking their armour. Death Watch.

“Not surprised scum like you takes under-the-table job,” Skirata snarled at the one who had knocked.

Obi-Wan was more interested in a Mandalorian with the beskad. They had a small braid on their belt. It only had one yellow band.

The first blaster bolt seared past Obi-Wan’s shoulder as he ducked back into the ship. Skirata’s jetpack roared to life, launching him upward to engage one Mandalorian midair while Obi-Wan took aim at the one who clearly was no more than a mere bounty hunter. Next was another bounty hunter who ducked, but it only made him a good target for Skirata’s knife that had been thrown at him.

The beskad-wielding Mandalorian advanced as Obi-Wan fired at them. Obi-Wan waited, breath steady, until the warrior was close enough — then moved, tackling them hard to the ground, rolling down the ramp.

“Jare’la di’kut!” Skirata grunted from somewhere to the left. Obi-Wan ignored him, using the Force to overpower the Mandalorian.

Next thing he knew there was beskad coming at his neck in a wide, uncoordinated arc. Obi-Wan blocked it with his kom’rk, hearing a melodic ringing of beskar on beskar. He let his kom’rk slide down the blade, almost bring it to his neck that was covered only by the hood. It allowed him to grip the Mandalorian’s hand. A twist, a snap, and the beskad clattered to the ground.

Obi-Wan snatched it up, jumping back and off Mandalorian as a blaster bolt seared through the space where his head had been. He rose into a crouch, twirling the stolen weapon once.

“You’re quite useless with a beskad, aren’t you?” He flicked a glance at Skirata, now grappling with Mandalorian wielding what looked like a spear-rifle. “Don’t worry, cyar’ika, some prefer those who’re inexperienced more,” his voice dropped, colder than the weather on Ilum.

The disarmed Mandalorian roared, lunging with a vibroknife in their left hand. Obi-Wan just lifted the beskad up, letting it pierce the neck-guard and then the throat.

He jerked the beskad back and, using the momentum, turned, swiping at the protected by the high boots calves. It got the last Mandalorian to trip as Skirata punched him hard in the face.

A beat of stillness was broken by one of the bounty hunters Obi-Wan had shot groaning, but not getting up just yet.

Skirata eyed the beskad in Obi-Wan’s grip. “Not bad,” he extended his arm. “I’m bringing this shabuir,” Obi-Wan let Skirata to haul him up. “I’ll get you to Kryze, if you aren’t commandeering one of their ships. She’s on Kalevala.”

Obi-Wan did not answer immediately. He moved among the bodies, collecting comms, at least one might have some clues on the Sith who had hired him. He froze as he returned to the one he had fought last. Swallowing, he closed his eyes.

Revenge was not a Jedi way. And he had not been this Padawan’s Master. But as a Temple Guard, duty bound him to return the braid to the Master.

And had not it been the most painful thing he had been taught about by Master Drallig. It was an old rule. One of the ancient ones that had been salvaged after the wars.

Obi-Wan noted that it was such a Mandalorian thing that he was surprised he had not thought about it sooner.

He took the braid; he would hide it inside the lightsaber pike as soon as he could.

“I need to fly to Naboo,” he said abruptly, eyeing the small spacecraft that was not meant for long space travel and most likely belonged to one of the attackers.

He turned back to Skirata.

“Why? Want to assassinate a senator?”

Obi-Wan’s fingers tightened around the braid.

Technically, Palpatine was not a senator yet, he was not even an aide. And would it truly count as assassination if Obi-Wan confronted him openly?

He had considered hunting the man down before, but the risks were too high. Without knowing the identity of the Sith Master — without knowing if they already had in mind who to train as their Apprentice should he kill Palpatine — any strike could backfire catastrophically.

That was the true danger. If he acted rashly, the Sith would burrow deeper into the shadows, and the Jedi would lose even this frail hope of averting the Purge.

Nor did he harbor any illusions about his own capabilities. Taking on both Sith — Master and Apprentice — alone was suicide. They needed to be eliminated simultaneously, and it would require precision and Jedi reinforcements.

But to rally the Order, he would need more than his words. He would needed proof. A name. A Sith name of the Master.

It seemed his silence was too long.

“Are you fucking with me?”

Obi-Wan forced a smirk, “we have too much clothes on for that, my dear Mando. And no. I’m not going there to assassinate a senator,” he turned toward their ship. “I’d suggest we sell those ships, but I think we’re going to have some visitors from Taris’s security forces soon.”

After a beat Skirata followed, “Kalevala then.”

22 BBY
Coruscant

Obi-Wan rubbed his forehead, staring at the datapads scattered across his table. The Council’s decision to appoint him as the Order’s lead strategist had him longing for the frontlines more than ever. Especially with the rumors circulating that he might soon join the Council. Between Temple Guard trainings, an increasingly packed patrol schedule, strategizing for two-thirds of the battalions, and endless holocalls, Obi-Wan was running out of hours in the day.

He exhaled, refocusing on the hologram in front of him. “Anakin, the strategy you’re suggesting is—” he paused, weighing his words. “—only viable as Plan Besh. Based on the intelligence we got, it’s better to spring the trap, not bomb it.”

Even through the honestly terrible quality of the hologram, Obi-Wan could see the annoyance on his former Padawan’s face.

“You talk like Cody,” Anakin muttered.

“Cody?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “Your new captain?”

“Commander of the 212^th,” Anakin corrected. “They are under my command now, too. Or, well,” he glanced somewhere to the left, almost sheepish, “under Cody’s. It’s like having you around again, Master. Except you didn’t pretend that you listened to my ideas. Cody at least says ‘Noted, General’.”

“Hm,” Obi-Wan hummed, amused, “he sounds like a good man,” his gaze shifted to Ahsoka’s holographic form beside Anakin. “What was the commander’s suggestion, dear grandpadawan? I don’t trust your Master to give me an honest answer.”

“Hey!” Anakin protested.

“Ah,” Ahsoka fumbled for words, “sneak in and blast from the shadows?”

Obi-Wan blinked. That was not much different from Anakin’s plan.

“If I may, sirs?” A slightly distorted voice came from just outside the hologram’s range.

Ahsoka stepped to the side, allowing trooper in commander armour — it had to be this Cody — to step into view. Anakin crossed his arms, his defiant glare fixed on Obi-Wan.

His former Padawan had not changed at all. Obi-Wan hoped it would stay that way, even after the war.

Even if he knew it was foolish.

Chapter Text

“We could end this quickly, if you’d only listen to my advice.”
“We are not assassinating every surviving political leader on this planet.”
―Alpha-17 and Obi-Wan Kenobi

19 BBY
Coruscant

Obi-Wan opened the cabinet. His hands trembled as they brushed over tins — find the tea, just the tea — until he imagined wrapping them around the hilt of his lightsaber pike. The shaking stopped.

Metal can. Table. Leaves in the teapot. Water poured in a slow, deliberate stream. The motions were mechanical, as if someone else were moving his body.

He exhaled slowly, unsteadily, watching the steam curl upwards from the spout in fragile spirals. The scent of Alderaanian herbs and wild berries filled the air, too sweet, too vivid, as if the world outside did not exist. A bright flash blinded him momentarily — a ship exploding? A bombing? — but did it really matter. Nothing did in the end. There were no winners in this war. Only corpses piling up on both sides.

The mask laid on the counter. Once-pristine white was now grime-streaked, the gold markings nearly eroded. His throat burned with bile. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling until his vision blurred. No. Not yet. Tears were a luxury he had not earned.

It was his fault. He should have been there. Should have been a better Master. Should have—

Tea.

His hands moved on their own: one cup, then another. The second trembled slightly — treacherously — before he set it down with a click too loud for the quiet apartment.

Bail entered then, his presence in the Force like the world had just ended, its pieces piled up heavy on his shoulders.

59 BBY
Kalevala

Obi-Wan breathed in deeply, letting himself be cradled by the warmth of the Force. It was not quiet, nor passive — it pulsed with life, vibrant and untamed, a river of energy that did not merely brush against him but rushed through him, filling his veins with its fiery energy of Life. He could not remember the Force ever feeling this way in Kalevala. So rich, so alive, as if the universe itself had pressed close to shout its secrets.

When Obi-Wan opened his eyes, he found the blue-hued form of Knight Vizsla floating above the Holocron, mirroring his own meditative pose. Knight Vizsla had been pleased to return to Mandalorian space, even seeming to enjoy Skirata’s gruff presence aboard the ship. Obi-Wan had noticed, however, that whenever he and Skirata began antagonizing each other, the Holocron’s attention sharpened — prodding at him through the Force, urging him to meet every challenge head-on. Yet, whenever Obi-Wan responded with his preferred tactic of flirting, the Holocron’s presence quieted down, silently judging him alongside Skirata.

“I haven’t been to this planet in a long time,” Knight Vizsla remarked, taking off his buy’ce and resting it on his knees. “It’s more peaceful than usual.”

“Kalevala is a home to New Mandalorians,” Obi-Wan frowned, wracking his brain for the correct translation of the faction’s name.

“New Mandalorians?” Knight Vizsla tilted his head.

“They are pacifists.”

A beat of silence.

“…what,” he asked in the flat tone, his expression closing off.

Obi-Wan scratched his beard, sighing.

“They believe in absolute pacifism mostly, from what I’ve seen,” his mind flashed back to Satine, gripping her small stun-blaster at the ready. “Though some will fight to protect others,” he closed his eyes, “but mostly they’re Mando’ade who discard their beskar’gam, because it’s barbaric and one of the main reasons they’re labeled warmongers.”

It was a belief Satine had once held, though not for long, even if Mandalorians wearing beskar’gam had been all but unofficially banned from entering most of the cities in Obi-Wan’s past.

Not now though, as he had observed when Skirata had shoved him out of the ship with a ‘don’t cross my path or I’ll finish that fight’. Obi-Wan had been momentarily overwhelmed by the sight of so many armored figures bustling through the spaceport. Then Kryze’s purple armor caught his eye, her buy’ce absent as she strode toward them, and he could breathe again.

“How dare they call themselves Mando’ade?” There was something dangerous in Knight Vizsla’s soft voice, in his relaxed posture, in the stillness of his Force presence.

Obi-Wan was suddenly reminded the man before him had been dangerous. Still was in fact. There had been a reason he had become Mand’alor, had been able to wrangle Mandalorians into following him, uniting beings that would hear an insult thrown at them and blow it into a war. This was a man that had actually ruled over the Mandalorians from his childhood’s horror stories. The Mandalorians that had allied with Sith, even if during the Knight Vizsla’s reign they had stayed as far away from dying out Sith Lords as possible, just as he had made sure they had not gone poking Jedi. Knight Vizsla might have brought peace to Mandalore, but that did not mean he had made it a peaceful nation.

For a fleeting moment, Obi-Wan wondered if Knight Vizsla had fought Mandalorians as a Padawan. Or Jedi as Mand’alor. But now was not the time to ask.

“There’re those who simply believe that violence is the last resort,” Obi-Wan said, unsure why he felt the aching need to explain, to justify himself. “They don’t like it, won’t kill either, but if push comes to shove and arguments aren’t enough, they will use it in defense,” Satine’s fierce gaze, her unshakable convictions, her sharp tongue, and sharper mind — all flashed before his eyes.

And where had it gotten her? Her and her people? The bitterness coiled tight in his chest.

“There’s nothing wrong with striving for peace, verd’ika. I may have duty on my kom’rke, but this is lust for peace,” Knight Vizsla said, tapping the short tasset on his right side. “But to be Mando’ad is to follow the Creed, to adhere the Resol’nare. Do they?”

Obi-Wan came up short.

“I don’t think I’m the right person to judge whether someone can claim the culture I’m not a part of, Mand’alor,” he settled on, subconsciously using the title instead of the Jedi rank.

“I think you are,” Knight Vizsla countered, his gaze dropping meaningfully to the kom’rke on Obi-Wan’s wrists.

“I won’t answer the call of a Mand’alor,” Obi-Wan said firmly, well aware which tenets of the Resol’nare to use to get a Mandalorian to back off. This was a useful tidbit of knowledge he had acquired during his Padawan years.

“You answer me, verd’ika.”

Before Obi-Wan could point out that there was a big difference between answering Knight Vizsla’s demands, when he was the Holocron, and actually following the orders of a living Mand’alor, he was interrupted by a knock.

Obi-Wan sighed, rising from the floor and tucking the closed Holocron under the bedcovers before opening the door. Kryze stood there, her purple beskar’gam catching stray rays of sunlight. She removed her buy’ce, smiling.

“Morning,” she said. Obi-Wan stepped aside to let her in, “did you have first meal already?”

“No, I just woke up.”

“Somehow I doubt it,” Kryze arched an eyebrow at his tidied-up appearance and strode past him to the kitchen. “You aren’t in full beskar’gam again,” she observed.

Kryze confidently started preparing something, setting water to boil and heating some food from the cabinets. Obi-Wan watched, amused.

“I said I didn’t need more.”

She scoffed, “are you New Mandalorian or something? You don’t fight like one, so stop with it. Or do you lack other pieces?”

The easiest way to take right now was to lie and say he did. But, unfortunately, Skirata had seen the chestplate of the armour Knight Vizsla had insisted he take. Obi-Wan really hoped that he had dismissed the weird colour of the metal as the beskar being muddled by too many other alloys. Otherwise, if Skirata thought the armour was supposed to be fully brown, aside from the kom’rke, it would just be mortifying.

The last time he had gotten his hands on the beskar’gam had been because of the Kryze clan.

Obi-Wan forcefully stopped this train of thought. Satine had not been born yet. She was not dead at the hands of Maul. Not yet. Not ever if he had anything to say about it.

“I have the full set,” he carefully started, “but it needs adjustments. With recent chaos, finding a Goran hasn’t been a priority of mine,” Obi-Wan tried to find more appropriate reasons, or at least ones that did not sound rude.

Kryze shook her head and thrust a hot cup of shig into his hand, her eyes flashed conspiratorially. Oh, no, Obi-Wan did not like that look.

“Doc said I’d be blind if not dead had you not interfered,” she remarked casually.

Oh, no, Obi-Wan did not like that look at all.

“Anyone would’ve done the same,” Obi-Wan answered cautiously, praying to the Force the food on the stove would explode.

The Holocron shoved him meanly for that. Obi-Wan retaliated with a hissed ‘shabuir’ in the Force’s waves. The Holocron — Knight Vizsla laughed at him.

“But they didn’t, kid.”

“Alor Kryze—”

“Just Karalin.”

“Karalin, there’s no need for repaying me in any more ways,” he frowned as Karalin turned off the stove and took out two bowels. “You’re already giving me a ship,” which had been shocking news to Obi-Wan when he had heard it from her with Skirata still standing menacingly at his side.

“I’d have given you a ship if you just told me you stole one under Mando’s nose,” she looked at him with a humour in her eyes, as if she knew something he did not. Which was probably true in any case. “Or is it you saying my life worth a mere spacecraft?” Obi-Wan shot her a mock-glare, accepting the bowl in his free hand. At least they were not talking about armour anymore. Force, it was so weird interacting with young Satine’s mother. “Are you going to use it when you assassinate a senator?”

He froze mid-way on his way to karyai, dumbstruck. Where was this conversation going?

“I’m not going to assassinate a senator!” He turned his head to look at her, barely hiding indignation in his voice.

“An aide?” Karalin brushed past him, comfortably settling down amongst the cushions.

“No. Why does everyone think I am?”

She gave him an appraising look. Obi-Wan innocently took the first spoonful of some stew, humming at the spice.

“Why would you go to Naboo then? The planet’s New Mandalorians’ wet dream.”

Obi-Wan choked, he took a sip of his now-cool shig.

“I wouldn’t call it that exactly,” he muttered, thinking of Padmé and her blaster pistol, rarely set to stun.

“I can ask our Goran to look at your beskar’gam,” this time Karalin was not wearing her buy'ce, so Obi-Wan saw her brief look at his hair as she added on, “kid.”

He had not known Satine’s mother had Stewjoni blood. Her blonde hair had a metallic sheen, though not as rich as the near-gold hue of southern Stewjonii. Her eyes were more brown than green. At the very least, it explained why Karalin called him kid if she knew a smidge of her homeworld culture. She had to research it or heard something from her parents. Though, Obi-Wan mused, either she did not know the language or she only knew of the slavers’ twisted beliefs about their biology.

“Do you know Stewjoni?” he asked in Stewjoni, suddenly realizing the mash-up of accents in his Mando’a might come from it. It was not even his third language, why would he have it when speaking Mando’a?

Karalin blinked, derailed from whatever she had been leading up to for so long. Obi-Wan had to admit Karalin was good at this. He would have fallen for it if he had not spent nearly his whole life using the same tactic himself.

“Nayc,” she answered, “I’ve never studied it, but my buir spoke it. They taught me some stuff their buir had taught them. Not the language, though.”

“I’m not a kid by Stewjoni standards,” Obi-Wan touched his hair, feeling slightly self-conscious. “The word you’re using — well, it technically translates as ‘kid’, but it’s not what you call an actual ad.” Karalin tilted her head, trying to process the information. “Does the shine not dull after some time?” She shook her head. Obi-Wan studied her again. The glint was subtle unless you knew what to look for. Oh Force, he was going to have to talk with Satine’s mother about sex. “In the north, they use a word closer to ‘soldier’. The standing army was there. It came from a strong belief in marital fidelity.”

Knight Vizsla laughed mockingly in the Force again. Obi-Wan wished desperately to return to the previous minefield of a conversation.

“The ‘kid’ you mean is veshal. Ve means ‘return’, and shal is ‘beginning’,” he ate another spoonful, gathering his thoughts. “It’s for adults when their hair loses its glint.”

“It loses?”

“Yes,” he used every ounce of Jedi composure not to sound strangled. “If you do not engage in… physical pleasures.” Obi-Wan powered on, “lishal means ad or ‘new light’ more literally. Those are the southern terms,” now to the hard part. “If the metallic glint is the same for at least two months, you might want to visit a medic. Though you don’t have much of Stewjoni blood in you, so I might be wrong.”

Or he was not and right this moment, Karalin was pregnant with Satine. And if Obi-Wan did some calculations, he would know he, in fact, was right.

“…wrong about?” Karalin stopped eating .

Obi-Wan finished his bowl and, as gracefully as he could, gulped down his cold shig.

“Congratulations?”

Karalin was out of the door before he could blink, leaving him with bowls to wash, his empty cup of shig, and her buy’ce on the kitchen counter.

—#—

Late morning sun bathed Kryze Castle in gold as Obi-Wan stood at the cliff’s edge. Below, the grassy plains unfurled, here and there broken by jagged rocks, cutting through the peaceful picture. It was beautiful. Even more so now, not yet touched by the Civil War Obi-Wan had been a part of in his youth nor by the one that was raging now across the sector.

Obi-Wan felt his hands starting to shake. His breath quickening. The Holocron too far away for its tune to cut through the noise of blood rushing in his ears. The Force’s warmth becoming scalding hot on his skin. The metallic taste on his tongue overwhelming the lingering earthy aftertaste of shig.

“…Kybuck?”

He suppressed a flinch, consciously making sure his hands — still trembling — were not moving toward his hidden lightsaber. He was glad he had left his blaster in the quarters he had been given; he had spent so much time using it he doubted he would not have shot the person calling him.

Holding his breath, Obi-Wan clung to the barely there somewhat familiar presence in the Force. Was it the sniper from Taris? When he turned, he forced himself to breathe slowly. His eyes first registered the grey beskar'gam with yellow four-sided diamond painted on the chestplate. Then he did a double-take at the bright red cape. It looked out of place with the beskar’gam even more battered and scorched than when Obi-Wan had seen it last. Mereel walked with a well-hidden limp.

“Su cuy’gar ‘alor Mereel,” Obi-Wan inclined his head, debating momentarily whether to salute. “I was distracted, didn't hear you speak.”

“Heard you made a ruckus this morning,” there was humour in the modulated voice as Mereel stopped in front of him.

“In my defense, it wasn’t my intention.”

A garbled snort of laughter escaped the vocoder. Mereel shook his head and, after a beat, took off his buy’ce.

“If you say so, Ben of clan Kybuck,” he said, disbelief dripping from every syllable.

Obi-Wan took a moment to catalog his features: black hair, mussed up by the buy’ce, serious brown eyes, scanning his every move, sharp cheekbones, and lips quirked in wry amusement.

“Is Karalin alright?”

“Last I heard from Adonai, she’s frantically canceling some of her bounties while interrogating the baar’ur,” Mereel answered.

“She is interrogating? Why am I not surprised,” Obi-Wan mused. “She left her buy’ce in my quarters.”

Mereel shrugged.

“She’ll find you herself to take it back,” his gaze turned assessing. The same look every Mandalorian who knew Skirata seemed to wear around him. Did they all genuinely think he was planning to assassinate a senator? “About that,” Mereel reached into one of the pouches on his belt, pulled out a familiar-looking vibroknife, and offered it hilt-first.

There was something about knives. Obi-Wan tried to remember the correct customs — all that surfaced was the old Jedi language of lightsabers — as he stared at the vibroblade. Weapons were important in Mandalorian culture. Knives even more. But it was his vibroknife. It was not beskar. It was not significant.

He took his vibroknife slowly from Mereel’s hand, “vor entye for returning my weapon to me.”

“There’s no debt,” Mereel said firmly, shaking his head again and putting his buy’ce back on. “Do not run away before seeing Kryze, having her hunt you down would be worse than having Mando on your tail.”

The realization struck like a slap, Mereel had known since that day whose ship it was. That was why he’d found their farewell so damned funny.

Well, Obi-Wan, thought, he coul have made worse first impression.

“I won’t.”

22 BBY
Coruscant

A hand settled on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, steadying him as he nearly walked into an obstacle he had only vaguely sensed through the Force. The guidance was welcome — between his upcoming holocalls with Mace and Kit about battalion movements and his bone-deep exhaustion, the last thing he needed was a concussion added to his already pounding headache. In moments like these, he particularly missed Seventeen’s gruff.

His scars twinged painfully, though the mask hid his wince. Not that it mattered; Temple Guards had an uncanny ability to read body language.

“Come now,” came Feemor’s amused voice, laced with a hint of friendly mockery. “It would be rather undignified for a Council member to walk face-first into a wall.”

“I knew you’d save me, my knight in brown robes,” Obi-Wan hummed, allowing himself to be guided toward the Temple Guards’ dormitory.

Feemor shook his head, his hood slipping to his shoulders.

“What impropriety!” Obi-Wan gasped, doing his best impression of Anakin’s scandalized tone when confronted with anything more revealing than standard Jedi robes.

Feemor huffed in response.

“So scandalous, I know. My apologies for appearing in such a state before you, Master of High Jedi Council.”

Obi-Wan blinked in surprise. Feemor rarely indulged his jokes, but when he did, it never failed to make Obi-Wan smile. These days, he missed lighthearted banter more than sleep — though he supposed the jibes between him and Alpha would not qualify even as ‘civil’ by most standards.

“Do you have plans besides sleep?” Obi-Wan asked as he used the Force to open his quarters' door, too tired to recall the passcode.

Feemor paused at the threshold, removing his mask and running a hand through his blond hair.

“No, why?”

“Come in then. I’ll make us some Sapir tea.” Obi-Wan carefully set his own mask on the kitchen counter.

As Feemor entered, his gaze wandered around the room. “You have quite a few plants,” he observed. “Is that... a weed?”

“Achinios weed,” Obi-Wan confirmed, retrieving the Sapir leaves as the water boiled. “A gift from Senator Organa.”

“Did you stop an assassination attempt for him first?” Feemor asked dryly.

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan deflected. “Would you prefer a different tea?”

Feemor’s Force presence flickered with sheepishness — a clear sign he was as exhausted as Obi-Wan.

“Chandrilan, if you have it. I’ve never liked dissolving leaves.”

Obi-Wan nearly raised an eyebrow at the half-truth but refrained. Their relationship did not warrant such probing questions just yet. “I disliked them as a Padawan too,” he offered instead.

“I think all Padawans do,” Feemor agreed.

The memory of Anakin almost spitting his first sip of Sapir tea, the only thing that had saved Obi-Wan’s face and his cream-coloured robes, had been the learned since birth rule of not wasting water, made him smile. Obi-Wan prepared Feemor’s tea in a small pot while brewing his own directly in a cup. Almost instantly, he smelt soft fruitiness with sharp floral notes.

“I think the Coruscant Guards would appreciate some tea after this Force-forsaken night,” Feemor remarked, accepting his cup.

"They prefer caf," Obi-Wan mused, scratching his beard as he tried to parse his own thought through the fog of exhaustion. “And sweet pastries. The clones are particularly fond of those.” He sighed. “I’ll bring them something between my meetings.”

Feemor shook his head, then surprised Obi-Wan by resting his hand briefly on his shoulder in a gentle gesture.

“I’ll ask Knight R’as to handle that when his shift ends,” he looked at Obi-Wan sternly, suddenly reminding that he was indeed older, “and you, Obi-Wan, are going to sleep right when you finish this cup.”