Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 2022 Update - It's about that time again! National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is coming up next month. This year, I'm doing a different sort of challenge for it, though. I've numbered most of my WIPs and will use a random number generator each day to see what the "fic of the day" is! The word count total is still the same goal, both monthly and daily (50,000 total and about 1,667 each day). I still don't write in order, though, most of the time, so I may not be immediately able to post new content, but I'm hopeful that there will be at least a few updates during November! :D (And, yes, this fic is one of the numbered fics. This one has been very difficult for me, mostly because I know what will happen right after this arc, but finishing up what's here right now has been... tough. But it's one of the numbered fics, so I'll be giving it a shot!)

October 2021 Update - Hello, world! Sorry to fake you all out with a notification, but it was important to me to make sure everyone who reads and follows these works sees this update. I really do appreciate you all, and I can't believe how many people have expressed their positive feelings about my stories!

I know that this will probably be a disappointment to you all, but I have made the decision to put all of my fanfictions on hold until December 2021. I promise I am not abandoning any of them, and I do have ideas and outlines for them, but in the meantime, I will be switching gears and focusing on another project.

For the last 9 years, I have participated in National Novel Writing Month (now international, and shortened to NaNoWriMo). I'm sure a lot of you are familiar with it, but for everyone who isn't, NaNoWriMo encourages all sorts of writing! The standard goal is 50,000 words in 30 days. For the last 9 years of my participation, I've won 5 times, and all 9 works have been fanfiction.

This year, I am going to be working on my first original novel! I've had the outline completed for about 3 years now, but I've just never been able to make the leap to writing it. This year, I'm finally taking the plunge! I'll be taking the rest of October to worldbuild that fic (high fantasy comes with a ton of worldbuilding to do) and flesh out the outline I have, and November will be dedicated to NaNoWriMo and my first original work!

I'm sure that, come December and the end of NaNoWriMo, I'll be more than ready to get back to other projects and take a break from the original work, so I promise that I will be back! I do not abandon my works; they may take a very long time to update or be completed, but I love each and every story and each and every one of you who read them.

I'll be posting this same note on each of my ongoing multi-chapter fics, so if you are user subscribed to me, the multiple notifications will be the same note on each work. One additional note: Jane's Harry Potter fic, A Reluctant Hufflepuff, will not be affected as I am mainly her editor.

Thank you again to everyone who has supported my stories! I appreciate you all and one more time: I absolutely promise that I will be back!

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan had what the adults around him all called “visions,” and he hated them. But that just made him feel guilty about it, because the new adults in the strange clothes around him all said that they weren’t supposed to hate.

But… it was so hard not to dread the visions, it was so hard not to scream when they tried to convince him to sleep, wailing wordlessly at them in protest, because he didn’t know yet how to tell them what he saw every night. But it was always one of the same few dreams.

Sometimes, there was fire all around him, and the terrible smell of burning flesh, and someone he loved was dying, but even though Obi-Wan was standing there, burning up inside with love and grief and crushing sadness, the person he loved was hurling hate back at him, and pain, and terrifying rage, and even though Obi-Wan was burning on the inside, he knew they were burning up for real.

Sometimes, the Temple—his new home, Mama and Papa had said before handing him to a weird-looking man with fur all over his body and a sash over him—was smoking, and there were people everywhere, lying on the floor, perfectly still. They weren’t even breathing.

Sometimes, he was on a battlefield, and he felt his own desperation and determination and focus as he tried to save as many of his men as he could, and his men were in strange white armor, making them faceless, but he somehow knew that under it, they would all have the same face.

Sometimes, he was alone, in a vast desert, living in a little hovel, and he knew he was still a Jedi just as surely as he knew there was no more Jedi Order. There was only a crushing sense of grief and loneliness, tempered by the faintest spark of hope. And Obi-Wan knew he was old, in the desert, because his hair was white and his joints hurt the way his Gramma had always complained about, and she was the oldest person Obi-Wan knew, he thought.

As awful as they all were, Obi-Wan preferred the last one, because at least it was calmer, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief as he found himself sitting just outside his little hovel. It was night, at least, so he didn’t have to feel the blistering heat of the two suns, and—

Obi-Wan blinked as he realized two things: he didn’t feel old, this time, he just felt like himself. And he wasn’t alone.

There was a man standing a few feet away, in armor that looked almost like the white armor he saw his men wearing when he dreamt of war and Jedi Generals, but his was black, and it looked heavier, and he was wearing a red cape. As the man turned to him, Obi-Wan also realized he had one of those swords on his hip—a lightsaber, he corrected himself, his creche Master had taught him that was called a lightsaber—and the symbol of the Jedi on his helmet and chestplate.

Obi-Wan scrambled to his feet and bowed clumsily, the way the Masters had shown him, and the man bowed his head in return. “Hi, Master.”

“Su cuy’gar, adiik.” His voice was low and deep. Obi-Wan liked the sound of it, even if he didn’t understand what he said. The man took a few more steps, tilting his head, and Obi-Wan wished he could see his face—

The man’s helmet disappeared, then, and Obi-Wan blinked at the man, who studied him in return. The Master was just as expressionless as the rest of the Jedi, with dark hair and bright yellow-green eyes with no pupils at all. There was a sort of green tinge to his skin, too.

“Um, Master?” The man hummed, acknowledging that he was listening, but said nothing. Obi-Wan squirmed. “What are you?”

The man chuckled, and odd low rumble. “I carry Taung blood, in my line.”

“What’s a Taung?”

The man waved a hand. “Another time. I sense you are weary.”

“Wha’s that?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Tired.”

“Oh. I don’t sleep so good,” Obi-Wan admitted, hanging his head and biting his lip, squirming again with anxiety.

The Master hummed again, and then shook his head slowly. “Nayc, you do not. But fear not, dral’adiik. I shall guard your dreams tonight.” The man came close and rested a large, gentle hand on the top of Obi-Wan’s head, and then—

“Wake up, Obi! We don’t wanna miss the sweet rolls!”

He blinked his eyes open, and he was in the creche. Quinlan was leaning over him, and Obi-Wan was so excited when he realized he hadn’t had nightmares last night that he forgot to be annoyed that the older boy didn’t finish his whole name.

The strange Master in his dream was forgotten as he processed the promise of sweet rolls for breakfast, and he scrambled to get out of bed, pouting as Quinlan laughed when Obi-Wan got tangled in his sheets in his rush not to miss out. He knew Reeft would eat them all if he didn’t get there fast enough, so he didn’t protest when Quinlan grabbed his hand and made him run towards the creche cafeteria.

Obi-Wan knew his creche Master—a lady named Shari-Ta, who was nice (although she didn’t quite make up for not having Mama with him), and had pretty green skin and something called lekku hanging down her back from her head instead of hair—was relieved that he went to sleep without screaming about it the next night. He felt bad, because he knew he was being difficult, but he’d just been so scared going to sleep.

But he wasn’t, tonight. Somehow, he knew the Master who guarded him the night before would be back, and everything was going to be okay.

He was right. Obi-Wan knew he was asleep and dreaming, even though everything around him felt so real. And he wasn’t in the desert, or on a battlefield, or even in the ruined Temple with everyone else gone. He somehow just knew he was in the Temple’s training rooms, but they didn’t look like he remembered them from the tour he’d been given, though he was still too little to train in them himself. The Jedi symbol was on the walls in white, and the walls looked like they were made of actual wood panels, and the floor was wood too, and not metal, and the whole room was bright with actual sunlight, and—

There was the Master, sitting in front of him. He waved a hand, and Obi-Wan bowed and then sat.

“This doesn’t look like the Temple. But it feels like it,” Obi-Wan said slowly. The Master hummed, blinking those yellow-green eyes at him again.

“It is the Temple as I knew it, long ago,” the Master said.

“How long?” Obi-Wan asked, even though he had a feeling it was a really, really long time ago. Maybe even ten whole years—that was a really long time!

“Well over one thousand years ago,” the Master answered, and Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide.

“I… I don’t even know how much that is,” Obi-Wan said, looking down at his hands. His own age he could count on just three of his fingers.

The Master laughed, a strange sound, low and chattering, but Obi-Wan liked the sound of that, too, and he smiled. “It is a very long time.” Obi-Wan nodded. “How old are you, dral’adiik?”

“‘M three,” Obi-Wan said, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. The Master nodded. “Uh. Wha’s your name?”

“I am Tarre Vizsla,” the man introduced himself, bowing his head. Obi-Wan nodded back. “But you may call me Ba’ji.”

“Wha’s that mean?”

“It is our word for ‘Master.’ It is a shortened form of Ba’jur’alor.”

“Uh.” Obi-Wan floundered for a moment, trying to remember that word, but gave up. “Okay, Ba’ji.”

Ba’ji nodded at him in approval, and Obi-Wan smiled. “You require help that none of your Masters have yet given you. Rest, and I will help you to protect your mind, to lessen the impact of your visions. They are gift from the Force, and must be heeded, but you are too young yet for them. When you are older, we will work through them. Together.”

“Okay,” Obi-Wan agreed. He didn’t understand what Ba’ji was going to do, but he knew that he was going to help him with the bad dreams that everyone called visions, and so he agreed eagerly. And having Ba’ji guard his dreams last night had been so nice—he’d woken up without really getting a chance to dream anything, and he’d felt like he had more energy than he had in a long time, maybe ever.

“Rest now, dral’adiik. The Force is with you, and all will be well.”

It was a relief to everyone in the creche when Initiate Kenobi suddenly began sleeping better. He was a sweet boy, during the day, but an absolute terror when it came time to go to sleep. Shari-Ta couldn’t blame him, knowing what awaited him in his dreams; the visions he saw often woke him up screaming, both aloud and into the Force. And they most certainly were visions—they could all tell from the way the Force swirled around him in his sleep, heavy with possibility.

Shari-Ta was pleased to advise the Council that he had stopped waking them all up with his terrified sobbing and wailing, and they all agreed that it must be the effusive Light and peace of the Temple that had helped him, and they thought no more about it.

Nine years later

There was something… strange about Initiate Kenobi.

All of the Masters knew it. It was readily apparent just from watching him. The boy was a terror with a lightsaber, and his hand-to-hand was… surprisingly good, given that few Jedi placed an emphasis on it.

And his presence… Sometimes, it was as if they were seeing double when they peered at him through the Force. There was Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Jedi youngling, with his promise of future power and skill, and then, at times, there seemed to be… something else. Another presence, half-fused with his own, and that of a seasoned Master, though it was clearly not Obi-Wan. Not that any of them knew what to do with that information.

It was baffling, and gave many of them headaches. Still, they could sense the Light in him—even though he seemed so… aggressive, at times, and too meek at others. And so they left it alone, trusting that his creche Master, the Council, and whatever Master took him as a Padawan would train him well.

Obi-Wan couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had his Ba’ji. He could vaguely remember how he used to only see the man in his dreams, although now, he could hear him even when he was awake. He didn’t see him, as such, when he was awake, but he could feel him nearby, in the Force, and occasionally speaking up, though he spoke to Obi-Wan alone. It had been awkward, at first, until he learned not to respond out loud, at least not in front of anyone.

It was… comforting. Grounding.

And Force, how Obi-Wan wished Ba’ji could be his real Master.

“But I want you,” Obi-Wan had complained mulishly. Ba’ji had simply shaken his head.

“I will not leave you, ner dral’kad’ika,” Ba’ji had said simply. Obi-Wan, as always, beamed at the nickname: bright little sword. “But I cannot give you a bond. We are not on the same plane of existence, though I am able to cross over.”

Obi-Wan sighed. Sometimes, it was just so inconvenient that Ba’ji was dead, and had been for a long time. Now, he was running out of time to find a living Master, and Master Yoda said he was going to be sent to the AgriCorps, of all places.

“If I leave the Temple, will you be able to go with me?” Obi-Wan had asked Ba’ji, who huffed.

“Time and space mean little in the Force, Ob’ika,” the man had said flatly. “Of course I will go with you. But be at peace: the Force has a plan for you. The path will be hard, but you will be a Jetii. Now, show me your Soresu again. Begin with the first kata.”

Somewhere along the line, Obi-Wan had stopped simply blacking out until morning, and Ba’ji had started training him. They had started with shields, so that the Force wouldn’t overwhelm him in his sleep, and after that, lightsaber training, and hand-to-hand combat. Obi-Wan always remembered every dream in the morning, though he still woke just as rested as he had when he would simply become unaware of anything, so he had few complaints.

And it made him so much better. Already, Obi-Wan realized that he was better than the others in his lightsaber classes, and he could beat some Padawans in hand-to-hand. Though Ba'ji wasn't much help in his political or history classes, since his knowledge of the now was limited to what Obi-Wan was able to tell him, he still sat with him and patiently talked him through the basic concepts until he understood.

Ba'ji also never got upset with him when he didn't understand something, and his patience seemed infinite. He was gentle, but firm, and there was an aura of command around him that somehow put Obi-Wan at ease, and made him listen to his Ba'ji.

Frankly, Obi-Wan didn't like thinking about how miserable he would be without him, or how much he would struggle to get everything right without his help.

Obi-Wan wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t ever told anyone else about Ba’ji, even when the Masters muttered to each other, wondering how he had learned his katas so quickly, why he was so good at hand-to-hand, employing moves they certainly hadn’t taught him, even when Master Yoda asked where he’d learned to shield the way he did and why he spent so much time practicing with his 'saber.

“The Force still speaks to me in my sleep,” Obi-Wan said, which he knew would ring with truth in the Force, since it was technically true. Master Yoda had hummed, his ears flapping. “It tells me what I need to know.”

“Need you to become a warrior, you believe the Force does?” Master Yoda had asked, his gaze heavy and piercing. It didn’t bother Obi-Wan, not anymore—no one held a candle to the intensity Ba’ji had about him, not even Master Yoda.

“The Force shows me a war,” Obi-Wan explained slowly, choosing his words carefully. “And then how to survive it.”

Master Yoda had hummed. “Restful, your sleep now seems.”

Obi-Wan had nodded. “Whatever I see, the Force is always there.” Ba’ji was always there, as a matter of fact. Sometimes, he instructed Obi-Wan to let down his shields as he slept, to let the visions through, and they were still Dark, and still terrifying, but Ba’ji was always there, at his side, and after, he comforted Obi-Wan, and then they discussed what it meant, and how he could prepare himself if that future came to pass.

“Trust the Force much, you must, to rest well in the face of such Darkness,” Yoda had said, a hint of a question in his voice. Obi-Wan smiled.

“Even if the Force shows me something Dark, it’s because it wants to prepare me for it. It’s just trying to help,” Obi-Wan repeated what Ba’ji had told him. “And it might not even happen, but it’s better to prepare for the worst and hope for the best.”

Master Yoda had smiled back at that and nodded. “Wise you are, youngling.”

“Thank you, Master,” Obi-Wan answered. He huffed a laugh as he felt Ba’ji’s rousing approval in the space just for him in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind.

The Force was with him, and so was his Ba'ji, and all would be well.

Chapter Text

Ba’ji went silent, sometimes, his presence still there in the back of his mind, but still, and quiet. He had been silent when Master Qui-Gon finally asked him to be his Padawan—throughout most of the Bandomeer debacle, in fact—and he had been silent when Obi-Wan handed Master Qui-Gon his lightsaber and watched him leave Melida/Daan with Master Tahl, watching his ship shrink in the distance until it hit space, and his fledgling bond with his Master stretched thin with distance.

That night, barely managing to fall asleep on the hard stone of the old, underground sewers the Young used to hide in, Obi-Wan found himself back in the same training room as always, a picture of the Temple in ancient times, but he didn’t look up, staring at the floor, his fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t want Ba’ji to see the tears in his eyes.

“You said the Force had a plan for me,” Obi-Wan said, when it became clear that Ba’ji wasn’t going to speak first. “You said I would be a Jedi.”

“Are you no longer a Jetii? ” Ba’ji asked, calm as ever, and Obi-Wan finally turned to look at him.

“I left the Jedi Order. I gave Master Qui-Gon my lightsaber, and I left the Order to stay here. He made it clear that I wasn’t a Jedi anymore.”

Ba’ji hummed, tilting his head. “What is a Jetii’s purpose?”

Obi-Wan frowned. “To serve the Force, and the Light, in order to help the galaxy.”

“Do you feel you have done that, by remaining here on Melida/Daan?”

“Master Qui-Gon—”

“I did not ask what Master Jinn feels,” Ba’ji interrupted, just as calm as ever. “I asked what you feel, ner dral’kad’ika.”

“...’lek. Leaving other ade to die when I could stay and help would be wrong, and Werd,” Obi-Wan answered, though he was sure Ba’ji already knew why he had stayed. “I made the right choice, and I did what the Light and the Force demanded.”

“Then you acted as a Jetii,” Ba’ji said simply. “And you are a Jetii still.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “But I left the Order.”

“Can one not walk the Jetii path apart from the Order? Parallel, but separate?” Ba’ji asked. Obi-Wan’s frown deepened. That was… “That is heresy to the Order, now, I know. But it was once not so. I left the Order—you know this.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “And we have discussed our connection, before, and you know that only those who die beholden to the Light will be able to manifest after death, as the Dark consumes the souls of those who use it.” Obi-Wan nodded again. “Then we can agree that I served the Light unto my death.

“I left the Order, but you still view me as a Master. I left the Order, but I served the Force, and the Light, as a Jetii must. I left the Order to end the Darkness consuming my people, to end the civil war that had Mando’ade killing other Mando’ade. To end a civil war… Does that sound like the act of a Jetii?” Obi-Wan nodded yet again, recognizing the similarity to his own reason for leaving. “Then, if I remained a Jetii, so shall you.”

Obi-Wan pondered that for a moment and then bowed slowly, deeply and formally, as he rarely ever did with his Ba’ji, who bowed in return. “Vor entye, Ba’ji. Ni suvari.” Ba’ji nodded, and then Obi-Wan sighed and threw himself down on one of the meditation mats. Ba’ji shook his head, clearly exasperated with him, and sank down far more gracefully on his own mat. “But… You left when you were a Master already. I was just a Padawan, and not even for very long. How am I…” He swallowed hard. “How am I supposed to end an entire war?”

Ba’ji sighed. “You have so little faith, Ob’ika?”

“I have faith in the Force, Ba’ji, but… this is a lot to ask,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“I am here,” Ba’ji assured him. “I will help you.”

Jango wasn’t sure what to make of it when Jaster woke him up in the middle of the night to tell him they were shipping out in an hour, and not for Galidraan.

“I thought that was the job we were supposed to be going on,” Jango had said slowly. They had, in fact, finished planning the campaign only a few hours before. “Where’s the fire?” Because some sort of emergency was the only thing that would make Jaster renege on a job after he’d agreed to take it.

Jaster paused, his lips pursing, and then, ever so slowly, he sank down onto Jango’s bed, watching as he strapped on his beskar’gam.

“Something… important happened tonight,” Jaster began, and Jango paused in the middle of securing his chestplate to frown at him. Jaster was a decisive person, and he spoke when he was ready and said precisely what he meant to. It wasn’t like him to hesitate over his words like this. “I was visited by the ka’ra.”

Jango frowned. “...what?” The ka’ra, the spirits of all the Mand’alor’e and great warriors who had come before, watching over them all now… Those were just children’s stories, they weren’t real.

But… his buir wasn’t a man given to fanciful ideas, either.

“I can’t explain it,” Jaster said quietly, still looking Jango in the eye. “But I dreamt of Tarre Vizsla, and he instructed me to go to Melida/Daan. What he had to say was… disturbing. Dar’buir’e killing their own adiik’e, fighting a war against each other…” Jaster shook his head. “I knew that Melida/Daan was at war—they have been for the past century. But to kill their own adiik’e…”

Jango was torn. On the one hand, he had already started planning to have Shakka, their chief medic, check Jaster for head wounds when they made it onto the ship, and Jaster was effectively cornered, because this, this was insane.

But… if there was any chance that Jaster was right, and adiik’e were dying…

“Alright,” Jango said, securing his chestplate and pulling on his gloves. Jaster looked surprised at his easy capitulation, but Jango just nodded firmly and started on his vambraces. “We will ask Shakka to look you over, just in case, and we won’t be telling anyone but her until we verify this. But if there’s even a chance that you’re right, and there are adiik’e in danger, we have to help them. But you know it will take us weeks to get there.”

“I do,” Jaster sighed wearily, looking relieved beyond measure that Jango was willing to accept whatever… this was. “They’ll just have to hold on a bit longer.”

Jango nodded again slowly. “Right. You’d better go coordinate with the others. I’ll be ready in less than five.”

They took only a few ships with them, not wanting this to seem like a full invasion force, since Melida/Daan was a Republic world, and Jaster didn’t want to risk open war with them over a misunderstanding like this. Jango just hoped it would be enough, if they were about to be in thick of a war that had devolved so far that parents really were killing their own children.

Jaster was quiet and grim throughout the trip, but Shakka had cleared him, and Jango could do nothing other than wait for Jaster to say something more about it, or for them to reach Melida/Daan.

He had nothing more to say on the matter until they reached Melida/Daan, and then it was a vehement series of curses that Jango whole-heartedly agreed with. Because Jaster had been right. The first town they went to, there were no ade in sight besides ikaad’e who couldn’t even walk, yet, and Jango knew with gut-wrenching certainty what had happened to them.

Trying to ask the adults where they were had been an exercise in frustration. “They are gone.” “There are no children here.” “We have no sons or daughters.”

Every answer made Jango’s rage burn a little brighter until he was all but foaming at the mouth beneath his buy’ce.

“Steady,” Jaster said, putting a hand on his arm, though Jango knew from how tense he was that he was just as upset by all of this. “We were meant to be here, to help. We will find them.”

In the end, the adiik’e found them instead.

When the Haat’ade gave up the search for the day, it was growing late, and they were all just as angry as Jaster and Jango, now, realizing why they had really come to Melida/Daan. But as soon as they reached their ships, three adiik’e seemed to melt out of the shadows, approaching them slowly.

Jango eyed them curiously and with some relief at seeing at least a few children. Hopefully, that meant they had been hiding, and somewhere, there were more of them. One was a girl with chin-length red hair; another was a boy with dark hair, growing shaggy; the third was another redhead, a boy. They all looked too pale, and dirty, and painfully thin. Their clothes were worn ragged, and obviously had been patched and repatched, and Jango had to wonder how long they had been hiding.

All three had blasters on them, and looked ready to use them. It made Jango’s heart ache even as he was glad that they were fighting back, defending themselves.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jango heard the girl hiss to the red-haired boy. The kid sighed back, as though they’d had this discussion before, with the same outcome every time.

“They won’t hurt us,” he said, sounding utterly confident about that. He made a gesture to the other two, who bristled, but remained where they were as he continued to approach them. Stopping well out of arm’s reach, but close enough to be more easily heard, he bowed his head and pressed a closed right fist over his chest.

How did he know that gesture? Was he Mando’ad, lost here somehow? But… he’d had a posh Core accent, which didn’t make any sense. Maybe he’d been adopted?

“Su cuy’gar, Mand’alor bal Haat Mando’ade,” he said, and Jango exchanged a look with Jaster. The words were right, but he hadn’t heard that accent before. “Ner gai Obi-Wan Kenobi. Tion’jor kaysh olar?”

“Par gar,” Jaster answered slowly. The kid, Obi-Wan, tilted his head curiously. “Bal gar burc’yase.” He waved a hand at the two behind him, who stiffened, hands visibly tightening on their still-holstered blasters.

“... tion’jor? ” Obi-Wan asked slowly, frowning thoughtfully.

“Ade cuyi ori’jaon'yc,” Jaster answered firmly. Obi-Wan nodded slowly.

“Tion’kar'tayli?” Obi-Wan said. Jango huffed. How did Jaster know? ...how was he going to explain that?

“Ni jorhaa'i bah ka’ra.” With the truth, apparently.

A ripple went through the Haat’ade at that, murmuring starting up over the comms; no doubt they’d all been wondering the same thing, but the answer was… startling. Jango didn’t know what their reactions might be, but he was far less concerned about them knowing now that they would realize Jaster’s information was accurate than he had been at first.

For some reason, that made Obi-Wan scowl. “Oh, he didn’t.” His eyes went slightly glassy and unfocused, and the air around them felt suddenly heavier, and then he sighed. “That scheming shabuir. ...nayc, if you didn’t want me to say things like that, you shouldn’t have taught me those words.”

...what? Who was he talking to?

Obi-Wan reached up to rub his temples, looking suddenly exasperated and weary. “I take it you spoke to Tarre Vizsla?” His companions looked relieved at the switch to Basic, their postures relaxing slightly.

“Yes,” Jaster confirmed, reverting to Basic himself. There was a hint of utter bafflement in his voice that Jango only heard because he knew him so well. How had the kid known who Jaster had seen?

Obi-Wan sighed again and then dropped his hands, fixing his gaze on Jaster’s visor. “We would appreciate your assistance ending the conflict here, Mand’alor. I’ve done what I can, but we’re ill-equipped, and most of my verde are true adiik’e. We have plans to retake the airfield, which would be a major blow to the two other factions, but the projected casualty rates of those plans would be far better with your help.”

Jango hastily yanked his helmet off, sucking in fresh air desperately, and he knew that he couldn’t be the only one. He was sure he was going to be sick, and it was never pleasant to throw up with your bucket still on. But the way Obi-Wan spoke… He’d called them his verde, casually mentioned kriffing projected casualty rates, but they weren’t soldiers, they were just children, and fighting a war was so, so different from simply defending yourself—

Jaster’s hand was on his shoulder, and Jango forced himself to breathe, and then he noticed that Obi-Wan was staring at his now-uncovered face, eyes wide. Obi-Wan noticed his gaze and flushed slightly, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“Will you help us?” he asked again.

“Elek. We came to save ade, and that is what we will do,” Jaster declared, and the agreement of the other Haat’ade was an almost tangible sensation at Jango’s back, their protective fury rising in unison.

No more ade were going to die. Not on their watch.

The adiik’e showed them to their hiding place, and Jango couldn’t help the way his fists clenched—so hard that his fingers were going numb, but even still he didn’t stop—at the sight of them. The sewers were dark, damp, and filthy, and the adiik’e scattered within were…

Well, they were making Jango want to find every kriffing adult on this planet and put his blaster to their heads. He knew without even looking that the others felt the same way as they took in the sickly, malnourished, wounded children. They had been wounded in battle, and the majority of them didn’t even look like they’d be old enough for beskar’gam yet, if they had been Mando’ade.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Obi-Wan murmured, having dropped back to walk beside him while his two companions led the way. “We’re trying to end violence on Melida/Daan, not lead a massacre.”

“They should die for what they’ve done,” Jango muttered back darkly. Myles nodded beside him.

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan sighed. “But for violence to end, someone eventually has to say ‘no more.’ Someone has to draw a line on where it stops. I’m not… I’m not saying that we shouldn’t be fighting. I’m certainly not a pacifist. But for anyone to know peace, for people to stop dying, someone has to choose to stop killing.”

“That’s very wise,” Jaster murmured, having stopped and turned to listen to Obi-Wan.

The girl, Cerasi, smiled at him. “That’s very well said, Obi-Wan. We aren’t pacificists—we are an army, after all.” Her lopsided smile told Jango that she knew very well what a makeshift army they were, a ragged little band of brave, headstrong adiik’e. “But we’re fighting for the chance to be able to choose not to fight anymore.”

“If the rest of the galaxy shared that ideal, there would be no need for us Mandalorian warriors,” Jaster sighed. “We would all be pacifists, with that mindset. What I wouldn’t give for a world where we didn’t have to fight.”

A lust for peace wasn’t something Jango really thought about much when it came to his buir, but he knew it was there. The problem with Jaster, though, was that he was too damn noble to ever let himself stand down and kriffing rest. Whenever and wherever he saw an injustice, however major or minor, he acted to put an end to it. Galidraan was proof enough of that—the Governor had told them that there were armed insurgents killing civilians, and if there was one thing that grated at Jaster, it was killing civilians.

Though killing adiik’e definitely beat that, qualifying as the worst sort of crime you could commit, in the mind of a Mando’ad.

The silence had stretched long, and the other boy, Nield, finally sighed.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

The plan that Obi-Wan had apparently almost single-handedly come up with for taking the airfield was… actually very good, although it wouldn’t be much use to the Haat’ade, made as it was with smaller and fewer bodies in mind. But Obi-Wan was informative, and precise, telling them everything they needed to know without being prompted: guard rotations, patterns, and numbers; the defenses he’d already scouted; the points where he had noted damage to the fences that hadn’t yet been repaired, and other weaknesses he’d noted.

It was, quite literally, everything they needed to know. Jango wondered how Obi-Wan had known to look for that, and decided, from looking at him, that it was probably hard-earned experience. His fists clenched again.

“That’s very impressive, Obi-Wan,” Jaster said slowly. Obi-Wan smiled crookedly at them, one dimple showing. It would have been adorable, had he not looked so heart-wrenchingly terrible.

“Vor’e. I had a good teacher,” Obi-Wan said, and Jango got that same strange sense of the air feeling thicker, heavier than before again before it cleared quickly enough that he thought he might’ve imagined it. “We were planning the attack for tomorrow. I thought you might agree to act as air support and run distraction maneuvers for us—”

“Absolutely not,” Jango said flatly. Obi-Wan frowned at him. “We’ll take the airfield for you, and you are going to our ships. You all need medical checks, and a good meal.”

Obi-Wan outright scowled at that, but it was Cerasi who spoke up. “With respect, this is our world.” And Obi-Wan flinched a bit at that—how curious. Probably related to the fancy Core accent. Cerasi and Nield both noticed, and each of them took one of his hands in their own, squeezing lightly. Obi-Wan smiled and nodded. Cerasi nodded back and then turned her attention back to Jango. “This is our world. We will be fighting for it.”

There was silence among the Mando’ade, and Jango knew they were all wondering if they could get away with just sedating the lot of them and locking them up in the ship—

“How old are you?” Jaster asked, and Jango’s heart sank. Please, be twelve, be twelve…

Because, if they were thirteen, then by Mando’ade standards, they were adults who must be permitted to make their own decisions. Well, that was how it worked in theory, but that only generally came up in extremely serious familial disputes, or… Or when their buir’e were trying to order them not to go into battle.

“What does that matter?” Nield asked, frowning at them. Obi-Wan tilted his head, looking between Cerasi and Nield, their hands all still joined.

“Mando’ade consider their young adults when they reach thirteen,” Obi-Wan explained. “The Mand’alor is, apparently, keeping to the same standard here.”

Cerasi and Nield exchanged glances, and then they both looked at Obi-Wan, who slowly nodded. In unison, without exchanging another word, they looked back to Jaster.

“I’m fourteen,” Cerasi said.

“Thirteen,” Nield answered.

“I am also thirteen,” Obi-Wan said.

Damn it, damn it, damn it—

Jango couldn’t help himself anymore, and he turned around and punched one of the sewer walls. That karking hurt, but it wasn’t overtaking the rage, so he did it again, and then once more, before he decided he could breathe again.

“Steady, ad’ika,” Jaster murmured. “You didn’t break anything, did you?”

“No.”

“Good,” Jaster said, turning back to the adiik’e. “Very well. You three and any of your other members who are at least thirteen may fight, but we’ll be assigning each of you least two spotters, just in case, whose priority will be your protection.”

They looked unhappy at that, but Obi-Wan bowed his head, and Jango saw him squeeze the others’ hands again. “Elek, Mand’alor.”

“We’ll give you time to go through your… verde—” This time, Jango understood why Jaster hesitated over his words, and only the fact that his hand was still throbbing kept him from punching something else. This whole situation was just… fucked. “—and gather those who can fight.” How his buir’s voice was steady, Jango didn’t know, but he didn’t envy Jaster his position just then. Having to be the one to make the executive decision to allow adiik’e into battle was… probably making Jaster just as crazy as Jango, and he was just more composed about it, as always. “We’ll only need an hour or so to be ready for those too young to join the fighting. I will go back to the ship to coordinate; I’ll take Myles with me. The rest of you, stay here. Jango, you take the lead. I want all of you to triage any injuries, and have the worst cases ready to show Shakka.”

Jango nodded, knowing that Jaster was giving him this job instead of the one he was taking to more immediately fill his need to help these adiik’e, and he was grateful for it, no matter how hard it was going to be to stare at war wounds on karking children and then prioritize them.

“Elek, Alor.” Jango’s response was echoed by the other Mando’ade, and then Jaster peeled off with Myles—who paused to clap Jango on the shoulder once, and Jango nodded at him—leaving the rest of them with the ade.

Jango turned to the trio of adiik’e again. “You three are the leaders here, yes?” They all nodded. “Jate —good. We’ll split into three groups, each led by one of you, and you can take us to your wounded, and then through the rest of the ade.”

They all nodded, and Jango watched in satisfaction as the eighteen verde with him split themselves evenly and quickly into squads of six. He nodded to them.

“Cerasi, you’re with Silas’s group. Nield, you’re with Lark. Obi-Wan, with me.” Each of the Haat’ade had raised their hand as they were named, and all three adiik’e nodded. Squeezing each other’s hands once more, they finally separated, heading for their assigned groups.

“We split the wounded and the sick into groups,” Obi-Wan said. “There are too many of them to keep anywhere but the main halls, if we were to keep them all together. Separating where they could hide in the twists and turns was more defensible, and it’s helped us keep the sick away from those who are injured, so we can reduce the risk of them picking something up while they’re already weakened.”

That was exactly what Jango would have done, if he were fighting a war that was somewhere between a siege and guerilla warfare while under-supplied. It both pleased and sickened him that these kids had realized to do the same.

“You’re all good tacticians,” Jango said, hoping Obi-Wan would answer the implied question. The boy turned and looked at him with a strange smile, one eyebrow raised.

“Vor entye,” was his only answer. Fine. Jango would try another tactic, next time the opportunity presented itself to pry some answers out of this kriffing odd, stupidly brave kid.

Obi-Wan paced in his quiet corner of the sewers that he’d retreated to to think. He was torn about outing himself to the Haat Mando’ade, for all that Ba’ji seemed to insist that it was the right thing to do.

This isn’t your time, anymore. Since then, there have been hundreds, if not thousands, of skirmishes between Jedi and Mandalorians, he mentally sighed at Ba’ji. They do not have a reputation for liking Force-sensitives much.

Ba’ji simply hummed. “Nayc, they do not have a good reputation within the Order. Nor does the Order have a good reputation among them. But do you truly believe that no Mando’ade has ever been born touched by the Force? That was true, when Mando’ade were exclusively Taung, but that has not been so since even before my time.” Obi-Wan frowned at that, wondering where he was going with this—Ba’ji said and did nothing without purpose. “Mand’alor Mereel said it well: ‘Ade cuyi ori’jaon'yc.’ Children are the most important. Foundlings are the future. This is the Way.”

This is the Way, Obi-Wan reflexively repeated. He felt a brush of approval from Ba’ji and his lips twitched in a smile.

“Tell me, Obi-Wan: what do you think Mando’ade would do to a child that has the Force with them?” Ba’ji asked. Obi-Wan frowned.

...raise them as Mando’ad, Obi-Wan answered slowly. Ba’ji hummed again.

“Elek. So I very much doubt that you would be harmed simply for your gifts. And you are an adiik yet, no matter that you are already thirteen, and recognized as an adult,” Ba’ji said. “They have many reasons not to wish to harm you, and next to none in support of it.”

Obi-Wan scowled at that. But I’m not just Force-sensitive, I was a Jedi.

“You are a Jetii, Obi-Wan. You must cease speaking in the past tense,” Ba’ji sighed. “And you were a Jetii of the Order.”

And what other kind of Jedi is there? Obi-Wan sighed back, and he stopped pacing, suddenly freezing, as he finally understood what Ba’ji was trying to do. A Jetii’Manda. You want me to go with them.

“And now you see,” Ba’ji said. He didn’t even sound smug, which might’ve made Obi-Wan feel better about how sick he felt at the thought that he had been played, he had been used — “Be at peace, ner dral’kad’ika. Have I ever harmed you?”

He waited for an answer, and Obi-Wan closed his eyes. Nayc.

“Have I ever guided you down a path that did not feel right, in the Force, and to you?” Ba’ji still sounded so patient, so gentle, and something about that, something about the fact that Ba’ji seemed to actually care about him while meticulously plotting to lead him away from the Order, the only family he had ever really known, was… It was confusing. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter against the tears that were gathering.

Nayc.

“The Order is not as I had known it,” Ba’ji said, and he sounded almost… mournful. “It could be again, but I cannot effect such change. You cannot effect such change. Not even the both of us together could create enough ripples to bring the changes needed—not soon enough.

“I gave the Order their chance with you, and at every turn, they have failed you,” Ba’ji said simply. “Master Yoda’s meddling forced you into an unequal partnership, and with a man who is so wounded in the Force that I am astonished he is not Werd. And he failed you. I gave Master Jinn and the Order a chance, and then a second chance. And they have all failed you.

“And so now I have arranged the opportunity for you to be given to the other half of my family— ner aliit,” Ba’ji said. Obi-Wan felt like he couldn’t breathe. “I could have chosen any child in need to help, Obi-Wan. Any other Jetii Master in the Force’s embrace could have called to you. But it was me, and you, as it was meant to be. Do you know why?”

“Nayc,” Obi-Wan said, and he wasn’t even sure if he said it aloud, but at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had been alone in this turn in the sewer’s tunnels—last he checked, at least.

“In any life of yours, you are very important, Obi-Wan . In many of them, you are the last of the Jedi.” Obi-Wan didn’t flinch, because he already knew that, after years of meditating with his Ba’ji on what it meant when he was an old man, all alone on Tatooine, with the innate sense that the rest of the Order was just… gone. It still made him sad, and a bit frightened, but he trusted Ba’ji, and the Force. They wouldn’t let it happen.

But how could he stop it, if he wasn’t a Je—if he wasn’t with the Order? He shook his head—he would think about that later. For now, he thought he at least owed it to Ba’ji to explain it to him.

When Ba’ji could tell that he had fixed his attention back on their conversation, he continued, “In all of your lives, your decisions are tied to the fate of Mandalore as well as the Jetiise. There were others within the Force who could have helped you, but I chose you first. You are the next bridge between the Jetiise and Mando’ade. Do not turn away from that duty, no matter what comes to pass.

“I will not stop you from contacting the Order, and I am certain that they would accept you back. But I have laid before you another path, and the choice, as it has always been, and shall always be, is yours.”

That was… a lot to think about. Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “Ni suvari, Ba’ji. I will think on it.”

“That is all I ask, ner dral’kad’ika.”

“...me’vaar ti gar?”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and looked at Jango, who had his buy’ce on, and was tilting his head. He wondered how much of that he’d said aloud, and how much Jango had actually heard.

“Naas.”

Jango nodded slowly. “Who were you talking to?”

“Just thinking out loud,” Obi-Wan answered, waving a hand. “Are we ready to move the other verde to the ships?”

Jango huffed, likely at the brush-off, or possibly at the reference to his fellow children as soldiers, and Obi-Wan shrugged. “We are.”

“Jate. Vi nari.”

He could think about all of this Jetii’Manda osik once they’d taken the airfield. Obi-Wan nodded decisively to himself and followed after Jango.

Chapter Text

Jaster didn’t quite know what to make of Obi-Wan Kenobi. He liked the kid well enough, that was true—Obi-Wan and all of the ade with the Young (and kark, he’d nearly been right there with Jango, punching something until his knuckles bruised, when he’d found out the name they’d given their army) were certainly Mandokarla. He admired that about them, though he wished they hadn’t had to display it so young. So yes, he was growing fond of the verd’ike. He liked them, and that included Obi-Wan.

But Obi-Wan was… strange.

Everything that Jaster learned, everything that he noticed, presented yet another mystery to him about the boy. He had a Core accent—High Coruscanti, if Jaster wasn’t mistaken, but he’d never spent much time in the Core worlds, so he couldn’t be certain unless Obi-Wan decided to tell him—and Jaster had gathered from the vague statements he and his two co-leaders, Cerasi and Nield, made that he was neither Melida nor Daan. Clearly, he wasn’t from this world, though how he’d come to be here, embroiled in a civil war with other ade was just another question Jaster had added to his rapidly-growing list.

And when he spoke Mando’a… Jaster knew he would never— could never—forget his conversation with Tarre Vizsla. It wasn’t every day, after all, that the ka’ra spoke to them. It was important, and sacred. Even Jango had started treating it with more reverence, now that he had seen the truth of it, for all that he had always scoffed at the tales. So Jaster remembered every last detail of that haa’it, and he remembered Tarre Vizsla’s low, rumbling voice, and the peculiar accent he had had.

Obi-Wan spoke Mando’a with the same accent. And it wasn’t just that—Jango had told him that Obi-Wan had used vi instead of mhi. That was Archaic Mando’a, nobody actually spoke like that anymore. And Jaster was certain he’d heard him say werda instead of prudiise, another word that had fallen into disuse long ago.

Jaster wasn’t sure what to make of that, either, and Jango had gotten no answers despite receiving Jaster’s unspoken message and pairing himself off with the kid when they made their initial rounds of the ade. Obi-Wan, it seemed, had decided not to trust them that fully yet, and he was clever enough to give little away directly.

And now this. Jaster blinked at Obi-Wan.

“Come again?” he said slowly, frowning at the boy.

“If you have any spare beskad’e, I would be quite grateful if you would be willing to lend me one to use,” Obi-Wan repeated. Jaster tilted his head, and then looked pointedly at the blaster still affixed to Obi-Wan’s hip. Obi-Wan shrugged. “I am far better with… a sword than I am a blaster.”

It was clear that Obi-Wan had been trained. He knew too well how to slip into a soldier’s role, a commander’s role, not to have been. Sure, all of the ade had that sort of sense to them, to an extent, and some of it was likely experience, since they’d been fighting this war for some time now, but Obi-Wan was beyond that. Someone had taught this boy how to fight, and more than that, they had taught him how to fight an entire campaign, not just a single battle.

But who would have trained him to focus on kadause rather than blasters? It was an impressive skill, and handy as a hold-out—and Jaster himself was well-trained with a beskad, as he had been required as a Journeyman Protector to train with even the most traditional of weapons available to them, never knowing when they might have to pick up whatever was lying around to use, if things went sideways—but it just wasn’t practical as a primary weapon.

A suspicion began forming in the back of his mind, so outlandish that Jaster almost dismissed it outright, but… It made sense. Too much sense to ignore the possibility.

Still, his instincts told him that now wasn’t the time to question Obi-Wan, not when he was still so high-strung and obviously wary, despite the genuine gratitude he had expressed— repeatedly —for their help. No, Jaster knew he would have to wait until after the fighting was over, and they still had a few major targets left: the airfield Obi-Wan had already planned for, and something called the Halls of Evidence.

Jaster nodded slowly. “We do have a few options in the armory, and you can take your pick of the lot, on one condition: keep the blaster on you. A beskad is useful in close-quarters combat, but a blaster is just more practical.”

Obi-Wan scowled slightly at that, but finally nodded slowly. “Alright. I promise to keep the blaster on me.”

Jaster smiled at him. “Come on, then. I’ll take you to the armory.”

It was a short walk, so Jaster didn’t try to make conversation, especially when Obi-Wan looked so… distant, like his attention was lightyears away. Jaster’s jaw clenched at that—he knew that look. That was combat fatigue, and to see it on a child’s face was…

Well, suffice to say that with each passing minute spent with these ade, Jaster was growing closer to following Jango’s lead and indiscriminately punching walls.

“Here we are,” Jaster murmured as they entered. His Quartermaster, Mhon Va, looked up and nodded at him. She was a good sort—reliable, intelligent, and no-nonsense. She’d been terrifying in combat, too, until she’d broken her spine after her jetpack failed during a job at the worst possible moment. They had healed her enough to be able to walk, but she wouldn’t be able to take part in their campaigns anymore. Still, she had insisted on being useful to him instead of enjoying her retirement, and so Jaster had gladly taken her onto his flagship with him. Mhon had immediately turned the armory into her office, knowing that it would be easier to keep the verde from lightening their weapons stores if she was mostly there. Jaster was grateful he didn’t have to keep restocking the grenades quite so often—some of his verd’e liked explosions more than was strictly healthy, or sane.

“Su’cuy, Alor, verd’ika,” she greeted them, nodding to them both. “What may I do for you?”

“Obi-Wan requested a beskad, ” Jaster explained. She hummed and fixed her gaze on the boy, who looked steadily back.

“Did he now?” she murmured, and glanced back to Jaster, who nodded to signal his explicit approval. “Very well. We have three spares, currently. Come, verd’ika. See how they feel to you.”

Obi-Wan nodded and stepped forward, taking the first beskad she handed to him. It was a bit long for him, Jaster thought, but said nothing, letting Obi-Wan test it for himself, for the moment. Mhon also stood ready to help him, but it was clear to both of them almost immediately that Obi-Wan really did know how to handle a kadau. His grip was perfect, as was his stance, and the set of his shoulders. Obi-Wan tilted it slowly back and forth before shaking his head.

“I’d have to grow into that one,” he said, one of those lopsided grins he got fixed on his face—they made him look more like the child he was, and made Jaster wonder what he would look like if he actually smiled. Mhon snorted.

“Quite. Here.” She took it from him and shoved another at him, this one a more traditional beskad, shorter and with the signature curved tip. Obi-Wan hummed as he placed his hands on the grip, and then carefully stepped back away from Mhon, giving himself more room to manipulate the beskad. He swung it slowly a few times, and then spun it in one hand as he moved his arm, stopping with it held out to the side of his body, parallel to the floor. The casual ease with which he did it told Jaster that Obi-Wan wasn’t just trained with a beskad, he was well-trained.

The suspicion in the back of his mind pushed to the fore and grew stronger.

“This one feels much better,” he said slowly. “May I try the third? It would be unwise not to sample all of my options. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Not at all,” Mhon said slowly, taking it back from him and handing him the last. This one was special, Jaster knew, and rare. It was made of a beskar-cortosis weave. It was about the length of the last beskad Obi-Wan had tried, and as he put both hands on the grip, his eyes lit up, and he smiled. Again he moved back, and slowly moved through what looked like part of a kata, maybe, but certainly wasn’t any set of movements Mando’ade trained in with a beskad.

Ah, kriff. Jaster knew then that he was almost certainly right.

“Oh yes,” Obi-Wan said as he stopped, grinning delightedly. “This is perfect.”

Mhon snorted. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for someone to take that off my hands for two years, now.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head, looking at the sword, turning it this way and that, making the light bounce off of it. “This one is lighter, both in weight and color. Is it beskar?”

“And cortosis, woven together,” Mhon said. Obi-Wan’s eyes widened, and Jaster smiled. He clearly knew the value of what he held in his hands.

“I see,” he said. He glanced between Mhon and Jaster. “You truly don’t mind?”

“As she said, I’m just pleased it will finally see some use,” Jaster said, waving a hand. “Mind your promise, Obi-Wan.”

“I’ll keep the blaster on me,” Obi-Wan sighed as he nodded. “Vor entye.”

“N’entye,” Jaster responded. He nodded to Mhon as Obi-Wan began attaching the sheath to his belt—on his left, to be drawn across his body. Yes, he certainly did know what to do with a beskad. Mhon nodded back slowly, raising an eyebrow at him. Jaster shrugged one shoulder helplessly, and her eyes narrowed. Jaster sighed, and her gaze drifted back to Obi-Wan as he nodded deeply to her.

“Come again soon, verd’ika,” Mhon said cheerfully. Obi-Wan smiled at her.

“Ret'urcye vi.”

And there it was again. He noted Mhon’s bewildered look and shrugged again. Mhon’s eyes narrowed again slightly, but she didn’t comment on it, thankfully.

Jaster knew she would want an explanation for that. Frankly, so did he.

The beskad —could it properly be called a beskad, if it was partly cortosis, even if it was the right shape? Obi-Wan made a mental note to ask Ba’ji later, since he’d considerately gone quiet for now, giving him time and space to process everything they’d discussed—wasn’t a lightsaber, but it was close enough to soothe some of the ache Obi-Wan had felt ever since he handed his blade over to Master Qui-Gon.

And, given that it was both beskar and cortosis, it would be able to deflect blaster bolts. Just like a lightsaber.

Obi-Wan grinned broadly as he made his way through the Mand’alor’s flagship and made his way quickly to the cargo hold, where they had grouped all of the Young who didn’t need medical attention. The Mando’ade had gathered “extra” mattresses and blankets (though Obi-Wan strongly suspected more than a few of the Mando’ade would now be sharing bunks and sleeping in shifts, not having planned on just how many of the Young there would be), likely realizing that the easiest way to house them, for now, was to stick them all together into the largest room on the ship. And more than that, it was… hard for them to be separated, after what they’d all been going through together. Obi-Wan recalled from his sentient psychology class at the Temple that it was called a “trauma bond.”

He scowled at the memory of the Temple before shoving that thought away. He needed to… think about literally anything else.

Obi-Wan knew that Cerasi and Nield were unhappy with the Mand’alor’s decision to refuse anyone who wasn’t at least thirteen, but he was so relieved. He was tired of going into a fight with the Young and returning with fewer of them than he’d left with. And they were all so young —there were only five of them who were old enough to fight with the Mando’ade.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and poked his head into the cargo bay, whistling low to signal Cerasi and Nield, knowing they would hear it and come, and everyone else would understand as well. They met him just outside the door quickly, looking grim, as though waiting for bad news, and Obi-Wan’s smile faltered for a moment before he gestured to the beskad at his hip.

“They gave you a sword?” Cerasi asked, her surprise evident. Nield scowled at him.

“You didn’t tell them about… y’know—did you?” Obi-Wan shook his head slowly.

“No, I didn’t. But the blade they gave me is a cortosis-beskar weave that’ll deflect blaster bolts,” Obi-Wan said, his smile growing more genuine now as his excitement returned. “I was hoping to train with it some, before we hit the airfield tomorrow. I wondered if at least one of you might help me.”

They exchanged glances, and then slowly nodded, not having to speak a word to communicate their thoughts. Obi-Wan appreciated that about their little group, the way that the three of them always seemed to be in perfect sync. Well, most of the time, anyway. They’d had a few fights, but Obi-Wan knew it was due more to the stress they were all perpetually under than any significant incompatibility between them.

“There’s nothing important for us to do here right now,” Cerasi said. “They’ve already made sure everyone’s gotten a chance at a shower, and food. There are twelve of the Mandalorians in there with the others right now, telling them stories and keeping them calm until they fall asleep. I’m sure it’ll be fine, if we’re only gone for a little while.”

“You want us to shoot at you, don’t you?” Nield sighed, and Obi-Wan laughed.

“How else am I supposed to practice?”

“Buir.” Jaster hummed, but didn’t look up from the holotable, still carefully peering at the projection of the airfield, based off of the data his verde had picked up on their flyover. Jetpacks were convenient that way—where a reconnaissance vessel would definitely have been spotted, the four verde he’d sent certainly hadn’t been. Though he had had to supplement their readings with Obi-Wan’s observations from the ground, not having wanted to risk any Haat’ade being seen around their target, and ordering them not to land. “Buir.”

“What is it, Jango?” Jaster sighed, looking up. Jango was doing… something with his face, like he was torn between exasperation, dread, and shock. Jaster frowned at him. “Is everything alright?”

“You… need to come see this for yourself.”

Jaster sighed, wishing his normally-direct son hadn’t chosen now to decide to be cryptic. He had too much to do to puzzle out whatever the issue was. But… Jango looked insistent, and so Jaster simply nodded and rose. There would be time for more planning later. He followed Jango out of the ship and into the little clearing nearby, and stopped dead.

Cerasi and Nield were running back and forth, laughing happily as they shot their blasters at Obi-Wan.

Who was standing still, calmly deflecting the blaster bolts with the beskad Jaster had just given him, and smiling almost as broadly as the other two.

“Oh, Hels,” Jaster muttered under his breath. “I knew I was right.”

“Right about what?” Jango demanded. Jaster glanced around; there were several other Haat’ade watching the three of them, grouped in pairs or trios themselves, and scattered on the edges of the clearing, thoroughly distracted by the show the adiik’e were putting on, laughing and whooping right along with them. None of them were close enough to overhear them, though Jaster lowered his voice anyway.

“He’s a Jeti’ika.”

“What?” Jango turned fully to him, his eyes wide, and Jaster nodded, his mouth pressed into a firm line. “But… He speaks Mando’a.”

“And he sounds like we did over a thousand years ago,” Jaster pointed out. “When was the last time Mando’ade had real contact with the Jetiise? Contact that wasn’t akalenedat, that is.”

“...Tarre Vizsla,” Jango answered when it became clear that Jaster’s question wasn’t rhetorical. Jaster nodded.

“I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they have one of those… magic pyramids in their archives, from Tarre Vizsla, since he was a Jetii,” Jaster said slowly. “Like the ones we keep in the vaults, from the Dar’Jetiise. Or hells, even simple recordings. It seems more likely to me that if he learned Mando’a at the Temple, it would’ve been from the records they have of Tarre Vizsla, and not modern Mando’ade. Not with the way he sounds.”

“They never travel without an escort, not the little ones,” Jango pointed out. “If you’re right, then where’s the Master?”

Jaster grimaced. “Dead, I suspect. Some of the verde heard a few stories in town. They said there were a few Jetiise on the planet, but one was severely injured. No one has seen or heard from them in almost ten months—exactly the same amount of time Obi-Wan has been fighting with the Young. One of the younger adiik’e let that slip.” Jaster paused and then waved a hand at the display in front of him. “And just look at that. Who have you seen fight like that besides a Jetii?”

Jango stared at him for another moment before slowly turning to refocus on the playful fighting going on in the clearing. Jaster knew what he saw, and he knew he was right. It wasn’t only that Obi-Wan was fast enough to get the beskad where it needed to be to block each shot—though he certainly was fast—but that it looked like he knew where the next shot would be before it was fired.

“Fucking Hels,” Jango breathed. Jaster grimaced.

He hadn’t wanted to be right—this whole thing was enough of a mess without adding a lost and orphaned baby Jetii to the mix.

Jango had so many questions about his buir’s suspicions. There was an entire Order on Coruscant, and they’d lost a Master and a Jeti’ika, and Obi-Wan had been on Melida/Daan for nearly ten months now. Jango knew that if he went missing, and Jaster even had an inkling of what planet he might be on, he would be found within a week, and Jaster didn’t even have the same magic powers the Jetiise did.

So why hadn’t anyone from the Order come to rescue him, or send help for the Young? Supposedly, the Jetiise viewed adiik’e the same way Mando’ade did. Surely they would want him back, and from what little Jango knew of the Jetiise and the Republic, they were assigned missions, they didn’t just go haring off on their own, so he doubted that they didn’t know what planet to look on.

And why would Obi-Wan have any interest in Mandalore, and Mando’ade, if he had been raised by the Jetiise? They weren’t exactly in the Order’s good books. Even if he had just been interested in Tarre Vizsla, and learned Mando’a from the records the Jetiise likely had of him, what would even have sparked such an interest?

Then there was the matter of the beskad. If Obi-Wan was a Jeti’ika, then why didn’t he have a Jetii’kad with him? Jango had wondered, briefly, if they just didn’t give the little ones real Jetii’kad’e, but Obi-Wan was clearly too well-trained not to have practiced, and the certain sort of care he showed in meticulously cleaning the beskad after their practice told Jango that he was used to a real weapon. There was a sort of… reverence about it, when you acknowledged a weapon as more than necessary, but as your life. And that was how Obi-Wan looked at that beskad. And it wasn’t a general love of weapons, like most Mando’ade had, because he treated the blaster he used with care, but not the same level of… solemnity. No, that was reserved for the beskad alone.

So what had happened to his Jetii’kad? Jango could tell he wouldn’t have been careless with it. Had someone taken it from him? He growled low at that thought—disarming an adiik after they’d earned the right to bear their own weapon was borderline child abuse, to a Mando’ad.

But, as always, buir was right. They wouldn’t be able to sit Obi-Wan down and ask their questions until after the fighting had ended. With a sigh, Jango settled back, leaning against the wall of the cargo hold, and went back to studying the adiik’e around him, watching them carefully for signs of nightmares or flashbacks, and ready to take them aside before they woke the others if they stirred.

Only a few more days, a few more battles, and then none of them would have to be verd’ike anymore. Not unless they wanted to, and not until they grew into it. They would see to that— haat, ijaa, haa’it.

Chapter Text

Jango frowned as he rounded the corner into the medbay, taking in the sight of Jaster sitting there on one of the beds, scowling, while Shakka bandaged one of his hands.

“What happened?” Jango asked.

“I see where you get it from, now,” Shakka said flatly, and glanced up to give Jango an arch look. “Your buir decided that a durasteel wall was a good opponent for his unarmored hands.”

Jango’s frown deepened at that. Jaster wasn’t given to anger like that, not like Jango was. Not that Jaster never got angry—he most certainly did, but Jaster’s anger burned slower, colder. It turned him cool and calculating, rather than fiercely angry.

“What happened?” Jango asked slowly. Jaster grunted.

“Not here,” he said, and glanced at one of the beds down the row where Obi-Wan was still unconscious. Jango nodded slowly and went to lean against the wall, folding his arms over his chest and waiting for Shakka to finish. After only a few minutes, she stepped back and shook her head at Jaster.

“You’ll be fine tomorrow morning as long as you don’t punch anything else,” she said flatly, and then she glanced at Jango, and frowned. She turned away again, grabbing a tube of bacta and a roll of bandages, shoving them at Jango. “Here. So you don’t have to come back here if you punch any walls.”

“... vor’e,” Jango said slowly. What sort of news could be this bad? Jaster’s mouth was pressed into a thin line, his eyes blazing with anger—so it was obviously terrible, whatever it was. He wondered if one of the sick ade didn’t make it, and his stomach dropped.

He followed Jaster silently back to his buir’s bunk, near the ready room, and Jaster gestured at the bed. Jango placed the bacta and bandages down on the desk and then sat down on the bed, waiting for Jaster to speak. Instead, he reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of tihaar, taking a long drink straight from it. Jango grimaced, knowing that meant someone was likely dead. He didn’t protest when Jaster handed him the bottle, drinking wordlessly before handing it back.

“I got confirmation. Obi-Wan was a Jetii—a Padawan,” Jaster said flatly. “But his Master… He isn’t dead.”

“Where is he?” Jango asked, wondering if he’d been captured, maybe, and only Obi-Wan had managed to escape, with the Young. He knew that they shouldn’t linger here, on Melida/Daan, not when they were here in force and it was a karking Republic planet, and he knew it was a Jetii they were talking about, but honestly, for the kid’s sake, Jango would go spring him—

“That hut’uunla shabuir abandoned him here,” Jaster snarled. Jango froze.

That… No.  

It couldn’t be possible—no one, least of all a Jetii, would leave a child in a warzone. True as it might be that Mando’ade didn’t care for Jetiise—understandably, Jango thought, since every time he took off from Manda’yaim, leaving the dome over Keldabe, he saw the barren desert they had turned their homeworld into, destroying the once-lush jungles and forests that had blanketed the planet—they knew what kind of reputation they had. Even slavers would hesitate to jump a Jeti’ika, knowing that that was the one truly guaranteed way to incite the wrath of a Jetii.

“What.” Jaster nodded at him, and Jango wordlessly snarled. Jaster took another drink and then passed the bottle back to Jango, who took two this time before handing it back.

“It gets worse,” Jaster said, voice low. Jango growled at that and braced himself, his hands clenching. “The Master knew Obi-Wan wanted to stay specifically to help the Young, and he’d met them. He knew how young they all truly are. He left anyway, but not before some sort of confrontation with Obi-Wan. Some say they drew their Jetii’kad’e on each other, some say only Obi-Wan drew his, but they both agree that the Master told him that if he stayed, he was no longer a Jetii, and he could expect no further support from them.”

Jango realized he wasn’t breathing and forced himself to suck in air. Fuck, that was like a punch in the gut. He closed his eyes. “And his Jetii’kad?”

“His Master took it with him.”

...did they have any contacts on Coruscant that could help with this? Jango frowned, opening his eyes and glaring down at the floor as he thought. They had plenty of loyal Mando’ade in Little Keldabe, on Coruscant, but would any of them be able to get into the Temple? Or be able to trail him, or find out his travel schedule some other way? It would be easier if they could catch him off-planet, when he didn’t have hundreds of thousands of other Jetiise to back him up—

“Ke’pare, ad’ika,” Jaster sighed, pressing the bottle into his hands again. “Stop plotting murder. Our priority has to be Obi-Wan.”

Right. Jaster was right, as always. He nodded and mechanically took another drink, not even feeling the burn. Jango finally handed the bottle back, and Jaster sat down on the bed beside him. Jango leaned against him slightly, pressing their shoulders together, and Jaster leaned into it, both of them grounding each other.

“He’s coming with us, right? To Manda’yaim?” Jango asked. Jaster nodded.

“Yes. With Cerasi gone, Nield is too raw right now to see reason,” Jaster sighed. “He doesn’t want Obi-Wan here. We’ll take him with us to Manda’yaim. After that, we’ll talk to him about what he wants, and where he wants to go, if he doesn’t wish to stay with us.” Jango growled, and Jaster sighed. “I don’t like it either, Jango, but you know our laws as well as I do. He’s thirteen, and if he doesn’t want to stay, then we can’t force him. We can forcibly remove him from Melida/Daan for his own safety, and we might even be able to refuse to let him go back to the Jetiise, given what happened here, and… the evidence of previous abuse.”

Jango stiffened and drew back, giving Jaster a hard look. “Previous abuse?”

“He has scars on his neck from a slave collar, and other, smaller scars all over his back from an electrostaff. Some on his ribs, too,” Jaster ground out.

“Haar’chak.” Jango grabbed the bottle again and took two more shots before passing it back. Jaster drained the rest of the bottle.

“We don’t know yet if the Jetiise did that to him, or if it happened during one of their missions,” Jaster pointed out. “It’s still negligence to let that happen to an adiik, but I might soften my opinion some on sending him back, if he even wants to go back, if he can honestly tell us it wasn’t them.”

“We can’t give him back, buir. They don’t deserve him, and he doesn’t deserve that.”

“He doesn’t. But it’s not our choice, Jango. We can be as convincing as possible, we can make our case to him, and if we do have a valid concern about future abuse, then and only then can we force him to stay,” Jaster sighed. Jango knew that, but still... 

If only Obi-Wan had still been twelve. Then they wouldn’t be in this karking mess. They could just take him back to Manda’yaim, where they could keep him safe.

“I wouldn’t let him go to the same Master, either,” Jaster said flatly. “But this entire conversation is pointless, until we get Obi-Wan’s side of the story, and his opinion on what he’d like to happen next. Shakka says he should wake up sometime in the next day or so.”

“At least there’s some good news,” Jango muttered. Jaster sighed sympathetically. “We will be convincing enough, buir. We’re keeping him.”

Jaster smiled tightly. “Ka’ra willing, ad’ika.”

Obi-Wan woke and immediately groaned softly—he felt like he’d been hit by a speeder. In the next second, he gasped, immediately regretting it as his chest burned —probably broken ribs again, but that wasn’t important right now, because…

He remembered Cerasi’s small, sad smile, and her eyes meeting his as he watched her blow up the fighters, the red of her hair set against the flames—and he hadn’t had time to save her, he’d only known just an instant before, and it had been all he could do to turn away from her, to face the Haat’ade, bring the Force to bear, and push them all back, away from the blast—

“Udesii, ner dral’kad’ika. Be at peace. She is with the Force, now. Rejoice for her.” Ba’ji was back, and Obi-Wan clung to his presence in the back of his mind, throwing all of his grief and fear and anger and shame and guilt and regret at Ba’ji, who calmly let it wash over him, and then helped him release each emotion into the Force.

Finally, the panicked swirl of emotions was gone, and left Obi-Wan feeling absolutely drained. He slowly came back to himself, hearing the world around him as Ba’ji guided him back out of their impromptu meditation.

“It’s alright, you’re safe, it’s okay,” a woman’s soft voice murmured, and Obi-Wan slowly focused on her. It was a Twi’lek woman, smiling softly at him, wearing beskar’gam —

Of course. Shakka. He was back on the Mando’ade’s ship. “Cerasi—”

Her expression faltered. “I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan.” His breath hitched. He’d hoped, of course, that she’d lived— he had lived, and he’d been close to the blast, but… she’d actually been holding the bomb. “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”

Obi-Wan nodded, looking down at the bed, his fists clenching in the blankets. Not gone, merely marching far away, because there is no death, there is only the Force.

“Elek. Your friend is within the Light, just as I am. She did not have enough of the Force to be able to speak to you now, or to reach out, but I can feel her among us,” Ba’ji assured him. Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes closed against a second flood of tears. “She is at peace. She is within the Force, and therefore with you always, now.”

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, his fists unclenching. His chest still ached, and he knew it wasn’t just from his ribs, but that did actually help. Ba’ji said he could feel her, so she was within the Force, and Obi-Wan would reunite with her, one day, when he joined the Force himself.

“That’s better,” Shakka murmured as Obi-Wan blinked his eyes open again. She gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. “Me’vaar ti gar?”

“Naas,” Obi-Wan answered, his voice coming out unexpectedly raspy, his throat dry. He frowned—how long had he been out? Shakka pressed a cup of water into his hands, which he noticed were shaking.

“Slowly now,” she murmured as he drank a few sips and then nodded in thanks. She nodded back. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you,” Obi-Wan said automatically. Shakka’s eyes narrowed.

“Let’s try this again,” she said, “and this time, I would like the truth, please, and not just the answer you think I want to hear. How are you feeling?”

Obi-Wan frowned at her. “Like my ribs are broken.”

She smiled approvingly and patted his leg gently. “They were. We used enough bacta to get them to the point of bruised, not broken. They’ll heal up fully in a few weeks. And besides that?”

Obi-Wan thought it over, cataloguing every sensation in his body. “My head hurts a bit.”

Shakka nodded slowly. “You had a concussion. Can you answer a few more questions for me?”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “Would you be willing to return the courtesy if I do?”

Shakka blinked at him and then laughed softly. “Of course.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “Where were you born?”

“Stewjon.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “That does explain it.”

“Explain what?” Obi-Wan asked, and Shakka waved a hand.

“You’ve got three kidneys and two livers,” she said and shrugged. “Wasn’t my first guess for an explanation—we don’t see many Stewjoni.”

“I wouldn’t expect so. They are incredibly isolationist,” Obi-Wan said. She nodded, and if she noticed he didn’t include himself among them, she didn’t comment on it.

“Yes, they are. Are you allergic to anything?”

“No medications,” he said slowly. “Just hoi broth.”

Shakka nodded again. “Thank you. I’ll get you some painkillers—”

“No, thank you.”

Shakka frowned at him. “Are you sure?” Obi-Wan nodded, and she sighed. “Alright. Do you feel like sleeping again?”

Obi-Wan thought that over. Frankly, all he wanted to do was curl up under these blankets—maybe even pull them over his head, as he had in the creche after fights with Bruck—and sleep for years. But… as drained as he felt emotionally, he was wide awake, now.

“No.”

Shakka smiled at him. “Would you be up for a visitor or two?” Obi-Wan nodded slowly.

“Nield?” he asked hopefully. Shakka’s smile turned rather wooden, and Obi-Wan’s heart sank. “He’s not—”

“He’s fine,” she assured him quickly. “He’s just… busy, right now. We have several of our more politically inclined verde helping restructure the government, and making sure more violence doesn’t break out.”

Obi-Wan blinked at her. “Restructuring the government? I—we won?”

Shakka laughed again and nodded. “I’m sorry. I should have led with that. This is why I’m a baar’ur, you know.” Obi-Wan cracked a small smile at that—at least Cerasi’s sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing. She’d gotten her wish: peace for Melida/Daan. “Jaster and Jango wanted to see you. Is that alright?”

“Yes.” They would definitely be able to answer Obi-Wan’s questions, and would probably be better at prioritizing what was most important for him to know, unlike Shakka, no matter how kind she may be.

“Jate. I’ll comm them now.”

Obi-Wan nodded and slowly eased himself into a seated position, but quickly gave that up as his ribs protested, instead rearranging the pillows until he could lean back against them. As he waited, he reached for the Force and tried to release as much of the pain as he could. This was, unfortunately, one of the few things Ba’ji couldn’t quite help him with—anything that came back to physical sensations was much harder for him, and one of the reasons Ba’ji had initially insisted that he needed a living Master to bond to—

He flinched as the slowly withering bond with Master Qui-Gon twitched, and then breathed out slowly and carefully, mindful of his aching ribs, as Ba’ji gently soothed over the back of his mind.

“Be at peace, ner dral’kad’ika.”

“How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan opened his eyes again, not having quite realized that he’d closed them, and tried to smile at Jaster. Given the way he didn’t smile back, he thought it might look more like a grimace.

“Fine, thank you.”

Jaster raised an eyebrow. “You had five broken ribs that are still bruised, now, and a nasty concussion. Are you sure you don’t want something for it?” Obi-Wan nodded. Painkillers either knocked him out completely, or muted his connection to the Force to the point where he panicked, because that feeling always reminded him of Bandomeer, and the mines.

“I’m sure. But I may concede to something to help me sleep, later.”

Jaster pursed his lips, but nodded back. He waved a hand, and Jango sat down in one of the chairs beside the bed, Jaster taking the one on the other side, though they both scooted back enough that he could see them both without having to continually turn his head.

“I’m sorry about Cerasi,” Jaster said softly. “She had spirit.”

“She did. But at least she got her wish,” Obi-Wan said just as quietly. “Peace.”

Jaster nodded slowly. “We wanted to talk to you about a few things, if that’s alright.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly, mindful of the headache he now realized was from a concussion. “Nield confirmed what we suspected, and told us you came here as a Padawan.”

Obi-Wan flinched and then hissed as the movement jarred his ribs, absently taking one hand and pressing on them gently. He nodded. He’d known, of course, that they would put the pieces together during that battle, if they hadn’t before then. His use of a sword, his powers… It would all add up to one conclusion, and they were far too smart to miss it.

“We also heard that your Master left, without you.” Again, Obi-Wan only nodded. “And he took your Jetii’kad.” Obi-Wan nodded more reluctantly this time—he knew how that would be perceived by them.

“But it isn’t what you think,” Obi-Wan rushed to explain.

“Oh?”

“I left the Order,” he said. “I had no right to—”

“You have every right to that kadau, Ob’ika,” Ba’ji sighed. “That crystal chose you. And even now, even with all of the changes in the galaxy and in the Order, it is not illegal for those not of the Order to bear them.”

“Obi-Wan?” Jango prompted, and Obi-Wan shooed Ba’ji away, for now.

“I’m fine,” he said. Neither one looked like they believed him, but Jaster slowly nodded.

“I heard there was a confrontation between the two of you…?”

Obi-Wan looked away, down at the blankets. Of all of this mess, how he’d left things with Master Qui-Gon was probably his biggest regret—besides Cerasi dying, of course. But as far as something he knew for a fact he could have changed? It was definitely his behavior towards his Ma—his former Master.

“The Young wanted to use the fighter we’d come in,” Obi-Wan said softly. “Master Qui-Gon didn’t agree to it. I… tried to beat him there, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“I know you’re uncomfortable, and I’m sorry for that, but this is important,” Jaster murmured. Obi-Wan sighed and drew his legs up under the blankets, wrapping his arms around them and hugging them to his chest, staring down at the bed, ignoring how that made the burn in his ribs worse.

“I was stupid, and… I drew my ‘saber on him first. I didn’t mean it, I just thought… I thought if he saw how serious I was about helping the Young, he would stop and think about it, but—that was stupid. He had his mission to rescue Master Tahl to think about.”

“Master Tahl?” Jango asked, and Obi-Wan hummed.

“She was sent here to make peace between the Melida and the Daan, but then the Melida decided she was a spy for the Daan and captured her. My Master and I were sent to rescue her, and she was injured. She needed medical care badly. So he had to leave, and I… felt like I had to stay.”

“...I see,” Jaster sighed. “Thank you for explaining that to us. I do have a few more questions, if you’re up to it.” Obi-Wan shrugged one shoulder—it wasn’t like he felt good enough to do much else. His chest was absolutely on fire, and breathing was… uncomfortable. He’d broken ribs before, and he knew if he got up and tried to walk it would be that much worse. “We noticed some older scars that… concerned us.”

Obi-Wan grimaced at that. He knew they were talking about the scars the collar had left on his neck, and the electrostaff marks on his back and chest.

“Where did you get them?” Jango asked softly when he didn’t immediately say anything.

“It’s… a long story,” he said slowly.

“We have time,” Jaster assured him. Obi-Wan sighed and then winced when that pulled at his ribs, slowly leaning back into the pillows again—that was better.

“I don’t know how much you know about the Order…?”

“Not much,” Jango said, shrugging. Obi-Wan nodded.

“Before we’re old enough to become Padawans, we’re Initiates,” he explained. “We grow up in Clans together. Then, when we turn eleven—at least for humans—we’re eligible to be chosen as a Padawan by a Master. But if we don’t find one by the time we’re thirteen, then we age out into the Service Corps…”

Jaster was absolutely livid, and it made Jango a bit manically gleeful. If his buir was this angry, then surely they were going to get their revenge on the Jetiise for hurting Obi-Wan—

“Jango.”

“Buir?”

“Comm ahead to the stronghold. Tell them to get the throne room ready—the gaudy one, not the regular one we actually use—and find a direct line to the High Council of the Jetiise.”

“...’lek, but… why?” Jango asked slowly. Jaster’s grin was sharp and toothy.

“I’m not interested in starting a war with the Jetiise, since that would also mean going to war with the entire karking Republic,” Jaster growled. “But that doesn’t mean that we can’t make their lives absolute Hel.”

The Council had met for relatively few emergency sessions, over the past few years, so it was something of a surprise for Plo to receive an abrupt, immediate summons from his colleagues. He made his way to the Council tower as quickly as he could without actually running—it would do no one any good for the others to see a Council Master sprinting for the Chambers, after all. That would only incite panic—or worse, rumors.

He was one of the last to reach the Council Chambers, and took his seat in tandem with Yan, giving his fellow Councilor a nod of greeting, which was politely returned. For all that Yan was an upstart and often the devil’s advocate in their discussions, sometimes provocative simply for its own sake, the man did have good manners.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Mace said, his expression pinched and eyes guarded. Plo’s mandibles tittered—that was not a promising sign. “We’ve received an… unusual message.” With a wave of his hand and a quick use of the Force, the shades lowered, and the projector began to play.

Plo sat up straighter as he took in the man in this message, noting distantly that the other Councilors did so as well: that was not just any Mandalorian, in the holo. That was the Mand’alor, wearing a cape and seated on a massive metal throne, two rows of soldiers behind him, and another armored Mandalorian standing directly to his right.

“Jetiise. I am Mand’alor Mereel, and this is a courtesy call,” the man said, his voice low and full of barely-leashed rage. “Out of respect for the wishes of my ward, I am giving you the chance to respond to my complaints before I open an official case in the Republic Senate, and the courts.”

Plo’s hearts skipped a beat. What? What in the name of the Force could the ruler of Mandalore have to take the Order to court over? And who was this “ward” of his who had apparently advocated for giving them a chance at negotiation first?

“To state my complaint specifically: multiple confirmed counts of child neglect, reckless endangerment of a child, and possible abuse,” the man said flatly. The Council sucked in a collective breath, the tension in the room rapidly rising. Plo’s mind raced as he tried to recall if they had any Master and Padawan pairs in the field they had not heard from in some time, but he could think of nothing new or unusual… “The case in question is a former Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Ah. Plo knew that the boy had left the Order, which he was saddened by, but admittedly not terribly surprised about. Yoda had insisted that pairing Jinn and young Kenobi was a good move, but Plo had disagreed. Force, the entire Council had disagreed, but Yoda had been relentless, and when Jinn had finally caved, it had been a relief to them all. But still, even though Jinn had agreed to become the boy’s Master, they had not developed a very close bond. Plo wondered if a different Master may have been able to keep the bright little boy with the Order, but it was useless to think about what might have been.

“We’ve elaborated on our allegations for you, to compare against your records,” the Mand’alor continued. “You may comm this frequency back to reach us. I will give you two weeks to respond before I take my case to the Senate.”

With that, the recording winked out, and Mace lifted the shades again. He waved a hand, looking grim. “I’ve sent the attached document to your datapads.”

Plo hummed under his breath as he drew his own ‘pad out and began to read.

The more he read, the angrier he became.

If this was all true, it conflicted wildly with what Master Jinn had reported to them. No, Plo realized slowly, it didn’t conflict, these incidents were simply omitted. Incidents such as Obi-Wan having been held by Xanatos du Crion as a slave in a deep sea mine for nearly two months, with a Force-dampening explosive collar around his neck. Details such as the fact that, while in that mine, Obi-Wan had been tortured with an electrostaff, and starved. And there were pictures of the scars as supporting evidence. (Plo thought if he wasn’t wearing his mask, he might have been sick, seeing those marks on a child.)

Details like the fact that when he and Jinn had become trapped, Obi-Wan had offered to blow the collar to get them out. And that was what convinced Jinn to take him as his Padawan.

And Melida/Daan… Jinn had spoken of the “Young,” the third faction in the Civil War, but he had spoken as if they were teens. That was not ideal, but young adults could make their own decisions in such matters, the Council had decided.

But the Mand’alor claimed that the youngest of them had been five years old, and Obi-Wan had been one of the five oldest at the tender age of thirteen.

From my perspective, the Mand’alor closed with, you sent a child away from the only home he had ever known, and he ended up in a combat situation almost immediately, and then in a slave mine, where he was tortured. Obi-Wan was not given any therapy after his time as a slave, after being tortured, and then offering to blow himself up for the “greater good.”  He was not even taken back to the Temple.

Obi-Wan was then put under the direct supervision of a traumatized adult who has a subpar record with his previous charges — a man who had repeatedly made it clear that he did not want Obi-Wan. Then there is the fact that the man who enslaved Obi-Wan in the first place was one of Jinn’s previous apprentices.

They were then sent into a situation where Obi-Wan was forced to choose between returning to the Order with the man who did not even want him at his side, or trying to save children younger than himself from being killed by their own parents.

That was not a real choice, and he was not in a position to have made a sound decision even if he had not been under duress at the time. That is willful neglect, and reckless endangerment. Whether it was truly abuse by the Order, or by Jinn alone, will depend on what an investigation of your records finds.

There was silence in the Council Chambers, the Force roiling with shock and grief and anger. Slowly, in unspoken agreement, they drew on the Light, and allowed the worst of the pall to fade.

“How do we even respond to that?” Adi asked flatly.

“I think we had better start by summoning my former apprentice, and asking what of that is true, and why he lied to the Council,” Yan said frostily.

“Recuse myself in this matter, I must,” Yoda said softly. He looked as ancient as he actually was, then, with his ears and eyes downcast, his back hunched. “Push them together, I did. Warn me, you tried to. Listen, I did not.”

“You didn’t know,” Mace sighed.

“No excuse is that. If looking closer, we had been, seen the truth, we may have,” Yoda answered. “Involved in this, I cannot be.”

“A wise choice,” Plo rumbled. “You meant the boy no harm, and we all know that. Even so, I agree that it is better for you to recuse yourself from this investigation.”

The other Councilors nodded as well, and then Yan sighed. “I am willing to do the same, if that is the consensus.”

“Please, Yan,” Sifo-Dyas said, raising an eyebrow at his friend. “We all know that you’re more likely to be harder on Jinn than the rest of us, not softer.”

There was a ripple of agreement, and Yan nodded, pulling out his commlink to send a text summons to Jinn.

“We should decide what to do with him during the investigation before he arrives,” Mace said.

“Official suspension from duty, but not formal censure, not unless he is confirmed to have been so truly negligent,” Sifo-Dyas suggested. The other Councilors nodded easily, and they all settled in to wait.

Chapter Text

Plo did not know whether it was wise to allow Yan to take the lead on questioning Jinn, but he knew he could not offer to do so himself. He was far too angry to be impartial at the moment, the images of those scars on such a small, too-thin body etched into his mind.

Jinn appeared as serene as ever, standing before the Council, waiting for them to address him with a sense of calm curiosity. Official mission dispatches were sent as an entirely different sort of summons, after all, than the commtext he had received from Yan. He would realize already that he wasn’t called before them to be assigned another mission.

“We have received new information about the situation on Melida/Daan,” Yan began, and Jinn nodded slowly, the faintest hint of shadows flickering in his eyes, the only tell that he had some feelings about what had happened there. “We would like to ask you further questions about the faction called ‘the Young.’” Jinn nodded again.

“Of course, Masters.”

“You never specified an age range for them,” Yan said, which was not quite a question, but begged one regardless.

“Their leaders were teens, though they had some younger children with them as well,” Qui-Gon admitted easily. “I did not see the entirety of their group; only half were in the city. The others were outside the barrier walls, in the fields beyond.”

Yan frowned at him. “Did it not give you pause, at the time, for an ‘army’ to contain such young members?”

Jinn frowned back, more confused than upset. “They were hardly an army. They had no weapons, only toys and slingshots to create distractions. They were runaways, protesting the war their parents were waging. A noble cause, but futile.” That, too, conflicted with what the Mand’alor had told them. Plo probed at the Force, and felt that Jinn was telling them the truth, or what he believed to be the truth. Perhaps, Plo thought, it was the other Young, outside of the city, who had been the more active combatants. Giving Jinn the benefit of the doubt, he supposed it was possible that the man truly hadn’t realized that he had left so many children, including his own apprentice, in such danger.

“I also spoke to the leaders of the Melida, and the Daan, before I left,” Jinn continued, and they nodded slowly. He had mentioned that in his initial report, citing that conversation as one of the main reasons he did not believe Melida/Daan would be able to find their path to peace. “Though they were staunchly uncompromising with each other, neither faction showed any inclination to attack their own children. I had almost convinced them to stand down because of that very fact, before tensions escalated again.” Yan nodded slowly, reaching out to the other Councilors. Jinn was still telling the truth, and Plo had to wonder if it really had been another faction of Young, or if that “escalation” he spoke of immediately before his departure had boiled over after he left. He did not think that Mereel had lied to them, either; what else could have inspired the Mand’alor to reach out to the Jedi Order, after all?

Plo sent back his rather undecided feelings, and felt the others do the same. Yan nodded. They would need to do more research on Melida/Daan before they could judge Jinn’s actions accurately.

“In addition to the Melida/Daan matter,” Yan continued, “questions have arisen about your time on Bandomeer.”

Jinn blinked at them, and then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly before he smoothed his expression out. Plo noted that reaction, though he couldn’t say whether it was because of the reminder of the whole debacle in general, or the reminder of Obi-Wan Kenobi, or Xanatos du Crion.

“I see,” Jinn said. “I will, of course, answer what I can.”

Yan stared at him for a long moment, and then asked, flatly, “Why did you fail to report to the Council that then-Initiate Kenobi had been held as a slave on a deepsea mine for two months?”

Jinn frowned at them again, blinking rapidly. “Two months? No, it was hardly that long. As soon as I realized he was missing, I looked for—du Crion,” he said, stumbling slightly over what to call his other former-apprentice. “I realized that he would be the most obvious lead to the boy’s location, and I was mostly correct. It did take me some time to find him, but I don’t believe it was anywhere near that long.” Again, Plo probed at the Force, and Jinn was still radiating honesty, but also uncertainty. He was telling the truth to the best of his knowledge, then, but that recollection was, apparently, poor. It was not a good sign.

“And once you had retrieved him, why did you fail to report to the Council what had been done to him?” Yan asked. This was the question that Plo most wanted answered. It was standard procedure to send the Initiate or Padawan to a Soul Healer, after something like that. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often to their young, and was most commonly a procedure used for those they freed from slavery and brought into the Order after that.

Jinn blinked at them again. “I did, Masters. I reported that I retrieved him from a deepsea mine.” Again, there was nothing but honesty in the Force, and Plo had to wonder if Jinn had managed to forget what had happened to him, or if he somehow hadn’t known. “He seemed well enough, if a bit on the thin side.”

“Did you evaluate him for any injuries?” Yan asked, and Jinn’s frown deepened.

“No, Masters. As I said, he seemed fine, and we were pressed for time. He had a burn on his neck from the collar, but I noticed no other injuries beyond that, and he mentioned nothing himself,” Jinn said slowly. Well, that alone confirmed the charge of negligence, Plo thought.

“And that collar,” Yan said, starting in on the other piece of information that had most appalled Plo. “You made no mention in your report of the fact that Kenobi offered to, essentially, blow himself up when the two of you became trapped in the mines. That was, to our understanding, the incident that convinced you to take Kenobi as your Padawan.”

Jinn nodded slowly, looking unbothered by that. “Yes, Masters. I did not mention it because it was irrelevant. There was no need for such a thing, but the fact that he made the offer showed me that he was capable of looking beyond his own ego. My previous… concerns over taking him as an apprentice had stemmed from his ego and his anger. The offer, unnecessary as it was, showed me that he was capable of setting that aside to act with a Jedi’s sense of duty. But beyond that, it did not affect the mission, and so I did not include it in my report..”

Plo took a deep, even breath, trying his best to hold his tongue. He had much he wanted to say to that. Irrelevant? A twelve-year-old child offering up their life was not irrelevant under any circumstances, as far as he was concerned.

“If I may ask, Masters,” Jinn said, “what has prompted these questions?”

Yan looked to Mace, who nodded, and Yan nodded back before turning to Jinn. “This Council received a complaint of child abuse, endagerment, and neglect. We have been given two weeks to respond before the matter goes to the courts. We will be conducting a full investigation.”

Jinn’s frown at that could almost be classified as a scowl. “May I ask who lodged this complaint?”

“Jaster Mereel,” Yan answered flatly. At Jinn’s blank look, he added, “The Mand’alor.”

Jinn raised an eyebrow at that. “And do you not find that… suspicious, Masters? Mandalore has… a complex history with the Order, after all.”

“Nevertheless,” Yan said, “each report must be thoroughly investigated, especially one with such… delicate political implications. I’m certain you understand.” Jinn nodded slowly. “You will be required to remain on Coruscant, suspended from duty, for the duration of our investigation. You will also be required to visit a Soul Healer. What you say will remain in confidence, and we will only receive their recommendations.”

Jinn’s jaw clenched at that, his shields slamming down, fully locking them out from any impressions he might have given off into the Force. From the man’s body language, however, Plo did not need the Force to know that he was upset by the order.

“Of course, Masters,” he said after a long moment.

“That is all, for now,” Yan said, nodding to him. “We will summon you again when we have more news.”

Jinn nodded sharply, and, ignoring the inherent dismissal in Yan’s words, he asked, “How did this Mandalorian come to know the boy?” It was rather telling to Plo that Jinn had not used Obi-Wan’s name, not once during the entire series of questions. Just as he tried never to utter du Crion’s name, or that of Feemor Ladas. This man was not someone coping well, Plo thought. Whether or not he had abused his most recent Padawan, he had certainly not been in any shape to take one on.

“We don’t yet know,” Yan admitted easily, “but we do know that Kenobi is now in his care. Mereel has claimed him as his ‘ward.’”

Jinn blinked at them, and then the color began to drain from his face. “You can’t be serious.” Yan nodded slowly, and Jinn shook his head. “We must retrieve him, for his own sake. Leaving him to Mandalorians…”

Plo could no longer keep his silence, and he leaned forward in his seat. “You gave up any right to an opinion on his care, and any claim to him, when you renounced him as your apprentice, Master Jinn. We will keep our own counsel on the particulars of this matter.”

Jinn frowned deeply at that, but bowed his head at the rebuke. “Of course, Masters.”

“You are dismissed,” Yan said. “Go. We will set the appointment with the Healers for you, and message you with the time.”

Obi-Wan hadn’t gotten to see anything of Keldabe, when they landed; with his ribs, walking that far was still out of the question, so Shakka had ordered the ship to land at the medical entrance, then wheeled him into the stronghold’s infirmary herself. The trip there hadn’t been bad, exactly, just long as Melida/Daan had been on the opposite end of the galaxy, and he felt cooped up by the time they reached Keldabe. He’d spent most of the journey asleep, allowing the extra rest and the Force to help speed his healing, and passed the time he spent sleeping in the dreamscape he always visited with Ba’ji.

Ba’ji hadn’t mentioned the choice before him again, for which Obi-Wan was grateful. Instead, they’d mostly focused on Obi-Wan’s studies. Ba’ji seemed to realize he could use the distraction, something else to focus on, while his body was all but useless and his thoughts, left to themselves, mostly revolved around Cerasi, and Nield, neither of whom he’d gotten a chance to say goodbye to.

During the little time he’d been awake, either Jaster, Jango, or both had been there. It didn’t matter what time he woke up, at least one of them was there. Obi-Wan thought they might have taken it in shifts, sitting by his bedside, and he didn’t know how he felt about that. He’d never liked attention, but it was also… comforting.

Now, they were in Keldabe, and all of a sudden, that made the situation so much more real.

“Are you all settled?” Obi-Wan blinked, turning away from looking at the ceiling—beautifully painted, showing a forge and a goran working beskar —to look at Jaster, smiling gently at him. He nodded, and Jaster nodded back before shifting his weight slightly. Obi-Wan frowned at the uncharacteristic show of nerves. Jaster cleared his throat, his smile fading away. “About what you told us, before.” Obi-Wan’s frown deepened, but he nodded again. Jaster looked grim, and Obi-Wan felt his nerves spiking.

“Peace, Obi-Wan,” Ba’ji murmured. “All will be well.”

“I can’t ignore what happened to you,” Jaster said gently. “The Jetiise wronged you, and I cannot let that stand. But I know how you feel about them, and I’m really not looking to start a war. So I’ll be taking this to the courts.”

Obi-Wan stared at him, scowling, and then opened his mouth to reply. He shut it again, finding he didn’t know quite what to say, and then shook his head. Jaster said nothing, giving him time to gather his thoughts, and Obi-Wan took a deep breath.

“I’m guessing I can’t convince you that there’s no need to make such a fuss about all of this?” Obi-Wan asked, and Jaster gave him another smile, this one far grimmer than before.

“Not a chance, ad’ika,” Jaster answered, and Obi-Wan sighed, pleased to find that that only inspired a slight twinge of pain in his ribs. They would be healed in no time.

“In that case,” Obi-Wan said slowly, “take it to the Order directly. It seems rather unfair not to give them a chance to respond themselves.” And, Obi-Wan knew, but was not about to say, the Republic’s courts often took years to come to a decision. He would much rather a case about him not go forward. That would really be too much attention for him to handle, and for years on end? No, thank you.

Jaster blinked at him, and then nodded slowly. “I’ll offer you a compromise, and give the Jetiise two weeks to respond to us before I go to the courts. But someone must answer for this, ad’ika, otherwise we risk them doing it again.”

“That’s unlikely,” Obi-Wan said immediately, and Jaster frowned. Obi-Wan waved a hand. “Most of it was my fault, anyway.” Jaster’s eyes flashed with anger that he carefully didn’t reveal into the Force, and Obi-Wan blinked at him. He felt Ba’ji radiating indignation in the back of his mind, on his behalf, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes, knowing Jaster was watching him carefully.

“It wasn’t,” Jaster said flatly. “None of it was. You were a child, and the adults charged with your care and protection failed you. Badly.” Obi-Wan frowned at that, opening his mouth to answer, but Jaster just shook his head. “It was not your fault, Obi-Wan. I will repeat that until I’m blue in the face, and I will not have you blaming yourself.” Obi-Wan snapped his mouth shut, and Jaster nodded sharply at him. “Is that compromise one you can accept, giving the Jetiise two weeks?”

“If you have to do something about it all, I suppose I can live with that,” Obi-Wan grumbled, and Jaster smiled.

“Jate. I’ll be sending the message tomorrow; I just wanted to give you advanced warning,” Jaster said, and Obi-Wan nodded slowly. Jaster shifted again, and another frown crept onto Obi-Wan’s face. Jaster sighed and finally moved farther into the room, going to sit in the chair beside the bed. “You’ll be cleared to leave Shakka’s care, soon.” Obi-Wan nodded, brightening at the reminder, and the promise of more freedom. “Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do, after that? Where you’d like to go?”

Obi-Wan looked back down at the bed; Ba’ji was conspicuously silent and still. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” Jaster assured him quickly. “I don’t expect you to have an answer, yet. You’ve been through many difficult situations lately, and I’d rather you take your time, and recover, before you make any more big decisions.” Obi-Wan nodded, relaxing enough to look back to Jaster, who smiled at him. “But, for the record: you’re welcome here with us for as long as you’d like to stay.” Obi-Wan smiled back, nodding again, and Jaster sat back in the chair, finally beginning to relax himself.

“If I did want to go back to the Order…” Obi-Wan trailed off, and Jaster sighed.

“I would have conditions, and demands,” he said, “but I’m not going to stop you. That isn’t my place. You’ve more than proven that you can make your own decisions, Obi-Wan.”

“What ‘conditions’ would you have?” he asked, rather more sharply than he meant to, and Jaster sighed again, shaking his head.

“I’d want regular access to you, either by holo, or in person, when we’re on Coruscanta,” Jaster began. “And I wouldn’t give you back until they’d finished an investigation, or the Senate did. The last should be obvious: I wouldn’t allow you to go back to the same Master, no matter what their investigation finds.”

Obi-Wan looked away again, frowning at the blankets covering him. “I doubt he’d want me back anyway, so I’m not sure how much that matters.”

“Then he doesn’t know what he’s lost,” Jaster answered simply, and Obi-Wan flushed, grateful he wasn’t looking right at Jaster when he’d said that. Thankfully, Jaster’s comm chose that moment to begin chirping, and he sighed. “It never fails. Whenever I’m planetside, someone needs something from me every second of the day. Jango will be in shortly.”

Obi-Wan nodded, then looked back up at Jaster, giving him a smile. “Vor entye. For… everything.” Jaster smiled back and nodded.

“N’entye, Ob’ika,” he said. Obi-Wan blinked at him; it was a bit strange, to hear one of Ba’ji’s nicknames for him from the mouth of another, but… not unpleasant. “Rest up.” He stood and squeezed Obi-Wan’s arm before jamming his buy’ce onto his head and answering the call he’d gotten.

Obi-Wan leaned back against the pillows, contemplating sleeping and going to his Ba’ji or meditating consciously. Meditation, he decided, feeling not at all tired. He nodded to himself and made sure his pillows were positioned correctly; he still couldn’t quite sit up all the way without his ribs protesting. Closing his eyes, he reached for the Force—

This place might have been beautiful, covered in pure white snow and green trees, had it not been for the bodies lying sprawled on the ground, and the blood staining the snow. Some of the bodies were Jedi, but many of them were Mando’ade. Obi-Wan recognized Master Kaantu, who had taught one of his Niman classes, and Knight Tress, who had only just been knighted before Obi-Wan left for Melida-Daan. And… Myles, Jaster’s second, cut in two, and Jaster, not far from him, his body lying in the snow and his head several feet away.

They had slaughtered each other, the Jedi and the Mando’ade, while a man in black beskar’gam with a black lightsaber looked down on it all and laughed.

Chapter Text

Jango wasn’t all that surprised to find Obi-Wan asleep when he got to his room. He’d slept a lot on the way to Manda’yaim, which Shakka said was normal, and good for him. He was so malnourished and underweight, and that hadn’t helped his recovery when he’d gotten injured. Still, he’d been surpassing all of Shakka’s expectations, and she was pleased with his progress. Jango took the chair beside the bed, smiling slightly at Obi-Wan; he looked more like the adiik he really was, when he was asleep. Awake, he was always painfully serious, and high-strung. Not that Jango could blame him, after everything he’d been through.

Jango shook his head to clear it and took his buy’ce off, setting it on the bedside table, and pulled out his datapad to start going over the reports. There was always a bit of a backlog, when they got back. Out in the field, they only had the most urgent reports sent over, and summaries of all the other reports. But Jaster had taught him it was good practice to read all of the reports himself, when he could manage it, and Jango followed his example.

He frowned as he saw that the Governor of Galidraan had commed again. Honestly, Jango was surprised he hadn’t found someone else to solve that problem yet. There were plenty of other mercenary groups who would take a job like that, especially for the pay he was offering. They’d been gone for over a month, now, which was more than enough time to find and hire someone else. Work like that usually demanded a quick resolution, and the Governor had seemed frantic the last time he’d called.

Something about that felt… off. Jango made a mental note to talk to Jaster and Myles about it, and moved on to the next report. This one made him sigh; Kryze and his entourage would be visiting soon. Jaster’s alliance with the New Mandalorians was fragile, and required constant meetings with their figureheads. Adonai Kryze wasn’t so bad; Jango even respected him. Kryze had been a warrior himself, strong and capable and fierce. But once he’d lost his wife to the war, leaving him to raise his two ade alone, he’d said no more. The last life he’d taken was vengeance for his riduur, and then he had put his beskar’gam away, vowing never to take another life.

But the rest of those New Mandalorian hut’uun’e… Jango couldn’t stand them. Most of them had never even taken a life. Not that Jango thought you needed to kill to be respected, but they shouldn’t be the ones to dictate whether or not the Haat’ade needed to use lethal force, which they certainly tried to, demanding Jaster impose ridiculous restrictions on the Haat’ade.

Sighing, Jango set that memo aside and went on to the next. He went on like that until the alarm he’d set for dinner went off, and he looked up, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his neck from staring down at the ‘pad for so long. He rolled his head from side to side to stretch it, and idly noted that Obi-Wan hadn’t moved the entire time Jango had been in the room, and it had been hours. The kid really must have been tired.

Jango felt a bit bad about waking him, but Shakka had made it abundantly clear that Obi-Wan was not to miss meals, not when he was already so underweight. He’d have to get up for dinner, at least.

“Obi-Wan.” Gently, he reached out to touch his shoulder. Obi-Wan’s eyes flew open as he gasped, and the kid threw out one hand, and Jango found himself flying backwards. He hit the wall and grunted, the wind knocked out of him, and went down to one knee, struggling to control his breathing.

“Osik, I’m sorry!” Obi-Wan said, and Jango managed to wave a hand at him, not quite able to speak yet. “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to—here, let me help—” Jango looked up as Obi-Wan started to try to get out of bed, and Jango shook his head, summoning the breath to talk.

“Stay. In. Bed,” Jango wheezed, and Obi-Wan froze, one foot on the floor, blinking at him. Jango grunted and climbed to his feet; that hadn’t been so bad, with his beskar’gam to cushion him. He sat back down in the chair and glared at Obi-Wan until he sheepishly brought his legs back up, bringing the blankets back over them and primly smoothing them out. “Shakka hasn’t said you can get out of bed yet.”

Obi-Wan frowned at him, but nodded slowly before turning back to the blankets. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jango said immediately. He hesitated for a moment before sighing and tugging a hand through his hair, grateful his breathing was mostly back to normal. “Jaster adopted me, you know. Ner buir’e, bal ner ori’vod…” Obi-Wan looked back to him, expression full of quiet sympathy, and his eyes dark with knowing. Jango’s stomach clenched at the reminder that Obi-Wan knew how it felt to lose people already. “Anyway. When I first got here, there were more than a few times Jaster tried to wake me up and I went for him. Broke his nose twice; it was never quite the same, after that.” Obi-Wan’s lips twitched in a small smile, no doubt thinking about Jaster’s slightly crooked nose, but it faded quickly, his gaze sliding back to the blankets. Jango frowned.

“If you want to talk about it, I know what it’s like, with the flashbacks, and nightmares,” he offered, and Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. Jango’s shoulders slumped slightly at the refusal, but Obi-Wan just sighed and leaned farther back against the pillows.

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Obi-Wan said softly, staring up at the painted ceiling. “Or a flashback. And I’m still sorry for Force-pushing you.”

Jango shook his head. “I told you, it’s fine. You didn’t hurt me. Barely even knocked the wind out of me.”

Obi-Wan nodded, continuing to stare at the ceiling. Jango studied him carefully; he looked… tense. Something was wrong, but Jango couldn’t tell what. He tried to think of some way to ask him what was wrong without making him defensive again, but while he was thinking of an angle, Obi-Wan hummed.

“Do you have a starmap projector?” he asked. Jango frowned.

“We have a few lying around,” Jango said slowly. “Why?”

“Can you please bring me one?” Obi-Wan asked, turning to look at him, an odd sort of expression on his face. He was practically radiating both dread and determination. Jango frowned, and Obi-Wan frowned back. “Gedet’ye?”

Well, Jango thought, what harm could it do? He nodded slowly, and Obi-Wan smiled. “Vor’e.”

“I’ll be right back.”

It wasn’t often that a Healer was called before the High Council, and Master Healer Natu Venath herself hadn’t stood before them in years. Frankly, she had no idea of why she had been summoned, though the grim faces of the Councilors and the general pall over the Chambers told her it could not be anything good.

“Thank you for coming, Master Venath,” Master Windu said as she rose from her bow.

“Of course, Masters. What may I do for you?” she asked. Windu took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair; it was terrible news, then. His body language was always so open when his expression was otherwise closed off, and his shields high.

“We are assigning you a patient for mandatory evaluation,” Windu said, and Natu nodded sharply. It didn’t happen often, exactly, because most of her fellow Jedi were smart enough to admit when they needed help, and either sought out those from their lineage or creche Clan to help them, or, when that was not enough, or not an option, they went to the Soul Healers.

But some were… stubborn.

“And the patient?” she asked, and Windu tensed slightly. Natu frowned and tilted her head.

“Master Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Natu blinked at him, her frown deepening. “I’m afraid I can’t agree to that, Masters,” she said, bowing her head in apology. “As I told you years ago, after the Fall of his second Padawan, when you had me examine him then, we will get nowhere if he does not want help, and I cannot properly evaluate him without a joint meditation, to which he would not agree. I have no reason to believe he would agree now.”

“We still cannot force him to agree,” Master Dooku broke in, and Natu outright scowled as she took in the severe set of his shoulders, his eyes blazing with emotion. He was another one she would love to see in her office; his entire Lineage, actually, from both of his former-Padawans right on up to the manipulative old troll. None of them understood that release it into the Force didn’t mean don’t feel, and tried suppressing their emotions, like idiots. “But we have already voted to ground him until a Soul Healer and this Council clear him. If you feel that you would need a joint meditation to clear him, then he will not receive his clearance until he agrees, and he will remain grounded in the interim.”

Natu stared at him for a long moment, probing the Force, and was surprised to find that he was entirely serious. “Masters, may I be frank with you?”

“I have never known you to be otherwise,” Plo said somewhat fondly, and Natu graced him with a small smile. He was not officially a Soul Healer, but Natu counted him as a colleague nonetheless. He was so gentle and kind, and good at getting people talking, that he often ended up as the supporter for all of his friends. He understood what her work was like in a way few non-Healers did. “Please, do.”

“What did he do?” she asked, and felt faint surprise from several of them. Natu scoffed. “We were in this exact same situation nine years ago, Masters, and I warned you. I told you that I thought that man was a ticking time bomb, and he would eventually hurt himself, or someone else. You weren’t willing to take my recommendation, then. That you’re serious about it now tells me that something has changed. Considering I just saw Master Jinn not two hours ago in the refectory, and he seemed perfectly fine, I have no choice but to think that he hurt someone else. So, before you send me in blind, tell me what he did.”

There was silence for a moment, and it was Plo who spoke up next: “The matter is under active investigation, which would normally bar us from informing even you, until the matter is settled, and the facts confirmed.” Natu started to scowl, but Plo slowly looked around the circle at each of his fellow Councilors. Yoda, Natu noticed, was conspicuously absent. “However, due to the concerns about Master Jinn’s ability to accurately recall what transpired, I move that we give her what we have. The mission reports, the message we received and the accompanying documents, and Master Jinn’s own words to this Council." Slowly, there were nods from the others, and Plo nodded slightly deeper to them all. “Thank you.”

“You’re concerned about his memory?” Natu asked, and Plo nodded.

“Yes. We will give you everything we have; I imagine the discrepancies will become clear soon enough,” Plo said. Natu nodded slowly.

“Has he been evaluated by his regular Healer yet?” she asked.

“Two weeks ago, when he received his last set of mandatory vaccinations,” Windu answered, and Natu nodded again.

“I assume they found nothing, then.”

“Nothing obvious, but they weren’t checking for such symptoms,” Windu said. “We’ve given you complete oversight over his final Healers’ Evaluation. If you wish to require a secondary endorsement from his regular Healer, or any specialist, that is your prerogative.”

Natu pursed her lips; the situation must be dire, if they were giving her free reign. Still, whatever Qui-Gon Jinn had or hadn’t done, he was someone she had hoped for as a patient for a very long time. Few Jedi needed her help quite as much as he did. True as it was she couldn’t treat the unwilling, it now seemed that the Council was finally going to give her enough time to convince him. If he was grounded until she cleared him, after all, he couldn’t avoid her forever. Though Natu almost feared that he would outright leave the Order entirely rather than step up and admit he needed help.

“Very well, Masters. I accept.” She bowed to them, and they bowed in return. “It sounds like there is rather a lot of material for me to go through. Shall we set the appointment for the day after tomorrow, after breakfast?” Natu had a feeling she would need a full day with him just to get through his knee-jerk stiffness and reticence around Healers. Best to start early.

“That will do,” Windu said, nodding deeply to her. “Thank you, Master Venath. May the Force be with you.”

That sounded far graver than the usual salutation, but Natu simply grimaced and nodded. She had a feeling this wouldn’t be easy.

Once Jango left, Obi-Wan forced himself to breathe, squeezing his eyes shut before immediately reopening them. The image of those bodies in the snow seemed permanently burned on the inside of his eyelids.

Ba’ji? He called. Ba’ji had been unusually quiet, ever since Jaster had asked what he’d been thinking of doing, once he was cleared. While Obi-Wan would have appreciated the space, he needed him now, and—

“I am here, Obi-Wan. I apologize for leaving you,” Ba’ji said, and Obi-Wan breathed a sigh of relief.

“Cuy ogir’olar,” Obi-Wan murmured, and Ba’ji hummed. I had another vision. It was… He shuddered, and Ba’ji extended warmth out to him. Obi-Wan basked in it for a moment, finally able to close his eyes again without seeing the snow, and the blood. Finally, he steeled himself, and said, It was somewhere snowy, with tall green trees. There were bodies everywhere, some of them Jedi, and some of them Mando’ade. I… recognized Master Kaantu, and Knight Tress, and Myles, and… Jaster. They’d… The Jedi and the Haat’ade, they’d killed each other. And there was someone else there, a man in black beskar’gam with a black lightsaber, and he was laughing. He felt… Dark. Wrong.

Obi-Wan blinked as the usual supportive-open-steady feeling of Ba’ji turned to surprise. Ba’ji?

“My own Jetii’kad was black,” Ba’ji said slowly, and Obi-Wan blinked.

Do you think it might be yours? I’ve never heard of a black lightsaber before. They must be rare, he said. Ba’ji hummed again.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” he said. “But I sense that we will soon find out.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling again.

I asked Jango to get me a mapreader with a projector, Obi-Wan said. I want to try to find what planet that was. It can’t do much harm to just tell Jaster and the others not to go there.

“Troch,” Ba’ji agreed. “A fine idea. I will help to guide you in this exercise, if you wish.”

“‘Lek, vor’e,” Obi-Wan answered. “Were you there when Myles said that whoever taught me Mando’a must not have been Mando’ade, with the way I sound?”

“Nayc, I was not. I would have had something to say to him. ‘Copaani mirshmure'cye?' perhaps,” Ba’ji said dryly, and Obi-Wan laughed. “Why have you not told them the truth?”

Obi-Wan laughed again, shaking his head. “Because that would go over spectacularly, I imagine. ‘Hello, I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi, a former-Jedi Padawan, now the Mand’alor’s foundling, and oh, yes, by the way, I’ve had Tarre Vizsla in my head with me since I was three.’” He snorted. “Right.”

“Obi-Wan,” Ba’ji sighed. “There is only one statement Master Jinn has ever made in regards to you with which I agree: you must learn to be more mindful of the present, and your surroundings.”

“What?” Obi-Wan asked, frowning in confusion. He felt a mental jab from Ba’ji and scowled, shaking his head—

He froze as he saw Jango standing awkwardly in the doorway, his buy’ce hiding his expression, and a projector in his hands. Obi-Wan felt his cheeks heat, and he quickly looked down at the blankets again.

“I… said that out loud, didn’t I?” he asked softly.

“You did,” Jango said slowly, woodenly.

“So… you heard that, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jango answered. “Is that—when you’ve been talking to yourself, ‘thinking out loud,’ is… that what…?”

“Is that who I’m talking to, do you mean?” Obi-Wan asked, weary more than embarrassed now that the slight adrenalin rush of being caught had worn off. Ba’ji sighed in the back of his mind. “‘Lek. He’s my Ba’ji.”

“Your Ba’ji,” Jango repeated, and Obi-Wan nodded without looking up. “...right. I got your projector.”

Obi-Wan looked up slowly, frowning at Jango. He was just… going to let it go? Just like that?

“There is no need to go looking a gift bantha in the mouth, ner dral’kad’ika,” Ba’ji said, voice touched with wry humor—at Obi-Wan’s expense, he knew, and he scowled, well aware that it probably looked more like he was pouting and not caring in the least. “Take the offered reprieve and focus on the task ahead of us.”

Obi-Wan sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t that lucky, and he knew it. Jango was probably just going to tell Jaster about it, or maybe the baar’ur’e. It would certainly be inconvenient if they decided he was insane. Still, he did as Ba’ji had said, and set the problem aside for now (after taking a moment to curse his own carelessness; he used to be so good at keeping it a secret, when they’d been in the Temple all of the time, but he’d gotten careless, during his brief apprenticeship. Master Qui-Gon hadn’t ever really seemed to notice, so he hadn’t really had to try very hard to hide it). “Vor’e, Jango.”

“N’entye,” Jango said, finally stepping fully into the room and walking over to give him the projector. Obi-Wan set it on the bed and carefully maneuvered himself into as much of a traditional meditation pose as he could as Jango slowly sat down in the chair beside the bed, taking off his buy’ce and setting it down on the table. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for a particular planet.”

“What sector?” Jango asked, and Obi-Wan shrugged.

“I have no idea, yet,” he answered, and Jango blinked at him in surprise, then looked at him a little warily. He probably did think he was insane, now.

“He will not if you simply explain what we are attempting to do,” Ba’ji said, exasperation coloring his tone. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, and then blinked, and looked back to Jango.

“Um, I’m sorry. That… wasn’t at you,” he said, and Jango nodded slowly, stiffly. “There’s a Force technique for finding things. The Force doesn’t just give you the answer, but it can point you in the right direction. That’s true for actual directions, or instincts.” Jango nodded again, looking more thoughtful than doubtful now. “So I’m going to turn on the projector and go through the sectors until I think the Force says that’s the right one, and then narrow down the systems from there.”

“Process of elimination,” Jango said. “Smart.”

“If it works,” Obi-Wan said, giving him a small grin. Jango smiled back, and Obi-Wan hoped he’d done enough damage control, for now. He really didn’t want to be kept in Shakka’s care any longer than he had to, no offense to her. Being confined to bed was wearing on him.

“Focus, Ob’ika,” Ba’ji said, but he sounded and felt warm-fond-amused, and Obi-Wan smiled. Still, he did as he was told, activating the projector and taking a slow, deep breath. He closed his eyes and, grimacing, recalled the image of that snowy battlefield, and reached again for the Force.

Chapter Text

Jango had no idea how to feel about Obi-Wan’s revelation, but he didn’t think Obi-Wan was lying.

It was… out there, even for a Jetii, but it fit the evidence too well. It explained how odd he sounded when he spoke Mando’a, why he used such archaic words, how he’d somehow known it had been Tarre Vizsla who had appeared to Jaster, and… Jango thought he could tell, somehow, when Obi-Wan was speaking to his “Ba’ji.” The way the air would suddenly get… heavier, thicker, like some sort of presence was surrounding them. And besides, Obi-Wan had seemed to genuinely not realize he was there; Jango had, initially, frozen at the door because he’d heard Obi-Wan laugh. He’d never heard him laugh before, not like that, a real laugh. And then he’d paused, and then laughed again, and Jango had felt that strange feeling in the air, and then Obi-Wan had said… that.

Jaster had almost guessed at the truth, too. Jango huffed softly, imagining the look on his buir’s face when he found out that he was half-right. Obi-Wan had learned Mando’a from Tarre Vizsla, but not how Jaster had expected. No, of course the explanation had to be so much stranger than an ancient magic pyramid.

He’d tried to go back to reading reports to give himself something else to focus on while Obi-Wan looked for his mystery planet, but Obi-Wan was cycling through sector maps so quickly that the flashing lights started to bother Jango’s eyes, seeing it in his periphery. He gave it up quickly in favor of watching… whatever Obi-Wan was doing.

The sectors started appearing faster and faster until they weren’t even fully loading in anymore before Obi-Wan skipped over them. He had his eyes closed, too, and wasn’t even looking at the damn map. Jango shook his head, and then felt that weight again, and frowned. He wondered if Vizsla could hear his thoughts, too. That would be… uncomfortable.

It was interesting, Jango thought idly, looking at Obi-Wan now rather than the rapidly strobing light of the projector, watching him do… whatever this was. He wasn’t using the buttons on the front of the projector, or the remote, to control it, instead using his powers to switch from one sector to another. To do that so quickly was, in itself, impressive, Jango thought. If he wasn’t so used to staring at the blue lights of hyperspace, Jango might’ve gotten dizzy from how fast it was strobing.

He heard footsteps coming and frowned; that was probably Jaster, ready for dinner. They’d been eating with Obi-Wan, every night on the way to Manda’yaim, trying to make sure he ate enough. Jango rose and left as quietly as he could, going to stand just outside the door. He’d been right, and Jango breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Jaster approached. His buir took off his buy’ce, tucking it under his arm and stopped short, frowning at the door, and the flashing blue light coming from underneath it.

“Long story short,” Jango said slowly, and Jaster turned to look at him, one eyebrow pointedly raised, “Obi-Wan asked for a mapreader projector. He’s trying to use the Force to find a planet.”

Jaster blinked at him, and then tilted his head. “What planet?”

“That’s what I mean,” Jango sighed. “It’s not that he doesn’t know where the planet is, he doesn’t know which planet he’s looking for.”

“I see,” Jaster said flatly, and Jango barked a laugh.

“No, you don’t. And I don’t get it either,” Jango admitted, and his buir cracked a smile, shaking his head ruefully. Jango’s own smile fled quickly. “ Buir, if he stays… we’ll have to figure out a teacher for him.”

Jaster nodded, expression pinched. “I know. You saw the memo about Adonai’s visit?” Jango nodded slowly. “There are more of those connected to the kar’a, at least those willing to openly admit it, within House Kryze. I thought I might ask Adonai for a recommendation. Hopefully, they know more of each other, and even if they aren’t the right fit, it’ll be a place to start in looking for someone. And Jorin might be able to recommend a few as well.”

Jango nodded back. There were a few Haat’ade who had a bit of the ka’ra, but none of them could do the things Obi-Wan could, not even the Force-pushing. And Jango was thankful, in a way, that Obi-Wan’s episode earlier hadn’t been the first time he’d been Force-pushed, or he might have taken longer to react, and reassure Obi-Wan that he wasn’t upset. But the first time had been far more unpleasant, Obi-Wan pushing them all away from the blast as Cerasi blew up the fighters—

“Jango?” Jaster prompted him, and Jango hummed, shaking his head to clear it. He was still reeling from everything he’d learned, everything that had happened, and it was making it hard to think straight.

“It’s been a… long month,” he said honestly; Jaster nodded again, looking weary. “ Buir, there’s… something else. I think Obi-Wan should be the one to tell you, but I don’t think he will if you don’t ask him about it.” Jaster frowned at him, and Jango tried for a smile that might have ended up as more of a grimace. “It’s not… bad, I don’t think. Just… kriffing odd. ”

Jaster smiled at that. “More Jetii Force osik? ” he asked, and Jango barked a laugh.

“ ‘Lek. Something like that,” Jango answered, and Jaster nodded.

“Alright, ad’ika, ” he said, nodding. “ Vor’e, for looking after him.”

Jango huffed, shaking his head. “He’s your foundling, buir. With any luck, that also makes him my ven’vod’ika. ” Jaster’s grin widened, and he nodded once more.

The flashing light coming from Obi-Wan’s room stopped, turning solid blue, and Jango blinked.

“Huh,” he said. “I think that means he found what he was looking for?”

Jaster shrugged and opened the door, Jango stepping in just behind him. Obi-Wan hadn’t moved, leaning back slightly against the mountain of pillows Shakka had supplied him with, his legs folded underneath him, and his hands resting on his knees, palms down. His eyes were still closed, and he was more slowly cycling through system maps. He must have found the right sector, at least.

Jaster didn’t say anything, instead watching Obi-Wan, just as Jango was. They took up residence against the wall, leaning against it and observing silently as Obi-Wan’s survey of each system became slower, and slower, and Jango frowned. That was Keyorin, if he wasn’t mistaken. His stomach twisted, his jaw clenching, as the next system was Rhen Var, and then—

Obi-Wan stopped on Galidraan, finally opening his eyes and staring at the projection. “There,” he murmured, eyes roving over the system and its brief description, in both Basic and Mando’a, at the bottom. Jango sucked in a breath, and Obi-Wan turned to them, blinking at Jaster for a moment, as though he’d had no idea he’d come in, or that Jango had moved from his seat, he’d been so focused on what he was doing. “Does Galidraan mean something to you?”

“It does,” Jaster said slowly. “We were meant to take a job there, before we were called to Melida/Daan.” Obi-Wan’s expression soured slightly at that, and Jango remembered how indignant he’d sounded about it the first time they’d met, and he blinked as it finally registered that Obi-Wan had called Tarre Vizsla a shabuir, essentially to his face, or whatever the equivalent was for… some sort of spirit. A (probably slightly hysterical) laugh tried to escape him, but he managed to tone it down to a grunt. Jaster looked at him, and Jango cleared his throat.

“Why do you ask?” Jango said, and Obi-Wan frowned at them.

“Don’t take it,” Obi-Wan said. “That job. You cannot go to Galidraan.” Jango frowned back and then exchanged another look with Jaster.

“Why, ad’ika? ” Jaster asked evenly, and Obi-Wan looked away, back to the projection.

He was silent for a time, long enough that Jango started to think he wouldn’t answer, and then he sighed. “Earlier, it wasn’t… I had a vision,” he said.

“Ah,” Jango said flatly, not really knowing what to say to that. This was… well out of his depth. He looked at Jaster, who looked concerned, but relatively calm.

“ Gedet’ye, ” Obi-Wan said, finally turning to look back at them, his eyes dark and haunted, and a shiver ran down Jango’s spine at that expression. “Don’t go.”

“ Buir, ” Jango said, “I read the memo, and I have my own concerns about Galidraan. I thought something was off before Obi-Wan even mentioned this.” Jaster looked to him, frowning slightly, and then back at Obi-Wan.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that as interesting as all of this is, right now, we are missing dinner, and Shakka will have our heads if you aren’t fed, Ob’ika. Besides, I came with good news: you’re allowed to leave, now.” Obi-Wan perked up at that, a great deal of the shadows and tension leaving his face, making him look even younger. “You’ll have to come back in the morning, for a check-in, and three times a week after that.”

“But I’m allowed to get out of bed, now?” Obi-Wan asked, and Jaster huffed a laugh.

“ ‘Lek, ad’ika. You’re allowed to get out of bed.”

Jango didn’t miss the smug little smirk Obi-Wan sent his way as he slid out of bed, and he rolled his eyes in response, but couldn’t help but smile. Strange as he was, Ob’ika was a good kid.

Jaster had debated taking Obi-Wan to the other Clan ade; he had said, after all, that Jetiise had Clans of their own, when they were young, and were raised communally, like many Mando’ade. But he’d eventually decided not to, knowing that being surrounded by other adiike, most of them younger than him, since the thirteen-year-olds were either preparing for, or had already passed, their verd’goten’e, would put Obi-Wan at risk for flashbacks. But he was damned either way, on that front: because of the nature of the conflict he’d been fighting, Jaster knew Obi-Wan was likely to be equally triggered by adults and ade.

But he seemed to do well enough around Jaster himself, and Jango, and he was Jaster’s foundling, so he had decided to take Obi-Wan back to their rooms instead. Obi-Wan had seemed relieved when Jaster had offered, and he took that as a promising sign. Most of the time, Jaster had little to no idea what was actually going on in Obi-Wan’s head, but he thought Obi-Wan was comfortable with him and Jango, even if only because they were now somewhat familiar.

Their rooms weren’t anything extravagant: off the entryway was the dining room and kitchen, and further down the hallway, there were four bedrooms. Jaster and Jango used theirs for storage, mostly, preferring to sleep in the karyai at the far end of their quarters, laying their sleep mats down beside the fire. Jaster wondered which Obi-Wan would prefer. For now, he simply steered him into the kitchen and sat Obi-Wan down at the table; they could give him a tour later. For now, Jaster was more concerned with making sure he ate. Shakka’s fury wasn’t to be trifled with, and she was right to be concerned. Obi-Wan was still far too thin.

They settled themselves around the low table, Jaster pretending not to notice Jango glancing at Obi-Wan a bit too much. Probably something to do with whatever Force-related issue Jango had told him to ask about. Obi-Wan, for his part, genuinely didn’t seem to notice, and Jaster frowned as he picked at his food, rearranging it on his plate more than eating it.

“Obi-Wan.” He looked up, and Jaster hummed. “I normally make a point not to discuss work over dinner, but this vision you had, about Galidraan, is bothering you, isn't it?” Obi-Wan looked back down at the table, but nodded. Jaster sighed. “We wouldn’t be able to accept the contract now even if I still wanted to, not with so many of the Haat’ade on the other side of the galaxy.” Obi-Wan looked up again, giving him a relieved little smile. Jaster smiled back, though the expression was brief. “Something about this is bothering me, though.” He glanced at Jango, who pursed his lips and nodded. Jaster suspected they were bothered by the same things; the Governor was holding something back from them. The situation couldn’t be as he had initially presented it to be, otherwise he would have made it a priority to find another team to hire. He wouldn’t wait around for Jaster and the Haat’ade if innocent civilians truly were being slaughtered in droves. “I may send a few verd’e to investigate, but that is all. I’ll be formally declining the job tomorrow, right after I finish comming the Jetiise. ” Obi-Wan frowned at that, but nodded slowly. Jaster smiled at him again. “Now, will you please eat? ”

Jango huffed a laugh beside him, and Obi-Wan rolled his eyes before quickly ducking his head again. Jaster grinned to himself; he’d hoped he wasn’t wrong in thinking that Obi-Wan was getting comfortable with them. More of his food started making it to his mouth, and Jaster returned most of his attention to his own meal, spiced heavier than Obi-Wan’s. The adiik had taken to their spices well, but he wasn’t allowed to have very much, yet. Shakka was wary of shocking his system.

“Jaster?” Obi-Wan hummed, still looking down at his food. “Do you know what happened to Tarre Vizsla’s lightsaber?”

Jaster looked up, frowning, and glanced at Jango, who was staring resolutely down at his plate, though he was clearly listening.

“Between when he died, and just a few years ago, I do,” Jaster answered lightly. “But it’s been lost, in recent years.” No one had come forward to say that they had it, and Jaster suspected that was because it was now in Pre Vizsla’s possession. Since he would be fourteen, now, he could Challenge Jaster, but he was still a bit young for that. “Why do you ask?”

Obi-Wan looked up, and then looked at Jango, who looked up at him and then shrugged, turning back to his food. Jaster’s frown deepened, and he raised an eyebrow. Obi-Wan flushed and looked away again, and Jaster sighed.

“I’ll tell you everything I know about it, after dinner,” he insisted, and Obi-Wan huffed, but obediently began eating again. Jaster nodded, satisfied for now. If bribery was what it took to convince Obi-Wan to take care of himself, then Jaster would stoop to bribery.

Quinlan wasn’t sure what to think when Master Tholme came to pull him out of his Human and Near-Human Physiology class early. It wasn’t that that was unusual, exactly; his Master’s skills as an investigator, and a Shadow, were in high demand, and they often had to leave abruptly for a mission. But normally, Tholme didn’t seem so… worried. It wasn’t obvious, exactly, but his shields over the bond were up high, and he was tense. Quinlan knew him well enough by now to know what that meant: he was worried, and upset, and trying very hard to hide it, which gave him away entirely.

“New mission, Master?” he asked, and Tholme shook his head.

“No, Padawan,” he said slowly. “Masters Koon and Dooku would like to speak to you.” Quinlan frowned, quickly thinking back, wondering if he’d played any pranks on them that were just now coming back to bite him, but… He hadn’t really gotten up to any mischief since Obi-Wan left the Temple. Losing his partner in crime had stifled a lot of the joy he used to find in it.

“What about, do you know?” Quinlan asked, and Tholme glanced at him, frowning. He turned away, saying nothing, and led Quinlan to one of the smaller gardens in heavy silence.

Tholme led him in, and Quinlan paused in the doorway. Master Koon and Master Dooku were siting cross-legged in the grass just off the little path, which he’d expected, but he hadn’t expected the four familiar people sitting in front of him. Quinlan’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Bant, Siri Tachi, Garen, and Reeft sitting in front of them.

He knew what this was about, then.

Tholme made no move to leave, instead going to sit on one of the benches against the wall, watching them. Quinlan went to sit beside Bant, who swiveled one eye to look at him and gave him a sad little half-smile. She must have realized why they were here, too.

“Thank you for joining us, Padawan Vos,” Master Koon said, and Quinlan nodded slowly. Dooku eyed him for a moment, his face blank, and then he turned away, looking over the others.

“Is Obi-Wan okay?” Bant blurted out, and Quinlan huffed. Subtle, Bant, really. “I mean, just… We’re all here. His best friends.”

Master Koon nodded slowly. “I know this answer is likely unsatisfactory, but we do believe he is well,” he said, and Bant let out a whoosh of air. Quinlan frowned.

“You believe he’s okay?” Siri repeated, sounding dubious. “As in, you don’t know that.”

“No, we do not,” Master Koon said. “We have news of him, but have yet to speak to him ourselves.”

“From Melida/Daan?” Bant asked softly. Quinlan didn’t resist when she reached for his hand and squeezed back gently. He was grateful she’d been careful to keep her robes out of the way, though, so he didn’t accidentally get an echo.

“Yes, and no,” Master Dooku said. “Obi-Wan’s case is under active investigation by the Council, however, so I can tell you no more.” Quinlan’s frown deepened at that, his brow furrowing.

“Because of that investigation,” Master Koon cut in, “we would appreciate the opportunity to ask you all a few questions, about Obi-Wan.” They all nodded eagerly, and Master Koon radiated warm-fond-thanks at them, and even Quinlan’s lips twitched in a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Did any of you notice any change in Obi-Wan’s demeanor, after he became a Padawan?” Master Dooku asked.

“He seemed… stressed,” Bant said slowly. “When he was able to comm. I… haven’t actually seen him, since he left the Temple. He never came back.”

Master Dooku’s lips twitched in a frown, but he nodded slowly. “And when he did comm, what did you talk about?”

“His missions, mostly,” Garen said. “He was only really able to find time in transit, between missions, and he usually talked about the one before.”

“Did he ever tell any of you about his time on Bandomeer?” Master Koon asked, and they all nodded.

“We heard that that’s where Master Jinn took him as a Padawan,” Bant said, and Quinlan huffed, folding his arms over his chest and looking down at the ground.

“Padawan Vos?” Master Koon prompted gently. “Did he tell you anything else?”

Quinlan gritted his teeth. He didn’t like thinking about that call. It had been the middle of the night, in the Temple, and Quinlan had miraculously been in, with upcoming exams he couldn’t miss taking them off the roster for a few weeks. Obi-Wan’s comm had woken him up, but Quinlan had been glad he’d answered. Obi-Wan had looked terrible, thin and bruised and there was a bandage on his neck, and Quinlan had asked what happened…

“He told me about the mine,” Quinlan said flatly, now glaring at the floor.

“The one that almost exploded?” Reeft clarified, and Quinlan shook his head.

“Well, that one, too,” he muttered. “But… the one before it was worse.” Master Koon hummed, sending another gentle wave of warmth that had Quinlan’s jaw unclenching, though he still didn’t look up.

“Did he mention any injuries?” Master Dooku asked, and Quinlan finally lifted his head when he heard nothing but silence, and saw the others shaking their heads. He sighed.

“Yeah, he did.” Master Dooku met his gaze again and nodded slowly.

“And his other missions; how were they?” Master Koon said.

“...exciting?” Siri offered, and Quinlan had to bite back a laugh. Of course she’d think that; as the youngest of them, she wasn’t even a Padawan yet, and had never really left the Temple.

“Yes, but also very stressful,” Bant added.

“And how did he describe his relationship with his Master?” Master Koon asked. They all shifted uncomfortably.

“He always talked about Jinn like he was… Obi-Wan always seemed sort of… sad,” Bant offered.

“He was hurt,” Quinlan ground out. “He knew he wasn’t wanted. And Jinn kept proving that, leaving him behind again and again—”

“Could you clarify that statement, Padawan Vos?” Master Dooku asked, and Quinlan was a little startled by the intensity of the Master’s gaze as it focused on him again.

“They separated a lot, on missions,” Quinlan said flatly. “Which we all know is rule number one of what not to do with your Padawan in the field. It happened on Bandomeer first, though he excused that one because he wasn’t actually Jinn’s Padawan yet, so Jinn ‘wasn’t responsible for him.’” Quinlan huffed, and Dooku began to frown. “And then Phindar, where Obi-Wan was even on a completely different planet at one point—” Master Dooku’s frown became a thunderous scowl, and Quinlan blinked at him. “And again on Gala. And the Council didn’t know about any of that, did you? Jinn never told you, and Obi-Wan never came back to the Temple to say anything himself.” Quinlan shook his head, feeling righteous indignation rising up. He felt Tholme brush against their bond, offering steady calm, and Quinlan took a breath and focused on it for a moment.

“There are some discrepancies in the mission reports that have recently come to light,” Master Koon carefully admitted. “Hence our investigation.”

Quinlan nodded slowly, real understanding hitting him as he realized that they were investigating Master Jinn, finally, and he grinned. “Obi-Wan told me about everything that happened. I’d be happy to tell you all about it, Masters.”

Master Dooku’s scowl faded into a more pensive look, and he nodded. “That would be much appreciated, Padawan Vos. Master Koon, if you would continue with the other younglings?” Master Koon nodded, and Master Dooku rose, gesturing for Quinlan to do the same. Without another word, he led Quinlan back out of the garden, Master Tholme trailing just behind them both.

Chapter Text

After dinner, Jaster had given Obi-Wan a tour, and shown him to the room that would be his for as long as he was on Manda’yaim. Jaster hadn’t lingered, seeming to sense that Obi-Wan needed a bit of space, and went to change out of his beskar’gam, telling Obi-Wan to meet him and Jango in the karyai when he was ready.

His room was larger than he’d expected, and there was a bed and a separate sleep mat, rolled up and resting in the trunk at the foot of the bed. The wardrobe, Jaster had said, they had filled with a few new clothes for him. Obi-Wan grinned as he saw that they’d put his beskad on the weapons rack along with his blaster, though the armor rack beside it was, of course, empty. Obi-Wan went to sit on the bed, taking a moment to breathe, and then flopped back onto it.

The ceiling here was painted, too, he realized, and he blinked up at it. This painting showed the legend of Rhora, an ancient Mando’ad who was fabled to have stolen the heart of a star and used it to light her forge fire, producing the first beskar out of normal iron. It had been one of Obi-Wan’s favorite stories, growing up, and he had asked Ba’ji to tell it so many times he’d lost count. And Ba’ji had done it, too, every time Obi-Wan asked, without a word of complaint.

Now that Obi-Wan was alone—as alone as he ever really was, Ba’ji’s presence in the back of his mind dulled down to a soft, warm pulse—he let the relief he felt hit him.

Jaster wouldn’t be going to Galidraan. He wouldn’t die, and the Haat’ade and the Jedi wouldn’t massacre each other. That, at least, was one weight off of his shoulders. He knew, of course, that it could happen anyway, at some other time in some other fashion, but the Force whispered change, and Obi-Wan just… knew, in his bones, that that vision wouldn’t be coming true anymore. Jaster, the Haat’ade, and the Jedi—they were all safe, for now.

And so were the Young. The war had been won, and the Haat’ade were splitting up; some of them would be remaining behind until the government was functional again, and the rest of them would return to Manda’yaim. Many of them would be leaving Melida/Daan with new ade, too. Things were changing for the Young, and they had peace. Obi-Wan dearly wished Cerasi could have lived to see it, and that he had gotten a chance to say goodbye to Nield, but… He understood why Nield blamed him, for Cerasi. Jaster hadn’t wanted to tell him that, but Obi-Wan had picked up on it anyway. He knew what Nield’s moods were like, and he was justified, this time (Obi-Wan ignored the disagreement Ba’ji flared at that). It hurt to lose another friend, but if it was better for Nield that Obi-Wan keep away from him, then that’s what he would do.

With the Jedi, the Young, and the Haat’ade sorted—or mostly sorted—that only left Obi-Wan at loose ends. He still had no idea whether he should stay here, on Manda’yaim, with the Haat’ade, or go back to the Jedi, or just… go off into the galaxy to be his own person. Obi-Wan had, admittedly, already mostly discarded that last idea; according to the standards of most of the civilized galaxy, he was still too young to take care of himself. There were only a few planets and sectors where that wasn’t the case: the Mandalore Sector, obviously, and the Chommell Sector, and a smattering of others in the Outer Rim. More commonly, the age of majority was sixteen or eighteen, which meant that Obi-Wan had to at least figure out a guardian of some sort for the next two years at minimum, since he was fourteen now.

(And he’d missed his birthday, this year. It had come and gone on Melida/Daan, and without access to a holoterminal, or a commlink, Obi-Wan had had no idea what the date even was for most of his time there. Obi-Wan had promptly informed Jaster of the correction to the age he’d given him before, not that that had made Jaster any happier about the situation and his involvement in it.)

Once he’d gotten over the sting of the perceived betrayal enough for Ba’ji’s actions to really register, Obi-Wan had forgiven him, and thought on it, as promised. Obi-Wan had, at first, not truly understood that just because Ba’ji was encouraging him to become Mando’ad, that didn’t mean he wanted Obi-Wan to cease to be a Jedi. The Force was still very insistent that Obi-Wan would be a Jedi: he would serve the Force, and the Light, in order to help the galaxy.

But as a Jetii’Manda? Or as part of the Order he’d grown up within?

Obi-Wan heaved a sigh, barely even registering the tug in his ribs now. He shook his head and forced himself to sit up. Even if he did go back to the Order, Jaster had already said that he wouldn’t let him go until an investigation had been finished—and Ba’ji radiated distant approval at that even as Obi-Wan scowled to himself—so he would be staying in Keldabe for a while regardless. And while he was here, Obi-Wan was determined to take advantage of it. Ba’ji didn’t know much of what had happened on Manda’yaim, after his death. Well, more accurately, about three hundred years later, after the Dral’han. There had been so few left who could connect to him, after that. But now, they both had a chance to fill in the missing pieces.

Nodding to himself, Obi-Wan looked around in the wardrobe until he found a soft, plain shirt and pants, changing quickly. He hesitated, trying to decide whether he would rather sleep alone, or in the karyai with Jaster and Jango. Well, he reasoned, they’d been in the room with him when he was asleep the entire trip here, essentially. Shrugging to himself, he grabbed the rolled up sleep mat and made his way out to join them.

Only Jango was there, already lounging on his own sleep mat, and Obi-Wan stopped, blinking at him. This was the first time he’d actually seen Jango without his beskar’gam; he’d only ever removed his buy’ce before. He looked smaller without it, and more relaxed than Obi-Wan had ever seen him. Jango looked over to him, giving him a smile and waving a hand.

“Come on,” he beckoned, and Obi-Wan went. He rolled out his mat in between the other two and got an approving nod from Jango. Obi-Wan decided to follow his example, laying back. Again, the ceiling was painted, this time showing Mandalorian ships in the space around Manda’yaim. Obi-Wan started to wonder if all of the ceilings in the stronghold were painted.

“I didn’t tell Jaster,” Jango said, and Obi-Wan blinked.

“About… my Ba’ji?” he clarified, and Jango hummed an affirmative, then turned his head to look at Obi-Wan.

“Tarre Vizsla is… important, to a lot of Mando’ade, and for… a lot of different reasons,” Jango said slowly. “You’ll see, after Jaster tells the story you asked for.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly, and Jango sighed, shaking his head and looking back to the ceiling. “It’s important, Ob’ika, so I think Jaster needs to know, but it isn’t my place to tell him. I did say that there’s something he should ask you about, but it’s your choice what you want to say when he does. If you tell him you aren’t comfortable talking about it yet, he won’t push you.”

Obi-Wan smiled at that. “Well, that’s a relief. Vor’e, Jango.”

“N’entye.” They lapsed into silence after that, Obi-Wan trying not to think any more, and focusing instead on the cheerful crackling of the fire in the center of the karyai.

It took a while for Jaster to join them, pausing in the doorway to smile at them fondly before going to his own mat, sitting down and bringing one knee up, rubbing at it gingerly. That was the knee that had gotten injured on Korda VI, Obi-Wan knew. It got stiff, sometimes.

“Comfortable?” Jaster asked, and Obi-Wan nodded, hearing Jango hum again beside him. Jaster smiled at them and nodded. “ Jate. Now, you asked about Tarre Vizsla’s Jetii’kad. ” Obi-Wan nodded eagerly and tugged at Ba’ji to get his attention; a moment later, Ba’ji sent back a pulse of acknowledgement.

“The earlier history is mostly legend and fable,” Jaster warned him, and Obi-Wan nodded his understanding. That part Ba’ji could tell him, anyway. “Tarre Vizsla was the first, and only, Jetii’Manda, as I’m sure you know—” Obi-Wan felt a vague sense of disagreement radiating from Ba’ji at that, and his lips twitched in a frown. Ba’ji hadn’t ever mentioned any other Mandalorian Jedi before, and Obi-Wan made a mental note to ask him about that later. “—and he created what we call the Dha’Kad. In Basic, the Darksaber.”

Jango had heard this story many times. He’d had a sick sort of fascination with it, when he’d been freshly adopted. After learning more about the war between the Haat’ade and Kyr’tsad, and realizing that many of the Old Clans weren’t willing to side with Jaster simply because he didn’t have the di’kut’la kriffing Dha’Kad, Jango had fixated on it. He supposed it didn’t help that his one memory of the thing had been Tor using it during the attack on Jaster near the farmstead. The attack that had killed his first aliit.

So he had asked Jaster to tell the story of the Dha’Kad again and again, down to the long list of Mand’alor’e who’d actually wielded it, and Jaster had done it without complaint, and had never refused him. And Jango had asked a lot.

But now, he listened again with fresh ears as Jaster told the story. He wondered if Obi-Wan was just comparing it against what Vizsla’s ghost had told him, or if, somehow, Vizsla didn’t know what had happened to it.

“How it actually came to be on Manda’yaim, we don’t know,” Jaster admitted. Jango always appreciated that about buir’s storytelling. Every fable and legend came with disclaimers or, in some rare cases, supporting evidence. “But legend has it that it was kept in the Jetii’yaim —what you call the Temple. During the Sacking of Coruscant, a member of Clan Vizsla took it from the Temple, and returned it to Manda’yaim. ” Jango glanced over at Obi-Wan, who was frowning slightly.

“That’s… not even possible,” Obi-Wan said slowly. Jaster tilted his head. “Tarre wasn’t even alive yet, at that point. That’s… more than two thousand years too early.”

Jaster raised an eyebrow, and then nodded slowly. “I’m assuming the Jetiise have their own records of him?”

“A few,” Obi-Wan said slowly, and Jaster nodded again, accepting that easily. Obi-Wan didn’t look back at Jango, but Jaster did, and Jango shrugged one shoulder jerkily.

“However it came to be on Manda’yaim, ” Jaster continued, “the Dha’Kad was wielded by Tarre Vizsla’s successors, and used to unite all Mandalore. It first became the symbol of the Mand’alor, and then more than that. In the eyes of many Mando’ade, even today, simply having it means you may claim the title.”

Obi-Wan sat up at that, frowning at Jaster, and then he looked away, at the fire. He pursed his lips, and Jango shivered despite the heat of the fire in the center of the karyai as he felt the air thickening again. It was… a little creepy, now that he understood that that sensation meant there was a karking ghost around.

Finally, Obi-Wan looked back up and nodded at Jaster for him to continue. Jaster nodded back and then stretched out his bad knee, grimacing faintly as he straightened it before speaking again.

“Before the Dral’han, there was a clear line of possession going back about a hundred and fifty years,” Jaster said. “Not all of those who had it claimed the title of Mand’alor, but they were all, at that time, House Vizsla, if not Clan Vizsla itself.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly; Jango was quietly relieved, for once, that Jaster didn’t seem like he was going to list them all off tonight. “After the Dral’han is where the history becomes… murky again.

“The Dral’han did more than decimate the planets themselves,” Jaster sighed. “It fractured Mando’ade. There were deep schisms in our society, after that, leading to the three factions we had waging a civil war right up until two years ago. Those who wanted to follow the Way, to honor the Resol’nare, without becoming conquerors; the Haat’ade, in essence.” Obi-Wan nodded. “And then there were those who had had enough of war. I can’t say I blame them, between the loss of life and the state of our worlds, after the bombardments. Entire planets within the sector swore to pacifism, and led to today’s ‘New Mandalorians.’” Obi-Wan nodded more slowly at that; Jaster grimaced again, no doubt because he was now getting to Kyr’tsad. “The third faction was… like the Haat’ade, the traditionalists, on the surface. They wanted to practice our warrior ways as well, but they also held on to their hatred for the Republic, and the Jetiise. In response, they wanted the sector to unite again, and return to the conquerors we once were. That group calls themselves Kyr’tsad. ” Obi-Wan nodded again.

“The Dha’Kad was, for many years after the Dral’han, not in many official records,” Jaster said. “It’s believed that it remained with House Vizsla, and they hid it rather than claim the title of Mand’alor before they had recovered the strength to back it up. Other Mand’alor’e have come and gone, since then; none have truly united the sector again, however. And none of them had the Dha’Kad.

“Its first reappearance,” Jaster continued, “was only eighteen years ago. It was in the possession of Tor Vizsla, the leader of Kyr’tsad and the man they claimed as their Mand’alor. The Haat’ade went to war with them.” Obi-Wan nodded, expression dark, and Jango’s hands clenched. He sat up, frowning as the ghost made its presence known again. “ Kyr’tsad were… demagolkase. They kidnapped adiike and brainwashed them into verd’e, when they didn’t simply kill them. They laid waste to entire villages, sparing no one. Among other crimes.” Obi-Wan frowned at that.

“And Tor Vizsla led them.” Jaster nodded.

“Elek. He led Kyr’tsad, and all of House Vizsla,” Jaster told him, and Obi-Wan blinked at him, and then paled slightly.

“I am not repeating that,” he muttered, and Jango wondered what Tarre Vizsla had had to say about his descendant. Jaster raised an eyebrow, and Obi-Wan flushed. “And two years ago…?”

“We’re getting there,” Jaster murmured, looking at Jango. He knew what his buir was asking.

Jango nodded and sat up, and Obi-Wan turned to him. Jango took a deep breath. “I told you, earlier, that my first aliit was killed,” he began, and Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “Tor was there. He was the one who killed them. They were just farmers, with very little combat training, and he killed them just because they’d been in his way. Jaster saved me, and because I was from the area, and knew it better than they did, I led the Haat’ade to a point where they could ambush Tor and his Kyr’tsadiise.”

“We won, and we thought Tor was dead,” Jaster sighed. “Until two years ago, when we were on Korda VI.”

Obi-Wan turned back to Jaster, frowning. “Where you were injured.”

Jaster nodded. “Tor had survived on Concord Dawn, and he’d been biding his time since then. He finally found an in, corrupting my second and recruiting him to spy on us, at first. And then to lead us into a trap. We took a contract there, a simple search and rescue for the local government. Everything looked to be above-board, but when we got there, Kyr’tsad was waiting, and the Kordans with them.” Obi-Wan’s frown deepened at that, clearly disturbed. “Thankfully, one of their heavy guns suffered a cascade failure. Otherwise, I doubt we would have made it out. We regrouped, and then we went after Tor, and finished what we started.”

Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. “Did Tor Vizsla have long dark hair, and black beskar’gam? A huge man, tall and broad—” Jango frowned. That was right on the nose. But how would Obi-Wan have known what he looked like?

“He did, and he was,” Jaster answered slowly, frowning curiously at Obi-Wan. “Why do you ask?”

Obi-Wan paled even further. “He’s not dead. I saw him, in my vision. You were—so many of the Haat’ade had been killed, while he watched and laughed.” He shivered, and Jaster continued to frown at him for a moment before moving into a crouched position in front of him. Slowly, telegraphing his movements and giving Obi-Wan ample time to move away or say something, Jaster reached out and took hold of his shoulders.

“We aren’t going to Galidraan, Ob’ika,” Jaster reassured him. “And an investigation team would be a six person squad, at most. There will be no slaughter.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly, and Jaster smiled at him. “It was a good thing you did, warning us. Vor entye.”

Obi-Wan gave Jaster one of those lopsided grins again. “Thank you for believing me.” Jango frowned at that; the way he’d said it, so relieved and a touch surprised… How many times had others discounted his visions before? How many terrible things had happened that Obi-Wan had known were coming, and tried to stop, only to have the other Jetiise do nothing?

Jaster’s smile turned sadder at that, and he nodded. He glanced at Jango, and then looked back to Obi-Wan. He squeezed his shoulders once and then let go, settling back onto his sleep mat.

“Jango told me there’s something I should ask about,” Jaster said slowly, and Obi-Wan glanced back at him, and then ducked his head, staring into the fire. Jango felt Vizsla’s presence weighing down on them again, and then Obi-Wan sighed.

“Jango did warn me.” He fidgeted slightly, and Jaster hummed.

“We’ve talked about a lot already tonight, and it’s been a long day,” he said. “Would you rather we talk about it tomorrow?” Obi-Wan glanced up and then nodded slowly. Jaster nodded back. “Fair enough. Jate ca, ad’ike.”

“Jate ca,” Obi-Wan and Jango both chorused.

Jango laid down, turning onto his side so that he could see both Obi-Wan and Jaster. He saw Jaster turn as well, both of them looking at Obi-Wan, who curled into a ball under his blankets so small it made Jango’s heart ache a bit. He was so tiny for his age. It felt a little ridiculous, but, on the off chance that Vizsla’s ghost could hear his thoughts…

Gedet’ye, think happy things at him tonight, Jango thought as hard as he could, and he felt the air around him still, and then compress, like he was being surrounded. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he shivered again. The sensation receded quickly, and Jango breathed a little easier.

It didn’t take long before he was nearly asleep; it had been a long day, just as Jaster had said. It would only be the next morning that Jango would remember the voice he heard, in the space between wakefulness and sleep.

“Udesii, atin’ad. I will guard his dreams tonight.”

Chapter Text

Jaster slept poorly, that night. He’d taken quite a while to fall asleep, at first, too caught up in thinking about the implications of Obi-Wan’s vision. And then he’d woken up every few hours to check on Obi-Wan. Not that it was necessary; he slept just as soundly and easily here as he had on the ship. That was a blessing, especially since Jango had told him, quietly and briefly, that Obi-Wan had startled earlier on waking and pushed him away, but that had been the only incident so far. Jango himself had been far, far worse when it came to lashing out. Jaster was glad not to have to add night terrors to the list of things Obi-Wan suffered.

So he was tired, the next morning, but he still got up and made caff for Jango and shig for himself and Obi-Wan, who surprised him by waking next. Jango was usually an early riser (though he was never very happy about it), but not this morning, it seemed. Probably the hyperlag, Jaster thought. He smiled at Obi-Wan as he made his way back into the karyai, carefully setting down the caff near Jango’s head, knowing the smell would wake him faster than any alarm. He held out one of the mugs of shig for Obi-Wan, who blinked at him and then finally sat up. Jaster couldn’t help but grin at his adorably mussed hair.

“Jate vaar'tur, Ob’ika,” Jaster greeted him.

“Jate vaa—” Obi-Wan interrupted himself with a yawn, and Jaster huffed a laugh. Obi-Wan smiled a bit blearily at him and tried again. “Jate vaar'tur.”

Behind him, Jango began to stir, grumbling to himself under his breath and reaching blindly for the caff. Jaster shook his head in fond amusement; if there was an emergency, Jango could be reliably counted upon to be ready, and sharp, no matter the hour. But outside of that, his ad was not a morning person, his days only starting early out of necessity. Jaster had hoped he would grow out of that, but he was already twenty-two. Almost twenty-three, now.

“Jate vaar’tur, Jan’ika,” Jaster said, and laughed as Jango cursed Jaster’s buir’e, his ba’buir’e, and his pet striil that’d been dead for longer than Jango had even been alive. Finally, Jango rolled over and blinked at Obi-Wan.

“Kriff,” he groaned. Obi-Wan blinked back at him.

“Did you sleep alright?” Obi-Wan asked mildly, and Jango simply grunted. Jaster couldn’t help but chuckle again.

“He’s like this every morning,” he said, and Obi-Wan blinked again.

“I see.” Jango huffed and sat up, reaching for his mug and downing half the caff in one go.

“Now that we’re all awake,” Jaster said, and waited for both boys to look at him before continuing. “Let’s go over today’s agenda.” Jango straightened slightly, and Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “Obi-Wan, you have your appointment with Shakka first thing after breakfast.” Obi-Wan frowned slightly, but nodded again. “Jango and I will escort you there, and pick you up after. While you’re with her, I’ll be sending my message to the Jetiise. ” Obi-Wan pursed his lips at that, and Jaster sighed. He’d debated waiting until after to tell Obi-Wan, but he wanted to be as honest and forthright with Obi-Wan as he could. The kid’s trust in adults had been shattered dozens of times over by now; Jaster would rather he be briefly uncomfortable with the knowledge of what was going on than think Jaster had lied to him by omission later.

“After that,” Jaster continued before Obi-Wan could begin stewing over the Jetiise, “I thought we might have you take a few placement tests, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head slightly. “Placement tests? For what?”

“Your education is not something we will neglect, while you’re here. I thought putting you in classes with the others would be the simplest solution,” Jaster explained. “You’ll need something to do, and even if you do choose to leave, you’ll be here for a while, yet.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly, no doubt remembering their conversation about him going back to the Jetiise. Jaster still hoped that he wouldn’t, but he knew that the best way to accomplish that would be to show Obi-Wan that he was safe here, and that they had his best interests at heart. If that meant entertaining the idea of sending him back, then Jaster would do it, though he desperately hoped that wasn’t the choice Obi-Wan would make, when the time came.

“What kinds of classes?”

“What did you take at the Temple?” Jaster returned.

“My last term there? Um, astronav, chemistry, binary coding, negotiation and politics, philosophy, and two different lightsaber classes,” Obi-Wan said, ticking a finger for each one and then nodding. “That’s all.” Jaster huffed. All, he said, as if that was a light class load for the twelve-year-old he’d been at the time. “I’d already fulfilled my history and language requirements.”

Jaster nodded slowly, a plan starting to form. He’d been testing the waters, seeing how Obi-Wan might react to the idea of attending classes with the other ade, but he was probably already ahead of his agemates. He would do well in classes of older ade —not too much older than him, still teens, but those a few years past their verd’goten’e… They should be in the sweet spot. Not old enough to be an adult in Obi-Wan’s mind, but not young enough to trigger his protective instincts.

“We’ll give you the whole of the standard tests, if you’d like,” Jaster said, “but you’ll probably want a couple of days to do it. They’re thorough.” Jango grunted unhappily, no doubt remembering when Jaster had brought him back and given him the same tests. He’d taken a week to finish them, complaining of a headache the entire time.

“Alright,” Obi-Wan said, nodding.

“We’ll stop the testing at midmeal, and come back here. We’ll be in for the rest of the day,” Jaster said, and Obi-Wan nodded again. Jaster took a sip of his shig, and then turned back to Obi-Wan. “You should also know that Shakka will be joined in her evaluation by a mir’baar’ur.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head again at that, frowning thoughtfully. “A… brain medic?” he translated, and then he frowned. “Oh. Like a Soul Healer.”

Jaster nodded slowly. He hadn’t ever heard that term before, but it was fairly self-explanatory, and not a bad analogy for a mir’baar’ur. “‘Lek. It’s required for all of us, after difficult missions, and once a year at minimum for all Haat’ade on active duty.” Jango and Jaster both went every few months, given how busy their mission roster was kept, and all of the action they saw, even if the missions were routine. That seemed to settle Obi-Wan slightly, as he’d hoped it would, and he nodded again.

“Okay,” Obi-Wan agreed easily enough, and turned back to his shig.

Jaster was all but certain that getting him to speak to the mir’baar’ur would be far easier than getting him to actually open up to them. Obi-Wan didn’t trust easily. Jaster shook his head to clear it, and pivoted to something he hoped Obi-Wan might actually look forward to.

“Shakka’s evaluation will also come with a recommendation on when you could resume physical training,” Jaster said, and Obi-Wan straightened, looking up with his eyes bright. Jaster grinned at that eager expression; he’d hoped that Obi-Wan would want to continue with that aspect of his education, though he wouldn’t have blamed Obi-Wan if he’d turned out like Adonai after everything he’d been through. “Once she does, we’ll talk about what you’d like to learn, in that regard, and discuss a timetable.” Obi-Wan nodded, a smile of his own making its way onto his face. “We don’t have anyone to continue teaching you with a proper Jetii’kad, but we do have plenty of verd’e who are skilled with beskad’e.”

If Jaster thought Obi-Wan had looked eager before, that had nothing on the way he was now practically vibrating with excitement. “I’d love to watch them practice, if I could, even before I’m cleared,” he said, and Jaster nodded.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Jango snorted, and Obi-Wan turned to look at him.

“You’re going to introduce him to ba’vodu Jorin, aren’t you?” Jango asked, and Obi-Wan looked between them.

“There are more of you? In your aliit, I mean,” Obi-Wan clarified, and Jaster nodded.

“‘Lek. Jorin is my ba’vodu. He’s my mother’s brother.” Obi-Wan nodded. “Jorin stays here, at the stronghold, and serves as our goran. He prefers beskad’e to blasters; it’s just more practical, as a goran. If the forge were ever attacked, using a blaster could get dicey, if you touch off the forge. He specialized from an early age, and he’s our best instructor in beskad’e. ” Obi-Wan blinked at him and then broke out in a wide grin.

“When can I meet him?” he asked, and Jaster laughed. He’d been wary of introducing them, until he’d seen a bit more of how Obi-Wan would do meeting more adults. But with a reaction like that…

“Why don’t I invite him for dinner tomorrow?” Jaster suggested, and Obi-Wan nodded eagerly. He grinned at him. “Jate. Now, it’s time for breakfast.”

Obi-Wan muttered something under his breath about people trying to feed him constantly, and both Jaster and Jango pointedly ignored him. Jaster was pleased to see that Jango needed no prompting to begin herding Obi-Wan to the kitchen, not giving him a chance to slip away. Getting that kid to eat was like pulling teeth, but Jaster was a quick study: bribery was effective. Hopefully, the promise of clearance to continue training with his beskad would force him to take better care of himself.

Jorin was one of three who had known from the start why Jaster had insisted the Haat’ade go to Melida/Daan. He had believed Jaster immediately, despite how incredible it might have sounded on the surface. It did not surprise him, after all, that the ka’ra called to the rightful Mand’alor. That was as it should be.

Nor was he at all surprised to hear that Jaster had returned with another foundling. Jaster had told him what Tarre Vizsla had said: dar’buir’e were slaughtering their own adiik’e. That had almost been enough to drive Jorin from his forge and out into the field for the first time in well over a decade. Only his unshakeable belief in Jaster and Jango, and his trust that they would handle it, had calmed the impulse.

The point being that that situation, horrifying as it was, was the perfect opportunity for prospective ven’Mando’ade to meet potential buir’e.

And now that Jango was grown, more and more often taking jobs away from Jaster, with his own squad, Jorin knew that Jaster missed teaching. He was proud of Jango, of course, immeasurably so, and would never hold him back, but Jango had left a void behind him when he’d grown up. Jorin had planned for Jaster to return with a new foundling, and he was looking forward to welcoming a new ad into their aliit.

Jaster appeared in his forge the morning after their return, though Jorin would not have begrudged him a few days, in this case. He did have a new foundling to settle, after all. Jaster looked tired, though he doubted anyone who didn’t know him as well as Jorin did would have been able to tell. He wondered if Jaster had kept himself up late, worrying about or comforting his foundling.

Since he wasn’t in the middle of anything terribly important—certainly not more important than an ad, in any case—Jorin waved for Jaster to take a seat on the bench he kept off to the side of the forge for his visitors’ convenience.

“Mand’alor,” Jorin greeted him, bowing his head and pressing his closed fist to his chest.

Jaster nodded back. “Ba’vodu.”

“I hear you have returned victorious, and with a new foundling in tow,” Jorin said, and Jaster nodded, smiling slightly. “Tell me about this prospective member of cuun aliit.”

Jaster sighed, shaking his head, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together. “His name is Obi-Wan. He’s a good kid. Smart, kind, and one hell of a fighter. He was one of four… Generals, on Melida/Daan. They called their army the Young.” Jorin frowned at that and came closer, leaning against a nearby workbench. “I’m sure you heard the basics.” Jorin nodded again; yes, he had heard about how the Melida and the Daan had thrown themselves so deeply into their hatred that it blinded them to all else. They had no longer cared about their ade, only their cause. If the ade got in the way… It reminded Jorin of Kyr’tsad, and he scowled lightly. “One of their leaders, Cerasi, died. The other, Nield, blamed Obi-Wan for it, and demanded that we take him with us.”

Jorin’s scowl deepened at that, but he nodded, and then raised an eyebrow as Jaster fidgeted, refusing to look at him. “Me’bana?”

Jaster sighed again and sat back, finally looking him in the eye. “He was a Jetii. A Padawan.” Jorin blinked at him, and then grimaced.

“Jaster,” he said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “far be it from me to give orders to my Mand’alor, but clearly I must remind you that keeping a Jeti’ika is not a good idea. They will come looking for him.”

“They left him there,” Jaster said flatly, and Jorin dropped his hand, staring at him. For a moment, he thought he couldn’t have heard that correctly.

“Me’ven?” Jorin growled, and Jaster nodded. “I think that you had better start from the beginning.”

Jaster grimaced and shook his head, leaning back against the wall behind him. “The ‘beginning’ of where the Jetiise went wrong with him goes back further than Melida/Daan.” Jorin frowned, but gestured for Jaster to continue. “He told us some about the Order, for context. When Jetii’adiik’e turn eleven, they’re eligible for their apprenticeships…”

Jorin listened attentively as Jaster relayed all that Obi-Wan had told them. He forced himself not to focus on the Jetiise, and all the harm they had done to an adiik, lest he become too angry to focus on the more important matter: Obi-Wan himself. The ad had been through more in two years than many people endured in a lifetime. He decided then that it was for the best that Jaster had brought Obi-Wan back to Keldabe. The ad would need time for mirjahaal, and it didn’t seem as if the Jetiise were capable of understanding the concept, given how little they’d tried to look after his mental and physical health.

But Jaster wasn’t finished when he had related how Obi-Wan had come to be on Melida/Daan, alone, acting as one of four Generals of an army of child soldiers.

“When we first landed, we didn’t see any ade. Only ikaad’e, too young to walk yet. We’d given up the search for the day when Obi-Wan, Nield, and Cerasi found us,” Jaster said. “The three primary leaders of the Young; the other, Mawat, preferred to keep his distance.

“It was Obi-Wan who approached us, and he greeted us in Mando’a. We spoke enough that I realized he’s fluent, and he sounds… just like Tarre Vizsla. He had the same accent, and some of the words he used… Like vi, and werd. He hasn’t explained that, yet, and I haven’t asked. But I would assume he learned Mando’a from the records they must have of Tarre Vizsla.” Jorin hummed; that was certainly interesting, although he supported Jaster’s decision not to question the ad too much. In this early stage, it was best to allow him to open up at his own pace. Building and maintaining trust was paramount in raising any child, of course, but it was doubly so with foundlings.

Jorin smiled to himself, just a bit, when Jaster told him which beskad Obi-Wan had chosen. He knew well which blade Jaster meant; he had forged it himself, after all, and he had used it for several years before retiring to his forge full-time. It was a fine blade, and Jorin had not wanted it to sit idle, and so he eventually had given it to Mhon a few years back. He was pleased that it was finally seeing use again.

The smile fled quickly as Jaster moved on to the battle. Obi-Wan had fought well, as had his fellow Generals, and the Haat’ade, but they hadn’t counted on the Melida attacking the Daan at the airfield simultaneous to their own strike. The battlefield had dissolved into chaos, and Jaster had called for everyone to regroup, and Cerasi had taken that to mean a retreat. And that, apparently, she had refused to stand for.

Jaster had assigned a pair of spotters to all of the Young who were old enough to fight, and Cerasi had set her blaster to stun, knocked them both out, and taken the grenades off their belts. She’d started running towards the fighters, still grounded on the landing pads, and Obi-Wan had taken off after her. The rest of the Haat’ade who were near enough followed suit, including Jango and Jaster.

Cerasi hadn’t waited, hadn’t listened to them, too impassioned and too focused on her goal to really hear what they were trying to tell her. None of them had known yet that she had the grenades, but Obi-Wan had “sensed” something. He’d turned away from her just as the first blast went off, and pushed everyone else back with his powers.

“He probably saved a few of our lives,” Jaster said, and Jorin nodded slowly. Jaster shook his head again and looked down at the floor again. “Cerasi, obviously, didn’t make it.”

“And the third blamed Obi-Wan,” Jorin said, echoing what Jaster had first summarized for him. “So you brought him here.”

Jaster nodded. “‘Lek, but there’s still more.” Jorin raised an eyebrow. “Obi-Wan had a vision yesterday. He saw Galidraan.” Jorin’s other eyebrow rose to join its mate, and Jaster looked up, grimacing faintly. “He begged me not to go. He said that ‘so many of the Haat’ade had been killed’ while…” Jaster sighed again and reached up to scrub a hand over his face, looking worried and weary. “He described a large man, in black beskar’gam, with long black hair.” Jorin frowned at that.

“Tor Vizsla,” Jorin said. They had thought him dead, but then, they had thought that before and been proven wrong. Jaster nodded.

“Elek. If his vision is true, that means Vizsla is alive, and Galidraan is another trap he’s laid for us,” Jaster said, and Jorin hummed.

“What will you do?”

“Something didn’t sit quite right with me about it even before this,” Jaster said slowly. “When I commed the Governor before we left for Melida/Daan, to explain that we were no longer available, he seemed… shaken up. Beside himself, almost. I felt a bit bad about it, so I reached out to Dex, asked him to tell a few other groups about the job. I had a message waiting for me from Dex when we got back; four other crews contacted the Governor, and he refused each of them. But there was also another message from the Governor waiting for us, and he still made the situation sound so urgent. It’s almost certainly a trap.”

Jorin hummed and nodded slowly. “Gar serim.”

“I’ll send a small team to Galidraan to look into it,” Jaster said. “Maybe a five or six person squad, in one of the retrofitted civvie ships that can still pass. If Kyr’tsad is involved, and Tor Vizsla is alive, then I want to know.”

Jorin nodded firmly once more, closing the matter. “We have our next steps, then. In the meantime, I look forward to meeting Obi-Wan. Though I will need more time than usual to forge beskar’gam for him.”

Jaster sighed roughly and tugged a hand through his hair; Jorin frowned at him. “You can meet him at dinner tomorrow night, but… He may not stay, ba’vodu. Even after everything that’s happened, part of him misses the Jetiise. There’s a chance he’ll choose to go back.”

“And you would let him?” Jorin asked lightly.

“It isn’t my place to refuse him,” Jaster said simply. “He’s fourteen, and already a veteran. He’s earned the right to make his own decisions, even if it wasn’t a formal verd’goten as we know it. But, as I’ve already told him, I would have conditions of the Order before I’d allow them to take him back.”

Jorin nodded again, smiling slightly. “A wise course, though that is a problem we will not face.” Jaster raised an eyebrow at him, and Jorin’s grin grew wider. “You do not see it?” Jaster frowned at him in confusion, and Jorin clicked his tongue, shaking his head in amusement. “A Mando’a-speaking former- Jeti’ika full of mandokar just happened to be on the planet Tarre Vizla bade you go to?” Jorin huffed a laugh and shook his head again. “That ad was meant for us, for Mandalore. Bal kaysh ven’cuyi Mando’ad.”

It had a ring of truth to it, an almost palpable feeling in the air, speaking of what would be. Jaster nodded slowly, a small, tentative smile making its way onto his face.

Obi-Wan would be a Mandalorian. Jorin knew it, deep in his bones, in the same way that he had known Jaster was destined for greatness when he was under a year old and also known that it was not simply because of familial sentimentality, and the same way he had looked at Jango when he’d first arrived and known that he would succeed Jaster, Montross’s claim be damned. And as for Montross… Jorin hadn’t been able to sense much, only the sense that when he died, none would add him to their Remembrances.

But Obi-Wan… Jorin had yet to even meet the ad, but he already knew his fate. The once- Jetii would be theirs, and that meant that Jorin needed to begin researching alternative materials for his beskar’gam, since he’d never met anyone connected to the kar’a who was comfortable in beskar. Not quite forgetting that Jaster was still in the room, Jorin allowed his attention to drift back to his new project, surveying the materials he already had gathered.

Now, Jorin had never heard any complaints about durasteel training beskar’gam, but that was hardly a good permanent alternative. But perhaps an alloy…? He vaguely heard Jaster huff, amused. Taking the inherent dismissal, Jaster let himself out, and Jorin returned his focus to his task once more; an alloy of some sort would likely be his best option…

Chapter Text

It was more of a struggle than Jango would have liked to remain still and focused while Jaster recorded his message to the Jetiise.

Jango knew that Jaster hadn’t intended on the intimidating honor guard for this; the enormous beskar throne, and Jango in full beskar’gam at his side, would have been enough to make his point, though he didn’t refuse the others as they neatly lined themselves up behind the throne. For his part, Jango couldn’t help but smile as he looked them over and saw that every Haat’ad who had come with them when they returned early from Melida/Daan (though the Young were now proposing to call it Melidaan, a signal of their new unity) was there. The implied acceptance of his ven’vod’ika was touching, and Jango couldn’t honestly claim not to be pleased by the intimidating image this would present to the Jetiise.

But his thoughts quickly diverted to another… troubling issue, dwelling on that strange voice he’d heard as he drifted off to sleep the night before—had that been Vizsla? Jango remembered feeling as if the air around him had been compressed, like it did so often around Obi-Wan, and he had made that connection to Vizsla the moment Obi-Wan had unintentionally told him the truth. It made sense.

But it also made absolutely no sense at all, because normal people didn’t hear ghosts. Yes, Jango now believed that Tarre Vizsla had appeared to Jaster in a dream, but Jaster was the Mand’alor. It made sense for Vizsla’s ghost to reach out to Jaster to intervene on Melida/Daan, and lead them to Obi-Wan. It even made perfect sense for Vizsla’s ghost to have attached itself to the ad —Tarre Vizsla had been the only Mandalorian Jedi, so it was only logical for him to find the most mandokarla Jeti’ika and, when the Jetiise failed him, lead Obi-Wan to Mandalore.

It made no sense for Tarre Vizsla to speak to Jango. And it made even less sense that Jango had actually been able to hear him.

“Jango?” He grunted and blinked, forcing his thoughts back to the present, and was suddenly aware of Jaster standing in front of him, buy’ce in hand, a concerned look on his face, and the other verd’e now leaving the room. “ Me’vaar ti gar, ad’ika? ”

“ Naas, ” Jango replied promptly, and then he waved a hand. “I just have to talk to Obi-Wan about something.”

Jaster’s expression slid into one of careful consideration, and Jango was glad he hadn’t taken his own bucket off yet. “That ‘Force osik’ you told me to ask about?”

“Mm.”

“Jango,” Jaster sighed, “I know you want to respect his privacy, but if it’s that important—”

“It isn’t,” Jango immediately said, and then he grimaced and shook his head. He took off his buy’ce and mustered a smile for his buir, though Jaster was still giving him that look. “Well, it is important, but it’s not urgent. It’s nothing that’s going to hurt anyone, it’s just… a lot.”

Jaster hummed and nodded slowly. “Alright, Jango. I’ll let the two of you keep your secrets, for now. But if this goes on for much longer, you won’t leave me with much choice.”

By “this,” Jango knew his buir meant his own odd behavior, and he sighed again. “ Suvari, buir. It won’t be an issue.”

Jaster nodded firmly. “ Jate. Now that that’s dealt with, and we can only wait for the Jetiise to respond, I still need to comm the Governor of Galidraan to decline that job. But I can do that from my office. You can join me, if you like; Obi-Wan won’t be done for another hour, at least.”

Jango nodded and slipped his buy’ce back on. “ ‘Lek, buir. ”

With one more lingering, almost suspicious look, Jaster shook his head, put his own bucket back on his head, and led them from the frankly obnoxious throne room. Jango took a deep breath before following, trying to put the karking ghost out of his mind, for now.

That had just been a dream, Jango told himself, and resolutely ignored the way the air compressed around him once more, and a faint sigh rung in his ears.

It was obvious to Natu that Qui-Gon did not want to be here. It was written all over him, in his overly stiff and shallow bow, his lack of any greeting beyond, “Master Healer,” and in the way he was only barely managing to keep his expression serene instead of glowering, slipping every now and then to glare at her.

Not that that was any surprise to her. Qui-Gon had not much wanted to be here the last time he’d been sent to her either, and he’d behaved much the same.

“Do you know why you’re here, Qui-Gon?” she asked, finally breaking the silence. His mask of serenity slipped once more, the glare returning momentarily. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he drew in a short huff of breath before answering.

“The ruler of a foreign and traditionally hostile people has somehow gained ‘custody’ over my former-apprentice, and has now made specious accusations against me in an attempt to justify his claim on the boy,” Qui-Gon said, trying for an even tone and falling flat. Both of Natu’s eyebrows rose—so that was the story he’d spun for himself? She’d assumed he was deep in denial, somehow, about everything that had happened, but not that deep.

“The Mand’alor’s complaint launched this investigation, yes,” Natu agreed mildly. “But you’re here, Qui-Gon, because you fucked up.” The crude language had the intended effect, and broke through Qui-Gon’s fleeting serenity. His brows drew together, confusion warring with anger. Natu switched on the datapad she was holding and opened the file she’d prepared before this. “Let’s start with the first things first, shall we? I read the transcript of your report to the Council on Bandomeer.” She held out the datapad, and Qui-Gon stared at her for a moment before taking it, frowning at the holo she had pulled up. “Those are some very distinctive scars, aren’t they?” Qui-Gon grunted, but did not reply, and he did not look up, still staring down at the ‘pad. “From an electrostaff. Tell me, Qui-Gon; when would your former-apprentice have been struck by an electrostaff, repeatedly, and have it held there long enough to leave those sorts of scars?”

Qui-Gon still did not look up at her, but his hand tightened rather tellingly around the ‘pad. “I assume the Mandalorians sent this picture, then? How do we know—”

“That it’s even him?” Natu finished. “Move to the next file.” Again, he hesitated, and then did as he was told, his whole body stiffening at the next holo. The first had been rather close up, documenting the injury itself, but the next put it in context. From the angle, Obi-Wan’s face was partly visible, and it looked as though he’d been in the middle of speaking to someone out of view while obligingly holding his arm up so they could take the picture. “Before you ask: yes, we have already had them verified. They were not doctored in any way.”

Qui-Gon continued to stare at the datapad, stiff and perfectly silent in the Force beyond the basic thrum of life, his shields up high and tight. Without looking up, he murmured, “But how—? He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t even that long a time—” Qui-Gon cut himself off, shaking his head before refocusing on the holo.

Natu frowned slightly, wondering what of that broken line of thought to address. Not, she thought, the missing time. Not yet. The Force and her instincts both told her it was too soon for that.

“I know what you told the Council,” she said. “You didn’t ask if he was injured. He was not your field partner, Qui-Gon. He was a youngling, and then he was your Padawan. You are the Master; it was your duty to ask. That alone has already all but confirmed the charge of negligence, pending only a statement from Obi-Wan himself.”

At that statement, Qui-Gon flinched. But not, Natu realized, from the sentiment—he’d flinched at Obi-Wan’s name. Natu remembered how he had gone out of his way to avoid saying Obi-Wan’s name during his report, and Xanatos’s name, and fought back a sigh.

“Qui-Gon,” she said, gentler now. “You aren’t cruel, I know that. You didn’t intend for any of this to happen, but the fact remains that it did. Obi-Wan was under your care, and was seriously injured while in a situation both you and the Council should have ordered him to me for. Instead, he was not even brought back to the Temple to rest.”

“The missions were too pressing, and I had not realized—”

“The missions were more important than your Padawan’s care?” Natu asked, and Qui-Gon frowned at her.

“As I said, I had not realized all that had happened.”

Natu nodded. “As I said, Qui-Gon: you fucked up. This proves that your judgement is compromised, and you know what that means. You will not be allowed out into the field, let alone outside of this Temple, until I have determined that your judgement is no longer compromised.”

Qui-Gon’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing again. “I see. This is the will of the Council, then.”

“It is. Grandmaster Yoda can no longer protect you from yourself, Qui-Gon,” she said bluntly. “He’s recused himself in all matters concerning this investigation. The Council will not take back its decision, this time. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, for now.”

Natu watched the anger cross his face, quickly replaced by resignation. “I see,” he repeated, more softly this time. “What would you have me do to gain that judgement?”

“The first step,” she said, “will be admitting to yourself that you fucked up. I realize that may take a while; why don’t you come back tomorrow? The same time will do.”

“As you wish, Master Venath.”

“You know my rules, Qui-Gon,” she said primly.

Through gritted teeth, he corrected himself: “Natu.”

“Thank you. Now go on, I’m sure you have much to think about before our next session.” He did not need telling twice, standing and storming from the room without even pausing to bow.

Well. That could have gone better, but it also could have gone far, far worse. For now, Natu decided that it was enough that he’d come to understand that this time, he would be forced to cooperate with her, and that he’d been confronted with the truth. She had debated whether to start slowly or hit him over the head with the truth, and she was glad that she had chosen the blunt route. Despite that, the Force was yet again in agreement with her own instincts: treating Qui-Gon Jinn was going to be a long, difficult, and frequently frustrating process.

Natu sighed, rising to make herself a cup of tea. She could only hope that, wherever the Mand’alor had taken Obi-Wan Kenobi, the youngling would be getting the care he desperately needed himself.

Tala hadn’t been surprised to hear that she’d been assigned a new patient upon the Mand’alor’s return. She had heard the scuttlebutt going around the stronghold, of course, and knew very well where they had just come from, and what had happened there. All of the verd’e who’d gone on that mission were going to be required to see their regular mir’baar’ur’e after that. And, given what Tala knew of the situation on Melida/Daan, it also didn’t surprise her that the Mand’alor had brought back a foundling, and he was to be her patient.

The ad’s file had surprised her. Shakka had come to hand it off personally, a grimace on her face, her lekku curled in a distinctly disgusted expression.

“No one’s done right by this one before,” she’d said, setting the datapad on Tala’s desk. “He’s going to need you.”

After reading it, Tala couldn’t help but agree. Jaster had written most of the history himself, a summary of what Obi-Wan had told him on the journey to Manda’yaim, and the rest had been filled in by Shakka. Tala had risen to the difficult task of treating adiik’e after they’d been freed from slavery before. She had also treated adiik’e who’d been Claimed as foundlings out of warzones. And she had also treated those whose dar’buir’e had abandoned them. Hels, she’d even treated those connected to the ka’ra before.

But she’d never before treated a former- Jetii who’d been a slave, and then a General in an army of child soldiers, and whose dar’aliit had rejected them for trying to do the right thing. All of that combined was a lot of trauma to sort through.

Tala wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting from Obi-Wan Kenobi. She would eat her kom'rk’e if he didn’t have post-traumatic stress, but the presentation in ade could vary wildly. And she’d never met a Jetii before, obviously, so she would have the extra challenge of figuring out which behaviors and thought patterns were cultural, and which were symptoms. With that in mind, she had tried not to form any expectations.

Her first impression as Shakka ushered him into her office was that he was so small for his age, and she barely managed to keep a grimace from her face. Extended periods of malnutrition tended to do that, Tala knew. He had fluffy copper hair, starting to grow a bit shaggy, curling around his ears, and wide, bright blue-grey eyes. Shakka fussed over him until he sat on the low, plush couch along one wall, Tala already occupying her regular armchair. She didn’t keep a desk in here, trying to make her patients more comfortable, as if they were just sitting in someone’s living room, and so she’d filled the space with an abundance of cushions, for those who preferred to sit on the floor, and the couch and a few comfortable chairs.

“Do you want me to stay?” Shakka offered, and Tala was pleased that Obi-Wan actually paused and thought about the offer before shaking his head. At least he seemed open to offers of help from adults he knew and trusted.

“ Nayc, vor’e. ” Shakka nodded and gave him a smile.

“I’ll be back in a bit. We should have the rest of the test results then, so we can finish up your meal plan,” she said, and Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. Shakka narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger in his direction. “The sooner you get your appetite back, the sooner you won’t have to listen to me harp about food, ad’ika. ”

“ ‘Lek, Shakka,” Obi-Wan said, in the same sort of tone Tala often heard ade say “ ‘lek, buir ” when they got scolded. She let herself smile a bit at that. Shakka nodded to Obi-Wan, glanced at Tala, and then took her leave. Obi-Wan watched her go and then his gaze immediately slid over to Tala.

Well, his file had said that he was fluent in Mando’a already, so she decided to greet him properly. “ Su cuy’gar. Ner gai Tala Venn, aliit Kryze.”

“ Su’cuy. Ner gai Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he returned easily. His accent was a bit strange, one she’d never heard before, but then, Tala decided that probably wasn’t unusual for someone who had to have learned from older records with no native speaker available to them.

“It’s good to meet you, Obi-Wan,” Tala said, switching to Basic to hopefully make him more comfortable.

“And you as well,” he said politely, though Tala couldn’t tell if he actually meant that or not.

“I’m sure they explained who I am, and what I do,” she said, and Obi-Wan nodded a bit stiffly.

“ Elek. ” He held her gaze for a long moment, looking like he was about to say something else, so Tala remained silent, letting him work up to it. Finally, he said, “I haven’t had any thoughts about hurting myself or anyone else. I’ve been sleeping well, and Shakka said that my lack of appetite is due to a physical condition, and should return on its own in time. Until then, I’ve been following her ‘meal plan’ without issue. I haven’t had any flashbacks, or nightmares. All told, I would say I’m quite fine.”

Tala smiled. So that’s how it was going to be, then.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear all of that,” she said, nodding. Obi-Wan relaxed slightly, and Tala’s smile grew a bit wider. “Since it seems you prefer to be blunt about this, I’ll follow suit. You knew the basic, standard questions we ask, and that’s good information, but not all that I’m looking for. There are other signs when someone is struggling to come to terms with difficult things that have happened to them, and many are far more subtle.” Obi-Wan frowned slightly at her, his eyes flashing stormy grey. Oh, he was feisty, this one. She liked his spirit already. “For instance, I heard from Shakka that there was an incident with you pushing Jango after some sort of episode.”

Obi-Wan flushed slightly. “Yes, but that was different. I had a vision, not a flashback or a nightmare.”

Tala hummed. “I have another patient, a girl about your age, who sometimes has visions. She comes to see me after the worst of them, or calls for me. She threw up, once, because she was so upset by what she’d seen.” Obi-Wan’s grimace was the sort that told her he knew from experience what that was like, and she made a mental note of it before moving on to make her point. “I’m well aware that the ka’ra and its effects manifest differently in different people, but that girl has never reacted violently on waking, at least not towards another person. There was a mirror, once, that she broke from across the room just by screaming, but that was all. So I don’t believe that it is the upsetting contents of the visions on their own, Obi-Wan. I think that you’ve been conditioned to react violently when startled, because you haven’t felt safe in a very long time, have you?”

Obi-Wan frowned at her for a moment, and then said very evenly, “I haven’t been safe in a very long time.”

Tala nodded. “Do you think you’re safe now?” That stormy look came back into his eyes, and Tala smiled a bit sadly at him and pointedly looked down at his hands, balled into fists in his lap. Obi-Wan immediately relaxed them, and then continued to stare down at his hands, refusing to look back up at her. “The Haat’ade have a strict policy of working in rotations. Some of them work seasonally, others only work every other mission, but all of them are required to regularly check in with their aliit and their mir’baar’ur. We found that if we don’t enforce that policy, we have a greater number of verd’e who don’t know how to stand down when they come home. They forget how to recognize an environment, and other people, as safe. I think that a two-year rotation would be a very long time for any Haat’ad, let alone a single verd without a proper support system.”

His gaze finally wandered up, his expression wary, but not as hostile as it had been before. Good, she was getting through to him. It surely helped that Tala had long since learned not to patronize or condescend to adiik’e —no matter how young—who had been through these sorts of traumas. And, she reminded herself, he was fourteen. He might look younger, because he was just so small and so thin, but he was, by the standards of Mando’ade, an adult.

“This is my purpose, Obi-Wan,” she continued, smiling at him again. “If you’re trying to learn something, it makes sense to seek out an expert, doesn’t it?” He nodded slowly. “I believe you need to learn how to stand down, let someone else take the watch. Trust someone else to take the watch for you, and relearn how to recognize safety. And, if you do need to learn those skills, I am a subject matter expert.” Tala paused, giving him a moment, holding his gaze, and then she tilted her head. “So, what do you say? Will I see you again this week?”

This part was important. This truly was his choice; Obi-Wan wasn’t exactly well, Tala could see that from this brief conversation alone, but she didn’t think he was a danger to anyone else. He hadn’t even seriously hurt Jango, only trying to force him away, not really trying to harm him, even startled and unaware of his surroundings. Tala didn’t have cause to order him into sessions, nor did she want to. If it wasn’t his choice to be there, then any progress would come at a glacial pace.

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. “My negotiation teacher would like you.” Tala laughed brightly.

“Shall I take that as agreement, then?” she asked, letting a bit of a teasing lilt come out in her voice.

“I suppose,” Obi-Wan said, not quite as grudgingly as Tala had expected.

“ Ori’jate. Now, I hear you’re going to begin taking your placement tests today. Once your class schedule has been decided, we can schedule something,” Tala said, and he nodded. “Do you have any questions for me now?”

“ Nayc, vor’e. ”

Tala smiled. “Alright. I’ll call Shakka back, and we’ll get you on your way.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan seemed a bit tired, when they picked him up from his second round of placement tests, but that wasn’t terribly surprising to Jaster. The last two days of appointments and testing were the most activity they’d allowed for him in the weeks since they’d taken him from Melida/Daan, and though he was already improving, he had a long road ahead of him before he was truly healed from that war, both mentally and physically.

It was also utterly unsurprising to Jaster that Jango kept darting looks, every now and then, at Obi-Wan, and equally unsurprising when Jango dropped back behind Jaster, Obi-Wan following suit. The two started to whisper to each other as they wound their way through the Alori’ya back to their rooms; Jaster ignored them, for now, not making any attempt to actually listen, though if he had turned up the sensitivity on his hearing aids, he could easily have made out every word, even without help from the more sensitive instruments and speakers on his buy’ce, still hanging from his belt. But he didn’t feel any pressing need to pry. Jaster knew his son, and while Jango was still young in many ways, still refining his judgment, Jaster trusted him to look after the adiik. If whatever had Jango out of sorts, this mysterious Force-related conundrum, became a real problem, then he trusted he would hear about it, whether Obi-Wan or Jango were actually ready to tell him or not.

And, admittedly, it seemed like a good chance to allow the two of them to bond. As Jango had said, with Obi-Wan as Jaster’s foundling, he was also Jango’s ven’vod’ika, ka’ra willing.

So Jaster ignored their hushed whispers, the two of them going silent whenever they passed any of the other Haat’ade in the halls, nodding wordlessly in greeting, and then starting right back up as soon as they were far enough away. Once they had reached their rooms, and Jaster herded them inside, shut the door behind them, and then he turned to give them a stern look; both boys straightened, not quite at attention.

“I’m going to go change, and then start dinner. I have two reminders for you both: Jorin is joining us here tonight, and you, Ob’ika, are still on a strict meal plan. Feel free to go plot your mischief behind my back, but do not leave these rooms without telling me, and do not be late for dinner.”

“‘Lek, buir,” Jango immediately answered.

Simultaneously, Obi-Wan nodded and gave his own, “‘Lek, Jaster,” relaxing as he did so, a small smile on his face.

Jaster took another moment to look at them both, and then stared at Jango for a long moment. Jango simply blinked slowly back at him, a poor attempt at a picture of innocence; that look had been far more effective back when Jango had been an adiik himself. Sighing to himself, Jaster turned to head down the hall to his room before he could change his mind about leaving those two alone. He had a feeling that Jango and Obi-Wan putting their heads together would result in a staggering amount of chaos.

Shaking his head, Jaster drew himself out of his thoughts, and back to the matter at hand: the not insignificant challenge of feeding two hungry, growing boys. Starting to strip off his beskar’gam to put it on the rack, Jaster contemplated his dinner options, wondering how much spice he could get away with giving Obi-Wan, even as he pointedly did not think about what his ade might be plotting together.

I’m a good friend, I’m a good friend, I’m a good friend…

Quinlan had been repeating that mantra to himself in the privacy of his own mind for the last hour, but it still didn’t help the feeling that he really wasn’t a “good friend.” Not when he was spilling all of Obi-Wan’s secrets to the man who was—or, at least, had been, however briefly—his Grandmaster.

Master Dooku was… interesting. He was a bit fussy, stiff, and polite when he wasn’t being so sharp. He’d brought Tholme and Quinlan back to his own quarters for tea, to continue their discussion, and he’d waited, as was traditionally polite among Jedi, until they’d all taken their first sip to ask anything. All it had taken was a single prompt, a vague, general question about “what he knew of Obi-Wan’s time on Bandomeer,” and that had been it. The words came tumbling out as if a dam had burst, and he couldn’t stop them from coming out.

Master Dooku believed Quinlan, that much was obvious. Quinlan had let down quite a few of his shields, so Dooku could sense his honesty and the echoes of the anger he’d felt on his friend’s behalf after each incident. There was no incredulity from Dooku, only a cold, calculating, determined sort of dull anger of his own. It was… an odd thing to feel from a Master.

Quinlan had finally finished relating what he knew about the Gala/Phindar debacle when they finished their pot of tea. Dooku got up, taking the teapot with him, and went into the kitchen. Feeling suddenly drained, now that he’d stopped, Quinlan leaned over to Tholme, who immediately lifted one arm, allowing Quinlan to scoot his cushion over and settle himself into his Master’s side.

“I know they really do need to know all of it,” he muttered, “but Obi-Wan would hate this.”

Tholme grunted. “Yes. You’re right on both counts, Padawan.” He paused, and then reached up to tug on his braid, a familiar gentle-fond gesture. “I’m proud of you.”

That was accompanied by a warm pulse of fond-proud through their bond, and Quinlan’s lips twitched in a bit of a smile. “Thank you, Master.”

Master Dooku returned with a tray and three mugs rather than more tea. Quinlan perked up a bit as Dooku passed one of them over to him: warmed bantha milk with a bit of honey was a traditional drink in the creche at bedtime, and to soothe upset younglings.

“Thank you,” Quinlan repeated, this time to Dooku, who bowed his head briefly in response.

“Your insight will be quite valuable,” Dooku assured him, and then his gaze flicked to Tholme. “I only have a few other questions. Were you made aware of what Kenobi reported to your Padawan?”

“I was, yes,” Tholme said easily. “And before you ask, I did raise the issue a number of times with the Council. It never went anywhere.”

Dooku began to frown at that, setting his own mug down and fixing one of those intense, burning stares on Tholme. “I don’t recall ever hearing a formal petition.”

Tholme grimaced. “I probably should have pressed the issue and done just that,” he admitted. “But I took our concerns to Master Yoda, after each incident. He assured me after each conversation that he would speak to Master Jinn. And even Quinlan told me that Padawan Kenobi was adamant that he remain with Master Jinn, so I was never truly surprised when nothing came of it.”

Dooku sat back a bit, closing his eyes briefly, looking almost pained. Only then did Quinlan remember that Master Yoda had been his Master, once. Oof, it must hurt to hear that the Grand Master had made such a colossal mistake, and with their own lineage, no less.

“Do you have any records of these conversations?” Dooku asked, sounding tired. His eyes were… sad, when he reopened them.

“The second one, yes. I had sent him a message when I was off-world. Quinlan had commed, after he heard about Phindar,” Tholme said. “The message is still saved on my comm, and I do reference our conversation about the first incident as well.”

Dooku nodded. “I would be much obliged if you would provide me with a copy,” he said. Tholme’s eyes narrowed.

“Of course,” he said slowly. “Yan, are you… Is the Council also investigating the Grand Master in this matter?”

“It was not within our initial scope,” Dooku admitted. “He recused himself immediately, when the case came before the Council. He did admit that he pushed them together despite the warnings of others, including his fellow Councilors. And given what you have said, we may have just uncovered willful negligence. We are now obliged to investigate, yes.” Quinlan blinked; he hadn’t known about that. Master Yoda had plotted to put Obi-Wan with Jinn? Even when other Jedi, other Council Masters, had told him not to?

Ouch. Yeah, a truly colossal mistake, Yoda made.

There was one question, though, that hadn’t been answered, and it was the most important one of the lot.

“Master?” Quinlan said, waiting until Dooku turned to him before continuing. “How did you hear about this? You… You didn’t get any messages from Obi-Wan, I know what you said, but… Do you know what happened to him? …do you really think he’s alright?”

“We have good reason to believe that he is well,” Dooku said slowly. He glanced at Tholme, who nodded, and then looked back to Quinlan. “If I tell you any more, you must keep it secret. Even from Obi-Wan’s other friends. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Quinlan said immediately. He might still only be a Junior Padawan, but he was training to be a Shadow. He knew how to keep secrets, even from other Jedi.

Dooku nodded. “The Council received a message from Jaster Mereel,” he said. Tholme stiffened, and Quinlan flashed a frown at him. He must’ve known who that was already, but Quinlan certainly didn’t. Thankfully, Dooku clarified. “The Mand’alor.” Quinlan’s stomach twisted and he set his mug down a bit harder than he’d intended to. Dooku gave him an almost sympathetic look, but then shook his head. “In his message, the Mand’alor took rather extreme offense to Kenobi’s treatment on our part; he threatened to bring a case before the courts if we could not resolve this issue between ourselves within two weeks.”

Quinlan gaped at him. “I—Master, what?” Obi-Wan had been on Melida/Daan, last they’d heard, and that was on the opposite end of the galaxy from Mandalorian space. How had they gotten involved?

“Peace, Padawan,” Tholme murmured, and Quinlan forced himself to take a breath. Louder, he added, “That is good news.” Quinlan twisted to give him a look of disbelief, because historically, Mandalorians and Jedi didn’t mix very well. Tholme huffed and resettled Quinlan into his side. “If these Mandalorians do intend to lodge a court case on his behalf, they would need to be able to produce Kenobi, alive and in good condition.”

“Indeed,” Dooku agreed, bowing his head. “We waited until we had looked into each of the Mand’alor’s claims before deciding what to send in reply. At this early stage, it will be little more than an assurance that we are taking action, but we will find an opportunity to request to speak to Kenobi.”

Quinlan nodded, his mouth opening to offer up his idea before he could stop himself: “They’re supposed to like kids, right?” Dooku nodded slowly. “Maybe I could come, too, then. Since I’m still a Padawan, and I’m one of Obi-Wan’s best friends, they might tell me more than you, and they might let me talk to him, even if they don’t let you.”

Dooku did something very odd, then (for him, anyway): he smiled at Quinlan, with a warmth radiating from him that belied the calculating look in his eyes.

“Your instincts do you credit, Padawan,” Dooku said, and Quinlan flashed him a tentative smile. “That is precisely what I was going to ask of you, and the entire reason I revealed as much as I did to you and your Master. Now, finish your milk, and then we shall contact the rest of the Council.”

Something was going on with Jango. Obi-Wan could sense little flares of confusion-disbelief-dismay coming from him, and he kept shooting looks at Obi-Wan, and then glancing at Jaster’s back, the two of them trailing behind him, on the walk from the hall where Obi-Wan had taken his placement tests back to their rooms. He wondered what was on Jango’s mind, what had him so upset, but he understood the silent message: whatever it was, Jango didn’t want to talk about it in front of Jaster.

Finally, though, Jango glanced around as if ensuring that there was no one else around to overhear them, and then leaned in closer to Obi-Wan. Almost whispering, he asked, “So… Are Jetiise the only ones who can hear ghosts?”

Obi-Wan blinked at him. “Oh. Ah, well, that’s a bit… complicated,” he admitted. Jango frowned at him, silently asking for clarification. And, really, he couldn’t blame Jango for being curious about his Ba’ji, and their connection; that he had questions didn’t surprise him. “Force apparitions, or Force ghosts, were ruled to be heresy, false nonsense, back during the Conclave of 534 ARR. So… Most Jedi don’t hear ghosts, but it’s not because they don’t exist; it’s because they’ve already decided that they don’t, and so their minds aren’t open to the possibility. Even if they were to try, they would assume that they would fail, and so it will fail.”

Jango hummed, falling silent for another long moment as they passed several other Haat’ade; all three of them politely nodded, but didn’t stop. Once they had passed them by, Jango leaned over again. “If most Jetiise don’t believe in… Force ghosts, then how are you able to hear them?”

Obi-Wan smiled a bit. “I hadn’t yet learned anything about Force ghosts when I first met Ba’ji. It was just after my parents had given me to the Order; I had strong visions, and they didn’t know what else to do for me.” Jango nodded slowly, though he was frowning a bit. The idea of anyone willingly giving up their child seemed hard for him to stomach, even if it was for their own good. Still, it wasn’t the time to try to discuss the Order’s recruitment practices, so he moved on. “Ba’ji interrupted one of my visions; they usually came to me in dreams, when I was younger. He… took them over, essentially, creating a sort of… dreamscape, I suppose, where we could meet, and he could shield me from the visions until I could do so well enough on my own. By the time I was old enough for proper classes, and eventually learned that the rest of the Order believes it’s heresy… Well, I already knew better, by then.”

“How old were you?” Jango asked.

“Three. Most Initiates are given to the Order between six months and two years, for humans or near humans, so I was on the older side, although they accept Initiates up to the age of six,” Obi-Wan explained. Jango grunted, his frown more thoughtful now than upset. Obi-Wan waited for him to say something else, idly wondering when Ba’ji would be back. He’d warned Obi-Wan that he would have to be distant-quiet, for a while. He’d said very vaguely that he had to “speak to someone else,” but promised to be back in time for Obi-Wan’s meditation after dinner.

“When he spoke to Jaster,” Jango whispered, “that was how he did it? He… took over Jaster’s dream?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan answered. Jango grunted, frowning just a bit harder.

“Do you have to be ka’ra’tigaanla to hear them?” Jango asked, and Obi-Wan paused over that word for a moment.

“Star-touched?” he translated. “Oh. Force-sensitive?” Jango nodded tentatively; Obi-Wan made a mental note to ask Ba’ji to clarify the Mandalorian terminology used in their Force traditions. Since he had learned about the Force mostly from Jedi, Ba’ji always defaulted to the Basic words when they spoke about most Force-related concepts, so those were words Obi-Wan had rarely, if ever, heard before.

Dragging his thoughts back on topic, he sighed, “Well… Yes, and no. It’s… sort of complicated. And Ba’ji could probably help me explain it more clearly, but he’s away right now. He said he had to speak with someone else.” Jango grunted again, his brow furrowing a bit. Obi-Wan started to get the feeling that it was a little more than just idle curiosity behind Jango’s questions. “Why do you ask?”

Jango darted another look at Jaster and then shook his head. “Later,” he whispered, and Obi-Wan nodded.

They finally reached their rooms—the stronghold was huge, and Obi-Wan knew that once he was clear to wander it himself, he would need some sort of map—and Jaster stopped, herding them both inside before entering himself. As soon as the door was closed behind him, he turned to give both Jango and Obi-Wan a pointed look. Obi-Wan straightened up, the effect of that expression almost the same as when the Masters at the Temple were about to give them instructions, or scold them for something (usually one of Quinlan’s awful pranks).

“I’m going to go change, and then start dinner. I have two reminders for you both: Jorin is joining us here tonight, and you, Ob’ika, are still on a strict meal plan. Feel free to go plot your mischief behind my back, but do not leave these rooms without telling me, and do not be late for dinner.”

“‘Lek, Jaster,” Obi-Wan said, smiling a bit to himself. In unison, Jango said, “‘Lek, buir,” and then gave Jaster a far too innocent look that wasn’t believable in the slightest. Jaster sighed to himself, gave them both one more look, and then went down the hall to his room.

As soon as he was out of sight, Obi-Wan looked to Jango, who gave him a small smile and then waved his hand in a beckoning motion. 

“Come on,” he said, and led Obi-Wan down the same hallway to his own room. It looked much the same as Obi-Wan’s, though there were several boxes tucked up against one wall, half-opened as if he’d been rifling through them recently. A glance up confirmed that, yes, the ceiling was also painted in here. This one showed another legend, the story of Tailin, a verd who was fabled to have killed two mythosaurs back-to-back when they had been about to level the town his Clan had founded, and then driven a third to flee from the battle, never to return to attack them again.

Jango nudged him towards the bed, so Obi-Wan climbed up and sat while Jango took the chair in front of his desk, turning it around to look at Obi-Wan. For a long moment, they both simply sat there, and then Jango shifted slightly, almost… awkward.

“So you don’t have to be… ‘Force-touched’ to hear the ghosts?” Jango asked slowly, making an attempt at the Basic terminology. Obi-Wan shook his head.

“Technically, no,” Obi-Wan said, and then paused, wondering how best to explain this. Deciding that some background would be needed, he asked, “How much do you know about the Force, and how Force-sensitivity works?”

“Not much,” Jango admitted easily, leaning back in his chair and fiddling with the magnetic closure for one of his vambraces. “I know that the Manda, through the ka’ra, gives some of the Haat’ade certain abilities—moving a little faster than normal, better shots, sometimes even hitting a target without even looking at it, dodging like they knew where the attacks would come from before they came. That sort of thing. And I know that there are Seers, like you. You’re the first one I’ve met, though. And some of the ad’e who have it can… hurt themselves with it, sometimes. Sometimes other people, too.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “...right. Well. I suppose I should start at the beginning,” he said, and Jango just shrugged, but his eyes were bright and he was still watching Obi-Wan attentively, so he knew Jango was interested. “The Force resides in and flows through all things, whether they can sense it or not. The Force connects everything in the universe together. The ability to actually sense and interact with it comes from organic symbiotes that reside within living beings; those are midichlorians. The proportion of a being’s midichlorians isn’t always the best indicator of how well they would be able to sense and use the Force, but there’s a sort of… minimum threshold needed to be able to do most basic manipulation with it, like lifting objects, Force pushing, sensing the immediate future—the ability that makes it seem like Jedi have such quick reflexes—or Force-empathy.”

Jango nodded slowly. “I’m with you so far.”

“Right. So, Ba’ji took control of one of Jaster’s dreams to connect with him,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “It doesn’t necessarily mean that Jaster is Force-sensitive, but it doesn’t mean that he’s not, either? Ba’ji initiated that connection with him, so the Force manipulation needed for it was on his end. So that doesn’t really tell us if Jaster is or not, just that he isn’t completely Force-null—which most humans and near-humans aren’t, anyway—and he was open enough to the possibility, especially when he was already dreaming, for Ba’ji to reach him.”

For some reason, that made Jango frown again. “Ah. So, to hear him, all it really requires is a belief that it can happen?”

“If they’re reaching out to you, yes, and they’re powerful enough in the Force to reach out that far,” Obi-Wan said. “But if you’re trying to reach out to them, it takes a bit more than that. At first, when I was very young, I remember that I only saw Ba’ji in my dreams; now I’m able to hear him when I’m awake, though I still can’t actually see him unless I’m asleep.”

Jango grunted again. “Right. So… you don’t have to have a connection to the ka’ra to hear ghosts.”

“Not necessarily, no, though it’s usually very… tiring for Force-nulls if that sort of connection is made, and use of the Force on a Force-null being for extended periods of time can cause very serious complications,” Obi-Wan answered. He wondered if Jango would tell him, this time, if he repeated his question, and decided to give it a try. “Why do you ask?”

His expression twisted into another frown, something like disquiet buzzing around him. “I, ah. Well, I’m pretty sure I heard him, too.” Jango paused, grimacing faintly, and then added, “But I know I would have noticed before now if I’m ka’ra’tigaanla. Wouldn’t I have?”

Obi-Wan tilted his head, and then tugged at Ba’ji. There was no response, and Obi-Wan huffed. He would be back, Obi-Wan knew, but for now…

“Not… necessarily? If all you’re looking for to qualify as ‘Force-sensitivity’ is an outburst or some sort of incident, you… might not have noticed. Not all Force-sensitives have those sorts of outbursts when they’re young, and it partly depends on where they fall on the spectrum, how strong in the Force they are. And you’re surrounded by beskar so much of the time, too, and that has… strange effects on the Force.”

Jango closed his eyes briefly, grimacing faintly, and Obi-Wan wondered why he seemed so afraid of the possibility of being Force-sensitive. Maybe it was because he’d seen so few examples besides those who encountered difficulties because of it? …well, that, and the fact that the other main example he had was the Jedi. Jango might not hate them on a personal level, but the history between their peoples was… complicated, and messy.

Forcing his thoughts back to the topic at hand, Obi-Wan said, “I don’t think I’d be able to tell through the Force alone. And I’m not sure Ba’ji would be able to tell us, either; he might, but that will have to wait until he comes back, anyway. Do you have any equipment that tests for midichlorians?”

“No,” Jango sighed. “The baar’ur’e know more about them, but they don’t usually bother. The ka’ra, for Mando’ade, is just… Well, the only people who really get any training for it are the ones who have outbursts, or get lost in it. Everyone else just…” Jango shrugged. “It’s not normally relevant, for most people, so we don’t bother testing for it. If it becomes an issue, we deal with it then, but otherwise… It just doesn’t come up much.”

Obi-Wan hummed. “I’m sure you have medical scanners for other markers, though. We could program it to check, and I already know my own count, to set a baseline.”

“Alright,” Jango said slowly. “I bet I can convince Shakka to let us borrow a scanner. But that will have to wait until tomorrow; you heard Jaster.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “I did.” He glanced over at the chrono on the shelf above Jango’s bed. “We still have a bit before dinner. Would you tell me more about Jorin?”

Jango grinned back, some of his tension leaving him, his shoulders dropping a bit. “He can seem a bit… cold, or stern, I guess, at least at first, but I promise he’s nicer than he seems.   Since Jorin is a goran, he knows almost everything. Goran’e, of course, aren’t just armorers, they’re also lorekeepers and a sort of… spiritual advisor, I guess? Everyone goes to their Clan or House goran for counsel and guidance. And he’s an incredible swordsman; even if they’re not Jetii’kad forms, I think you’ll like learning from him…”

Chapter Text

Jorin was early, though that didn’t surprise Jaster at all. As usual, Jorin hit the chime to announce himself before letting himself in, a habit Jaster was grateful for, since he didn’t want to leave the shatual unattended. He glanced up as Jorin entered the kitchen proper, and then did a double take, noticing the large crate Jorin had brought with him.

“Ba’vodu,” he sighed, because he knew what was inside that box. Jorin’s answering smile was almost a smirk. 

And then, because he never stopped being like that, he bowed his head, only neglecting the rest of the salute because of the crate he was carrying, Jaster knew, and greeted him formally and properly. “Mand’alor.”

Jaster rolled his eyes, ignoring how that only seemed to make Jorin’s smile grow that much larger, and turned back to the food he was preparing. “Please tell me you haven’t brought what I think you have.”

“I cannot read your mind, Jaster,” Jorin said evenly, and Jaster shot him another dirty look. Taking the crate to a corner behind the table to rest for now, he turned and shrugged one shoulder, looking utterly unrepentant. “I am a goran. What else do you expect of me?”

“Point taken,” Jaster sighed, shaking his head a bit as he turned back to the stove. Grudgingly, a reminder to himself just as much as it was to Jorin, he added, “But he may choose not to stay here.”

Jorin hummed again, that tone to it that somehow contained in that single sound an entire sentence: I know that I am right, but I am not going to argue the matter with you. Switching tack, Jorin headed for the cabinets, already knowing where everything was to make shig. Jaster sighed and turned most of his attention back to the stove, and the shatual.

“What have the baar’ur’e had to say about his training?” Jorin asked, filling one of the kettles with a proper hook, taking it to the open fireplace on the opposite side of the kitchen, and hanging it over the fire.

“He’s cleared for some stretching and slow katas; easy target practice, too, if he doesn’t go for the bigger blasters,” Jaster said. “If he behaves himself, and eats like he’s supposed to, then their estimate is three weeks until he’ll be fine for most drills. No sparring for at least a month, maybe two.”

Jorin hummed again. “And his class schedule?”

“Still undetermined. He’s not quite finished with the placement tests, yet,” Jaster reported. “Though at the rate he’s going, he’ll be done tomorrow.”

“Then it will be easy enough to ensure my beskad class is on his schedule,” Jorin said. “Even if he cannot participate at the outset, observation would not go amiss. It will give him an opportunity to consciously note the differences to the forms he was taught before. And I would, of course, be more than happy to take over some of his cultural learning for you. I’m certain he won’t need the full course, if he is already fluent, but given what you have said regarding the state of his Mando’a, he’s likely in need of several updates. To both the language and his understanding of our culture.”

Jaster grunted an acknowledgement. “‘Lek, that sounds like a good plan to me. But you’ll have to ask him about it,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “I meant what I said: he can make his own decisions.”

“Of course,” Jorin agreed, and there was that damned tone again, the one that so clearly and almost smugly said, I know when I am right, and I already know that this will be. (Annoyingly, amusingly, and often thankfully, Jorin was right far more often than not.)

“He did seem particularly interested in beskad lessons,” Jaster conceded. He prodded at the shatual, and then nodded to himself. “We’re almost ready. Watch this for me while I give the ten minute heads-up to ner ad’e?”

“Certainly,” Jorin answered, falsely gracious and now overtly smug. Only then did Jaster realize what he’d called them aloud. Huffing to himself softly, ignoring Jorin’s answering chuckle, he stalked out of the kitchen, heading for Jango’s room, where his— the boys had holed up and hadn’t left since they’d gotten back.

Jaster had only just left the kitchen when his comm chimed. Sighing, he paused to answer it; the Haat’ade were well aware of his schedule, and knew that this was family time. They wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t important.

“Mereel.”

“‘Alor,” Myles said, “sorry to interrupt, but… The Jetiise commed back. They’re holding on the line for you now.” Jaster closed his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his face. Now, of all times. “I can tell them to call back later.” Far more quietly, he added, “Or never.”

“Nayc,” Jaster sighed. “Give me five minutes, and then you can transfer the call over. I’ll take it here, audio-only.”

“Elek, ‘Alor,” Myles said promptly, though he didn’t disconnect immediately. “...do you want me to update the Jetiise and tell them to keep holding?” Or just hope they hang up in the meantime? The second question went unspoken, but not unheard.

Jaster chuckled. “I trust your judgment, Al’verde. Do as you see fit.”

“Oya,” Myles said, sounding far more cheerful, now, and finally hung up. Sighing once more, Jaster turned around to head back into the kitchen. He’d have to rush the introductions a bit, but at least Jorin was here to ensure Obi-Wan actually ate.

Quinlan shifted again and tried to be discreet as he looked down at the chrono on his commlink: twenty minutes. The Mandalorians had left them on hold for twenty minutes, so far, after the initial answer by some fully-armored Mandalorian who hadn’t offered their name, and he was starting to think they weren’t going to be able to speak to Mereel or Obi-Wan. Master Tholme, who was present in the Council Chamber solely to support his Padawan, put a staying hand on his shoulder.

Patience, he projected through their bond. Quinlan resisted the urge to sigh, or pout. Instead, he looked over the Councilors again, almost all of whom had gathered for this call: Master Dooku stood beside them in the center of the circle, as did Master Plo, and eight of the other Councilors were sitting serenely in their chairs, as if entirely unbothered by the situation.

Master Yoda’s absence was notable, though one that Master Dooku had already explained, but Master Tyvokka’s was a mystery. That meant that neither the Grand Master nor the Master of the Order were present for this, which just felt… wrong. The Jedi High Council was about to have the Order’s first meaningful contact with the Mand’alor since before the Dral’han (assuming the Mandalorians actually picked up at some point, of course, and hadn’t just left them on hold indefinitely until they hung up)—this was a big deal, for more than just Obi-Wan, and the Mand’alor’s accusations.

Finally, though, the speakers in the Council Chamber clicked softly, indicating that they’d been taken back off hold. Someone had picked up, though the projector hadn’t kicked on: audio-only, then. Not a great start—even if they spoke to Obi-Wan, this way, they wouldn’t be able to tell as much about how he was actually doing. But it would also give the Masters the option of not telling him that nearly the full Council was on with them, if they wanted to hide that.

“Jetiise,” a new voice said, deep and even and calm. “This is Mand’alor Jaster Mereel.”

Quinlan swallowed hard and looked up at the Masters. Master Plo took the lead, first: “Mand’alor. I am Master Plo Koon, of the Jedi High Council. We were… alarmed by your initial message.”

Mereel made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort; Quinlan got the feeling that Master Plo had been a little more than alarmed. He’d heard that Master Plo had meditated for six hours straight after that Council meeting, and then spent the next ten hours in the nursery, with the very youngest of the crechelings, as if he’d needed their pure, sweet, innocent sort of Light.

“And what action is being taken?” Mereel asked bluntly.

“We have taken several steps, though it is still too early to be certain of any outcome just yet,” Master Plo said. “We have dispatched teams to both Bandomeer and Melida/Daan, for further information. We also summoned Master Jinn for another report.”

Again, Mereel made some sort of noise, this one somewhere between a scoff and a growl, somehow. Quinlan wondered what species he might be; he knew Mandalorian armor was made to adapt to a wide variety of species, and he would have been surprised to learn that a human or near-human would make those kinds of sounds.

Master Plo waited, and when Mereel didn’t actually say anything, he continued: “Master Jinn has been suspended from duty, and confined to the Temple, for the duration of the investigation. He has also been ordered into mandatory evaluations, both by our Soul Healers and our physical Healers.”

Quinlan felt a pulse in the Force from Master Plo, one he couldn’t quite interpret; the rest of the Council pinged back. After that short, confusing pause, Master Plo added, “During our initial discussion with Master Jinn, we found several key points of concern. We believe that his memory is… less-than-accurate. Severely lacking, in fact. Hence the required clearance by our Healers.” This time, Mereel’s grunt was more thoughtful than anything. Quinlan chose to take it as a good sign. “I assure you, Mand’alor, that we are taking your complaints seriously.”

There was another pause, and then Mereel asked, “So you had no idea what had happened to him since he left your Temple?”

“We knew what planets he visited, during their missions, but Master Jinn’s reports hinted at nothing we might have been concerned by,” Master Plo answered.

“And you didn’t ask for Obi-Wan’s reports?” the Mand’alor asked. He kept his voice even, but Quinlan definitely got the feeling that they were being judged, and found lacking.

“Junior Padawans, generally speaking, do not submit their own mission reports,” Master Plo explained. “Even many Senior Padawans do not submit their own reports unless they have been given a separate assignment to complete.”

“...I see,” Mereel said, a bit flatly. Quinlan winced, and Tholme’s hand briefly tightened on his shoulder, accompanied by a pulse of warmth along their bond. The Mand’alor sighed roughly. “I’m sure you can see how this looks, from my side. Either you severely failed a child in your care by placing him with an unsuitable guardian, whether that be due to some physical ailment or his own disposition —” Master Dooku’s jaw clenched at that, but he did not interrupt. “— and let Obi-Wan slip through the cracks. Or you may have some critical flaws in your culture, and Obi-Wan is not an exception. I’m certain you can understand how both options are worrisome, in their own ways.”

Master Dooku began to frown, his brow furrowing lightly, but Quinlan thought he looked mostly thoughtful himself, so he turned his attention back to the conversation as Master Plo answered again.

“Of course,” Master Plo started to say, but then Master Dooku sent out his own little pulse in the Force, and Master Plo fell silent, letting Master Dooku speak.

“There were other factors at work, in Obi-Wan’s case,” Master Dooku said.

Before he could continue, Mereel grunted, “And you are?”

“Master Yan Dooku, also of the High Council,” he introduced himself, and then he hesitated for only a moment before adding, “Master Jinn was, in fact, my own apprentice, many years ago. As I’m sure you understand—” Quinlan bit his lip to keep from laughing at Master Dooku throwing the Mand’alor’s diplomatic platitudes back at him. “—I took your message quite… personally.”

The Mand’alor hummed again. “I see,” he said again. “You were saying something about ‘other factors at work,’ ‘lek?”

“Indeed,” Master Dooku said, a bit grimly. “We have reason to believe that the proper protocols were not followed in this case. Instead of reporting to the entirety of the High Council, even if only through submitted written reports, Master Jinn communicated almost exclusively with a single Councilor, of a rather high rank. This Councilor noticed nothing wrong, from their conversations, and allowed them to continue as they had been rather than recalling them to the Temple. I can, at least, assure you that this particular Councilor has already recused themselves from this investigation, recognizing their mistake, and admitting their fault.”

Mereel was quiet for a long moment, and then he grunted again. He seemed to do a lot of that; Quinlan wondered if that was a personal habit, or something most Mandalorians did. “Suvari— Understood. Well, I suppose what you’ve already started to do is one of the better outcomes I could have hoped for,” Mereel said.

“Harm was done to one of our young,” Master Plo said, taking up the thread again. There was a hint of durasteel, a bit of bite, in his normally calm and gentle voice. “That must be answered. That such harm was done by our own does not negate that.”

“Indeed,” Mereel agreed, and Quinlan didn’t think he was imagining the very, very slight respect in his voice. He did start to wonder, though, when they were going to ask about Obi-Wan… No doubt sensing the direction of his thoughts, Master Tholme pulsed another bit of warmth-peace-calm at him. Quinlan let out a slow breath, trying to center himself in it. It didn’t quite work, but it… helped.

“We are grateful that you have brought this to our attention, and for your care of young Obi-Wan,” Master Plo said.

Master Plo started to say something else, but Quinlan… Well, he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t quite control himself. “Can we please talk to him?” he burst out. Tholme sighed, beside him, radiating exasperation faintly over the bond, and Quinlan felt his cheeks heat, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Mereel was quiet for a moment, and Quinlan squirmed, more than aware that he was talking to the Mand’alor in front of almost the entire High Council, but it didn’t stop him from adding, “Please? He’s my friend. He’s my best friend, and I’m his— nevermind what Bant says, she’s a filthy liar.” Tholme groaned softly, more than familiar with that particular debate between Quinlan and Bant.

There was another pause, and Quinlan started to feel a bit… mortified by his outburst, but then Mereel spoke again, his tone significantly warmer than it had been before, “And what’s your name, ad’ika?”

“Quinlan Vos,” he answered promptly. “I’m Master Tholme’s Padawan, and Obi-Wan was my crechemate, before I was Claimed.”

Another pause, and then the Mand’alor sighed. “Nayc, not now,” he said. Quinlan’s stomach sank, his shoulders slumping a bit. Master Tholme tugged him closer, seeming not to care that they were still, technically, standing before the Council, and wrapped his arm around of Quinlan’s shoulders. Just as he had before, Quinlan sank into his side. “You commed during latemeal, and the baar’ur’e— ah, the medics — will not be pleased if he misses any meals. And I don’t want to spring this on him, no matter who is on the other line.”

Quinlan frowned—he hated having Obi-Wan within reach (even if not literally, just over comms, but still), and then not getting to talk to him, but… That was actually pretty fair.

Before any of the Councilors (or Quinlan) could respond, Mereel continued: “If he agrees, then we can comm you back in an hour. Obi—Wan’s —” Strange, Quinlan thought, tilting his head slightly; the Mand’alor had paused a bit in the middle of his name, as if he’d been about to call Obi-Wan something else. “— friend and his Master will be fine, but not more than two of your Councilors. If you can find someone non-humanoid, or familiar, that would be best. We don’t want to overwhelm him; limiting the number of adults he has to interact with will make this easier on all of us. He also hasn’t been cleared, yet, by our baar’ur’e, so if your questions start to upset him, I’ll end the call myself.”

“Of course,” Master Plo agreed immediately. There was another little series of pulses between the Councilors, the Force pinging back and forth between them like a particularly fast-paced round of limmie, and then Master Plo nodded to himself. “We thank you for your offer. It is a good compromise.”

“Jate— good,” Mereel said. “I will message you shortly with Obi-Wan’s decision, one way or another. Jetiise.”

With that, Mereel hung up on them. There was a moment of silence in the Chambers, all of them thinking quietly, and conferring with the Force. Quinlan took a deep breath, leaning a little more into Master Tholme, and thought about what they’d learned. Mand’alor Mereel… didn’t actually seem that unreasonable, especially given what Quinlan had always heard about Mandalore, and Mandalorians. It wasn’t great that they hadn’t been able to speak to Obi-Wan right away, because in another scenario, that would be time a captor could be using to drill certain lines into their captive, but… Well, Mereel had already had Obi-Wan for weeks now, apparently. It was a little late for that.

And, Quinlan thought a bit grimly, there was another reason he had been chosen to speak to Obi-Wan. Quinlan knew his friend best—he really was Obi-Wan’s best friend. He was the one Obi-Wan told everything to, the things he didn’t even tell Bant (he hadn’t told her about the first mine on Bandomeer, and the collar, and the door— he hadn’t told her about Phindar, and the attempted memory wipe, and being kidnapped and dumped on a different planet altogether from where his Master was, left to find his own way back— he hadn’t told her about Gala, and Master Jinn’s disappearing act—). Master Dooku, cunning and calculating as he was, had realized that if anyone would be able to really tell if Obi-Wan was being held under duress, against his will, and in some sort of danger, it would be Quinlan.

Taking a deep breath, Quinlan reached for his bond with Master Tholme. The comfort he’d sought was immediately provided, warmth-steady-calm-Light wrapped around him. He sagged a bit more into Tholme’s side. Quinlan didn’t want to do this, he really didn’t, but… he had to be steady. He had to be prepared, and as calm as he could be. Which meant… 

“Master?” he murmured. Tholme hummed, tugging gently on his braid. “I… Well, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… I think maybe I should… meditate.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Tholme laughed, and, unbelievably, several of the Councilors joined him. Even Master Dooku turned to him and smiled again, almost… indulgent, and so amused. With that, much of the tension melted away; Quinlan was pleased, though he still couldn’t understand what about that had made them all laugh.

“A Force-granted miracle,” Tholme murmured teasingly, and had a few of the Councilors stifling chuckles again, “and also a wise choice.”

“Indeed,” Master Sifo-Dyas agreed, smiling a bit. Master Windu, Quinlan finally noticed, was grimacing, with one hand pressed to his temple, though he was trying to play it off as if he was just leaning on his arm. A headache, then, Quinlan thought; maybe a vision? He was known for those. Master Sifo-Dyas continued before Quinlan could think too much more on that: “A choice I think it would behoove this Council to join you in, if you don’t mind, Padawan? Master Tholme?”

Tholme squeezed him a bit, and Quinlan understood the message: his choice. “Oh, um… That sounds… good,” Quinlan said, though the idea of meditating with most of the High Council was… vaguely terrifying.

“I thought you were the one who said you would try anything once,” the ghost of Obi-Wan’s teasing voice spoke in his ear. Quinlan smiled a bit, and thought: kriff it. Unceremoniously, he sank down onto the floor, nearly taking Tholme down with him. His Master huffed; the collective Council rippled with humor again; Quinlan smiled, and settled himself as comfortably as he could on the tiled, mosaic floor.

He nearly startled when he felt arms grab at him from behind, realizing after a moment that it was his Master. Tholme had sat down just behind him, and pulled Quinlan into his lap. Which—well. Quinlan almost protested on reflex, because he really wasn’t a crecheling anymore, he was sixteen, for Force’s sake, and they were still in front of the High Council, but…

The Councilors still looked gently amused, and sort of fond, settling into their seats to meditate themselves, and it really was easier to meditate this way, and… Kriff it, Quinlan thought again, and relaxed back into his Master’s arms, closing his eyes.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan sensed Jaster outside the door before he knocked, his presence increasingly familiar and now more easily felt, both this close and without his beskar surrounding him. Obi-Wan fell silent just before the knock, turning towards the door, Jango following suit on his cue. After that warning, the door opened, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Jaster, the Mand’alor, wearing an apron, tiny white and red mythosaurs embroidered on it. Jaster smiled at him in return, seemingly reflexively, before directing that same smile at Jango.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said. “And Jorin’s here. I… do have a comm I have to take, I’m afraid, but I’ll make sure it doesn’t keep me occupied for too long. You can get started without me; I’ll join you when I’m finished.”

Obi-Wan nodded easily, realizing that, as ruler of an entire people and sector, Jaster was probably very often terribly busy. It was rather impressive just how much time he managed to carve out for them, given the givens. But Jango started to frown, a bit of concern flaring from him, and Obi-Wan turned to him slightly. Perhaps this sort of interruption wasn’t quite as normal as he’d thought?

“It’s alright,” Jaster was quick to assure them. “It isn’t anything bad, just… time-sensitive.” Jango nodded slowly, calming a bit, and Obi-Wan relaxed in turn. “Now, dinner?”

“And ba’vodu Jorin,” Jango agreed, hopping up and turning to look at Obi-Wan expectantly. Smiling a bit and resisting the urge to roll his eyes at their mother tooka behavior (though, really, it almost seemed as if they were always trying to steer him towards the kitchen to eat something), Obi-Wan got up from the bed to follow them out, and down the hall to the kitchen and dining room.

He saw the man who must be Jorin immediately, standing at the stove and plating up the food Jaster had started. He was tall, not too broad and bulky, more lithe muscle, like Jaster; he had silver hair, and when he turned his head to look over at them, smiling, Obi-Wan saw his bright hazel eyes, something… gentle and kind in them, also much like Jaster’s. He was wearing an interesting combination of cargo pants and casual tunics with his upper armor, including his chest and backplates, pauldrons, and vambraces, overtop. The beskar’gam he wore was painted green, with accents of blue—duty and reliability, Obi-Wan thought, unless the meanings of the colors had changed since Ba’ji’s time. It was a good combination for a goran.

Jaster started forward first, going to murmur something to Jorin too quietly for Obi-Wan to hear it; Jorin hummed, nodding, and then turned to set the plate he’d been preparing on the table. Jango gently pushed Obi-Wan forward, and Obi-Wan did roll his eyes at that. Jorin chuckled, clearly catching the motion, and Obi-Wan flushed.

“Ba’vodu,” Jango said, “this is Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, this is Jorin.”

“Jatne urcye, Obi-Wan,” Jorin said, nodding to him. Obi-Wan smiled.

“Bal gar, Goran,” he answered, perhaps more formally than the situation called for. But even so, Jorin’s smile grew, his eyes crinkling around the corners.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can manage it,” Jaster said, pausing to knock his shoulder gently into Jorin’s; as he passed both Jango and Obi-Wan, he laid a hand on each of their shoulders, squeezing lightly before slipping away. Obi-Wan watched him go for a moment, feeling the Force… thrum, a bit. Why, though, he had no idea, and he certainly didn’t have time to think on it at the moment, since Jango was already herding him towards the table.

Obi-Wan took what had become his usual seat, Jango beside him, and Jorin slid two plates their way before taking the seat beside Jaster’s usual place. Jango cleared his throat lightly, and when Obi-Wan looked over, he pointedly raised an eyebrow, then looked to Obi-Wan’s plate. Rolling his eyes again, then glancing at Jorin and blushing, again, Obi-Wan ducked his head and picked up his fork.

Jorin just chuckled softly, and then silence fell as they all started eating. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though; even though Jorin wasn’t familiar to him, his presence was calm, and not-quite-familiar. Though each individual shone differently in the Force, family members, and sometimes close friends who’d grown up together, tended to share similar threads, and Obi-Wan could pick out traces that felt like Jaster, and a few that were a bit like Jango, in the armorer’s presence.

After a few bites, Obi-Wan paused to drink a bit of his milk—and he spared a moment to be grateful that they’d had to start small with the spices in his food, on Shakka’s orders; he’d been excited to try it, haat hetikleyc skraan, and it was good, but it was also definitely not something he was used to, yet, especially not after so many months living off of whatever they could scavenge, trap, or capture from the Elders in Zehava—and Jorin seemed to take that as a sign to speak.

“So, Obi-Wan,” Jorin said lightly, “Jaster tells me you’ve nearly finished your placement tests, ‘lek?” Obi-Wan nodded, and Jorin smiled. “Jate. Have you given much thought to the classes you might like to take?”

Obi-Wan smiled back, straightening up a bit. “A bit,” he said. “He did mention that you teach a beskad class.” Jorin looked pleased, and a little flare of smug-satisfaction filtered into the Force around him; Obi-Wan wondered what that was about, but didn’t question it.

“I do indeed,” he said. “That class will resume next week, with the rest of the courses for the season. Even if you aren’t yet cleared for them in full, you would be welcome to observe until you can participate.”

Obi-Wan nodded immediately, his smile growing wider. “‘Lek, vor’e,” he said. “I’d like that.” Jorin nodded, and Obi-Wan processed the rest of what he’d said. “The classes for the season? I thought the Clans who are here mostly just took charge of training, but you mean there are more formalized lessons?”

“‘Lek, of course,” Jorin said, and then, just as Jango had, he shot a pointed look at Obi-Wan’s plate. Picking his fork back up earned him an approving nod, and Jorin explained as he resumed eating. “The majority of the Haat’ade do not actually reside full-time in Keldabe, or even on Manda’yaim proper; most come from other colonies, such as Concord Dawn or the moons of Shukut or Bonagal, or even farther out, within Manda’lase. They take rotations within the ranks of the Haat’ade proper, usually dictated by their homes’ farming seasons and market schedules. They tend to bring their ad’e with them, when they come, and leave them here while they go out on campaigns with the larger force. We look after them in the meantime, and see to their education while their buir’e are away.”

Obi-Wan nodded, Tala’s insistence on the Haat’ade working in rotations, and most of those seasonal rotations, making more sense in that context. Once he’d finished swallowing, he opened his mouth to respond, but—

The Force swirled again, and he snapped his mouth shut, frowning, gaze wandering down to the table. Something important was happening, but what?

“Obi-Wan?” Jango murmured, leaning over towards him. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said absently. “It’s just a… feeling.” He probed at the Force for a moment, trying to get a better sense of what it was trying to tell him, but didn’t get much more than that same sense of something-is-happening. It didn’t feel urgent, either, just… weighty, somehow; that meant that while it was important, its outcome wasn’t something Obi-Wan could influence, at least not now. Trying to shake it off, he looked back up at Jorin, finding the man watching him steadily, much like Jaster did.

As if the thought of him had summoned him to them, Jaster appeared in the doorway, apron still on and a faint smile on his face, though it was a bit stiff, a little forced; Obi-Wan frowned, a bit, feeling a faint bit of the… tense-unease Jaster was radiating.

“Buir?” Jango said. “Everything okay?”

“‘Lek, Jan’ika,” Jaster said, nodding to him. “Everything is fine.” He glanced at Obi-Wan, then—at his plate, more specifically, clearly judging how much he’d already managed. Nodding to himself, Jaster added, “Ob’ika, there’s… something I wanted to talk to you about, if you’ll join me for a moment?”

Go-go-go, the Force urged him, and Obi-Wan immediately nodded, setting his fork down. With how insistent Jaster was that he eat, whatever he wanted to talk about must be important, to prompt him to pull Obi-Wan away from his food. He slid out of his seat and followed Jaster, the Force still swirling, though it didn’t feel like a warning.

Jaster led them to the karyai; he didn’t sit, so neither did Obi-Wan. Jaster still had that look on his face, the plastered-on smile that made it look like he really wanted to frown, or grimace, instead. Obi-Wan tilted his head in silent question, and Jaster sighed, his smile slipping a bit.

“There’s… something I wanted to ask you,” Jaster said, in a deliberate sort of way that told Obi-Wan he was choosing his words very carefully. “And whatever answer you want to give is fine.” He paused again, and Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed, a bit. It almost felt like Jaster was nervous, which was… odd. He always felt so calm, so steady. “The comm I had to take was from the Jetiise —a few of their High Councilors.”

Obi-Wan blinked at him. “Oh.” He hadn’t expected them to comm back so quickly; it hadn’t even been quite two full days since Jaster had sent his message to them. “What did they say?”

“They’ve barely started investigating,” Jaster said, “but I’m satisfied with the steps they’ve taken, for now. Though we can talk more about that later.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “They asked if they could speak with you.” Obi-Wan blinked at him again, but before he could respond, Jaster was already barreling on: “It would only be four Jetiise total. Two of their Councilors, and a Jetii’ad, a… Padawan?” He paused, looking at Obi-Wan for confirmation that he’d gotten it right. He sometimes forgot Basic words, and especially Jedi terms, though he always made an effort to use them when he and Obi-Wan spoke about them.

“‘Lek,” Obi-Wan confirmed, nodding, starting to smile, a bit. Jaster smiled back a bit more genuinely.

“A Padawan who says they’re a friend of yours, and their Master,” he finished. “Quinlan Vos and Tholme.”

The Force swirled again, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes,” he said, nodding quickly. “Quinlan is… Well, he’s a menace —some of the Masters used to call him ‘chaos incarnate’—but he’s one of my best friends. It would be good to talk to him.”

Some of the tension in Jaster’s shoulders eased, his smile widening a bit. “Jate. I told them we’d comm back in an hour, which will give you plenty of time to finish your dinner, ‘lek?”

Obi-Wan huffed, shaking his head in exasperation, but he was still smiling. Jaster just chuckled, slowly and deliberately moving to put an arm around his shoulders, giving him a chance to move away if he wanted to, and started to steer him back through their rooms to the kitchen.

His smile started to fall, though, as he wondered if Ba’ji would be back by the time they were ready to have this conversation. Quinlan wasn’t going to be alone, after all—Jaster had said that two of the High Councilors would be on the call as well, and Obi-Wan was… nervous. He tugged at Ba’ji, at that warm-bright-but-distant feeling in the back of his mind, but got no response.

Well, he thought, stifling a sigh, he hoped that Ba’ji made it back soon. Whoever he’d gone to speak with, it seemed to be taking a while—

Obi-Wan stopped in his tracks as he realized something else, Jaster coming to a halt alongside him, arm still over his shoulders.

Shooting him a concerned look, frowning ever-so-slightly at him, Jaster asked, “Ob’ika? Everything alright?”

He couldn’t quite help himself, and a giggle bubbled up before Obi-Wan could stop it. That garnered a raised eyebrow and a small, bemused smile from Jaster.

“Sorry,” Obi-Wan said, though he was still smiling, and there was far too much laughter in his voice for that apology to be believable. “It’s just… Did you really answer a comm from the Jedi High Council in an apron?”

Jango watched Jaster lead Obi-Wan away, frowning to himself. Buir hated interrupting mealtimes, especially dinner. That was family time, and all of the Haat’ade knew it. Not to mention how important they all knew it was to make sure Obi-Wan ate properly, so for Jaster to take a comm, and then interrupt Obi-Wan mid-dinner… It must have been something important.

And, because it was Obi-Wan involved, Jango was fairly sure there were only two possibilities for what could have been deemed important enough for Jaster to do so: either there was more news from Melidaan, or it was something to do with the Jetiise.

“Jango.” Jorin’s voice drew him out of his thoughts, and he turned to look at his ba’vodu, finding Jorin studying him with one eyebrow raised. That look said it probably wasn’t the first time Jorin had called his name, and Jango sighed, a bit. “It’s nothing bad, Jan’ika. Jaster warned me before we began that the Jetii’alor’e had commed back. It’s likely that Jaster simply wished to update Obi-Wan on the situation.”

Jango nodded a bit stiffly. He was… Well, the longer Obi-Wan was here, the more Jango began to hope that he would stay. Talking about and to the Jetiise, having further contact with them, served as just another reminder that he might not.

Jorin cleared his throat rather pointedly, and Jango forced his focus back to him. When he could tell that he had recaptured Jango’s attention, he asked, “And what courses are you thinking of taking this season?”

It was a deliberate and incredibly unsubtle change of subject, but Jango was happy enough to take the opportunity to stop dwelling on Obi-Wan and the Jetiise. Trying for a smile, Jango shrugged one shoulder.

“None, this time,” he said. “Apparently Hasha broke a leg about a week ago—freak accident with their combine, I guess. They’re fine, or they will be, but it was a bad break. It’ll take longer than a few weeks to heal up fully, even with bacta injections. So, with us down an instructor, and Jaster and me unexpectedly grounded for this season…”

“You’ll be stepping in to fill the role,” Jorin finished, and Jango nodded. “Ori’jate. You’ll do well.” Jango smiled a bit wider, a bit more genuinely; ba’vodu Jorin wasn’t the type to say things like that just to be kind or reassuring. If he didn’t think Jango would do well, he would try to nudge him towards making a different decision. Jango had always appreciated that about him, especially when he’d been younger, and freshly adopted. All of the other adults around him had offered a steady stream of comforting platitudes and gentle reassurances, but Jorin had always been… balanced. Praise from him wasn’t rare by any means, but neither was constructive criticism. Jango had always found it refreshingly honest.

“Vor’e,” Jango said. “I’m hoping Obi-Wan will be in one or two of those classes, but we’ll have to see what the baar’ur’e clear him for before they actually start.”

Jorin nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. He glanced towards the hallway, and then back to Jango. Voice pitched low, he asked, “Do you think he will choose to stay?”

Jango frowned, and then shrugged jerkily. “I’m not sure. He… He misses the Jetiise —they’re aliit to each other, in a way. But… Obi-Wan has… more of a connection to us, to Mandalore, than it might seem, at first.” Jorin’s eyebrows inched up, and Jango shrugged again. That was the most he was willing to say about Obi-Wan’s secret, his connection to Tarre Vizsla.

“Would that ‘connection’ have anything to do with his Mando’a?” Jorin asked.

“‘Lek,” Jango confirmed, “but I’m not going to tell you anything more than that, ba’vodu. That’s for him to talk about when he’s ready, and Jaster doesn’t even know about it, yet. I only found out by accident.”

Jorin hummed, staring at him a moment longer, and then he nodded easily. “My instincts tell me that he is one of ours,” he said, and Jango smiled. Jorin’s intuition was incredibly good, and he was so rarely wrong. It gave Jango a bit more hope that Obi-Wan really would stay.

They lapsed into silence again, both of them returning their attentions to their meals; it only took another minute before Jaster and Obi-Wan rejoined them in the kitchen, Jaster’s arm over Obi-Wan’s shoulders, both of them looking relaxed, smiling a bit. A small portion of the remaining tension in Jango’s shoulders eased in response.

Jaster ushered Obi-Wan back to his seat, murmuring an instruction to “eat, Ob’ika, gedet’ye.” Jango huffed a soft laugh as that prompted yet another eyeroll from Obi-Wan (the longer he was here, and the more exposure he had to Jaster and Jango both, the more Obi-Wan acted like the young teen he really was); his amusement faded as he watched Jaster sit, pulling out his commlink. Comms in general were usually banned at the dinnertable, Jaster insisting that mealtimes were for their aliit and that proper attention needed to be paid to each other rather than business, so for him to break his own rule, it really must be something important.

Whatever message he’d needed to send was quick, and only a few seconds later, Jaster reattached his commlink to his belt, turning his attention back to them, and their food. Jango caught his eye, giving him a questioning look.

“The Jetii’alor’e —their High Council—commed back,” Jaster said, confirming what Jorin had said, and then he nodded to Obi-Wan. “Ob’ika agreed to speak with a few of them, and a friend of his— after dinner.”

“A friend of yours?” Jango asked, looking to Obi-Wan.

He nodded, a smile creeping over his face again, overtaking the exasperation that had been there since Jaster’s pointed reminder to eat. “Quinlan Vos—he was one of my crechemates before Master Tholme took him on as a Padawan.”

Jango’s remaining tension petered out with that bit of clarification. Of course the other ad’e he’d left behind would be worried about him; Jango couldn’t fault them for wanting to speak to him. He nodded and turned back to his own food with renewed interest.

“If that conversation doesn’t take too long a time,” Jorin said, “then perhaps we might take the opportunity afterward to discuss a few possible options for you.” Obi-Wan looked up, tilting his head curiously. Jorin smiled, and waved a hand towards a crate sitting in the corner of the kitchen; Jango matched his expression, then. He hadn’t noticed the crate before, but if Jorin had brought it, then he knew with some certainty what was in it.

“Ba’vodu,” Jaster sighed, but Jorin ignored him entirely, still smiling at Obi-Wan.

“Options?” he repeated slowly.

“For beskar’gam,” Jorin said, nodding. “I have never encountered anyone with a significant connection to the ka’ra who was comfortable in haat beskar, but there are several promising alloys we might work with. I brought several buy’ce’se and a few kom'rk’e for you to test, to see how they feel to you.”

“But I’m not Mando’ad,” Obi-Wan said slowly.

“You are an ad in the care of our aliit,” Jorin returned. “Foundlings are the future.”

“This is the Way,” Obi-Wan answered, the response so immediate that it seemed almost reflexive. Both Jango and Jaster turned questioning looks on Obi-Wan, then, who blushed a bit. It wasn’t that they’d never heard the phrase, but it was an old one, and had mostly fallen out of use outside of those traditionalist Clans who still followed the ancient Way. Jango wondered what sort of Creed Tarre Vizsla had followed, back in his day—which, well, with him having lived so long ago, he supposed it made sense that he would have taught Obi-Wan in the more archaic Ways.

“This is the Way,” Jorin repeated, dipping his head. “If you understand that aspect of the Mandalorian Creed, then I’m certain you understand why we would offer you beskar’gam.”

Obi-Wan stared at Jorin for a long moment, and just as he opened his mouth to reply, Jango felt that particular feeling again, the air growing thicker and heavier around them. He stiffened ever-so-slightly, not quite able to fully smother his reaction to the knowledge that the ghost was lurking around them again, and ducked his head, picking at his food again to hide whatever face he might’ve made.

“Alright,” Obi-Wan finally said, after a long moment, and Jango couldn’t help but wonder what Vizsla had said to him, to quell his objections so quickly. “Vor’e.”

“Ba’gedet’ye,” Jorin said, sounding rather smug again. Jaster sighed.

“Neither that comm nor the beskar’gam will be addressed until after dinner,” he said. “So, can we all please agree to stop distracting Obi-Wan, and let him eat?”

Obi-Wan huffed, but turned back to his meal, and Jorin shot Jaster a smirk. Jango kept picking at his food, but less of it made it to his mouth, now, the heaviness in the room speaking to the ghost’s presence putting a bit of a damper on his appetite. To cover for it, Jango looked up to Jorin, and asked, “Besides the beskad class, which classes are you teaching this season, ba’vodu?”

“There are enough adult foundlings this season to hold two separate courses, one for them, and another for the ad’e,” Jorin said, nodding to him, and then looking to Obi-Wan to explain. “As Goran be’Mereel, it is also part of my duties to see to the education of those who are either approaching their verdgoten’e, or those adult foundlings who are interested in swearing the Resol’nare, and becoming Mando’ade…”

Garos was a peaceful little world, covered mostly in forests, mountains, farms taking over the plains, and a handful of settlements that were all on the smaller side. It wasn’t the usual sort of place the Force steered her to, but Fay wasn’t about to second guess being given a moment of peace and calm. And she truly was certain that the Force meant for her to be here, though why, she couldn’t fathom. The most pressing conflict to be found on Garos was the current round of negotiations revolving around the logging industry there, just before the season began; but while those were tense, she had sensed absolutely nothing that could hint that it might lead to violence.

Strange as it seemed, it did appear that the Force had pulled her to Garos to do little more than relax. And who was Fay to question the Force’s Will? She had surrendered herself to it utterly just about a millennium ago. So, strange as it may have felt to her, if the Force wished for her to rest, then she would rest.

Fay had found an excellent meditation spot in one of the forests not far from the town she’d been vacationing in, one of the only settlements large enough to boast a spaceport on Garos. A little babbling brook ran through the woods, but the trees were just sparse enough to let in a great deal of light; the wind in the trees, the feeling of being so completely surrounded by the Living Force, the gentle touches of other presences in the Force, the animals and plants around her, and the townsfolk not too far off… It all made for such a relaxing meditation, and she soon lost herself in it, allowing herself to drift on the currents of the Living Force.

She had no idea how long she had been meditating, her sense of time lost with her sense of self, when she felt it. At first, it was little more than a tug, like the vague gut-feeling Fay always got before the Force would urge her on to some other place, a warning that it was almost time to move on, but it soon grew into a pull, a call for her attention.

Finally, it resolved into a presence. A familiar presence.

“Su cuy’gar, ner ori’vod,” Fay greeted him, neither knowing nor caring whether she had said that aloud, or simply projected it into the Force. She was quite alone here, after all, aside from her visitor, and the animals who wouldn’t care anyway, though she would have cared little for the opinions of any sentient who might have been watching, if there had been someone else present.

Opening her eyes, though not moving from where she knelt in the wild grass beside the little stream, she smiled at the blue-washed figure of her old brother-in-arms. He, too, was “sitting,” his legs folded underneath him, though Force apparitions rarely could get it quite right, and so he had about half an inch’s worth of space between himself and the ground. He had appeared to her without his buy’ce on, allowing her to see the familiar smile on his equally familiar face.

Then she laughed, shaking her head. “Well, nevermind. I don’t think that greeting is quite appropriate, do you?”

She was rewarded with Tarre’s answering laugh, the low chattering making her grin widen. “Su cuy’gar, ner vod’ika,” he greeted her in turn, and then looked around. “What is this place?”

“Garos IV,” Fay answered, knowing already that Tarre had followed her presence to find her, no matter where she might have been, physically speaking.

“How convenient,” Tarre murmured. Fay shot him a questioning look, and Tarre shook his head, his grin falling away. “In time. We have much to discuss.”

The Force rippled, and Fay sat up a bit straighter. “Such as?”

“Our Order,” Tarre said grimly, “has lost its way.”

Fay grimaced, but didn’t immediately respond. She couldn’t honestly speak to the state of the wider Order, these days; she, like so many others, had taken exception with many of the terms bundled into the Reformation. Unlike many other dissenters, however, Fay hadn’t left the Jedi Order, though she had abandoned Coruscant. She had been back only three times since the end of the war. Even her most recent visit, however, had still been… two centuries ago, she thought, though she hadn’t exactly been counting the years.

“Cuun aliit,” Tarre continued, drawing her attention back to him, “has lost so much of their way that they have wronged one of our own. The Council, the Grand Master of the Order—they have harmed an adiik.”

“What do you mean?” Fay asked slowly, beginning to frown. “And what do you mean for me to do about it?” One of our own, Tarre had said, meaning, most likely, an Initiate or a Padawan. And she couldn’t take over their training, if that was what he was after; he should have already known that. She wasn’t capable of acting as anyone’s Master.

“The latter question shall be easier to answer than the former,” Tarre said, smiling at her, a bit too toothily, another small reminder of his Taung ancestry, the predator and the warrior within him coming to the surface. “I find it most convenient that I have found you on Garos IV because of its proximity to Manda’lase.”

Fay’s frown grew a bit deeper. “Tarre—”

“After I have explained what I have been able to divine, I would hope that you will agree with me, and aid us,” Tarre said. “There is an ad in Keldabe, in the stronghold of the Mand’alor, raised by the Jedi Order. In many of his lives… he is the last of the Jedi.”

Fay’s breath caught. “What?” How could that be? They were not nearly as numerous as they had once been, that much was true, but they were still an entire Order.

What could possibly happen to wipe them all out?

“He has visions,” Tarre continued. “From what I am able to conclude, given the specific contents of them, coupled with the little I am able to discern of the possible futures…” Fay already knew, of course, what he meant. The Darkness clouded everything, and though Jedi who properly gave themselves over to the Force, becoming truly One with it, had the same infinite knowledge and grasp as the Force itself, the same did not hold true for Jedi who retained themselves within the Force. They could not be all-knowing as the Force was and remain individual-Forceful-sentient-being enough to reach out simultaneously.

The long pause hadn’t only been out of consideration for Fay’s meandering thoughts; Tarre himself had seemed to need a moment, as if bracing himself for what he would say next. Finally, he looked her in the eye, and said, “There will come a great war. Another galactic civil war. A war the Jedi will lose, and the Republic along with them.

“A war,” Tarre said, grim and angry, the feeling of a storm-contained-within-a-person he had always tended to radiate in battle coming through even in this projection of him, and Fay’s hands clenched into fists without her conscious realization, “orchestrated by the Sith.”

Fay opened her mouth to respond, denial on her tongue, because the Sith had been wiped out. They had taken themselves with those of the Army of Light they could, the thought bomb sparing no one. That battle had cost them General Hoth, and so many other Jedi. It was only through some miracle of the Force that Tarre, Fay, and the rest of their particular fleet had been elsewhere during that battle, on an urgent relief mission—otherwise they would have been caught up in it just as the others had.

The reports had all agreed: there was not a single individual strong enough in the Force to be a Jedi or a Sith left on the planet after that devastating weapon had been used. How could any of the Sith have survived?

Unless… Unless they, too, had been granted a miracle of their own, and even just a few of them hadn’t been on-planet for that final battle. And a few Sith… Could they have hidden, all these years? Or… She knew that they had not managed to rid the galaxy of every last Sith spirit who lingered on this plane, nor had they managed to retrieve and destroy, or contain, every Sith artefact. Either possibility could mean a path for the return of the Sith.

Cold slithered down Fay’s spine at the very thought.

“What do you know?” Fay asked, opening her eyes again and meeting Tarre’s gaze, and resolving to be open to possibilities—no matter how loudly her heart and her head both screamed in denial.

(The Sith. The Sith. Force, Fay had done this once, fought the good fight, and it had driven her nearly to the brink to do it.

She did not know if she could do it again.)

Tarre waited until she had refocused her attention on him yet again, and then began to speak.

Chapter Text

It took every ounce of Obi-Wan’s self-restraint not to roll his eyes yet again when Jaster and Jango emerged from their bedrooms, both of them having apparently decided that a comm with a handful of Jedi warranted their full beskar’gam —and Jaster had even put the cape back on. Instead, he gave in to some of the excitement he was feeling, bouncing on the balls of his feet, already waiting for them by the door. Jaster chuckled at him, the sound a bit odd through his vocorder, and nudged Jango forward a bit.

“Ready?” he asked, and Obi-Wan nodded.

“More than,” he said, the Force fluttering happily, as if it was just as excited about this as he was. Ba’ji chuckled then, too, the low chattering in the back of his mind making his smile grow even wider. He hadn’t had much of a chance to speak to Ba’ji, yet, since he’d returned from wherever he’d gone; Obi-Wan had long since learned his lesson about “spacing out” during mealtimes with others, so after a quick summary of what had happened since Ba’ji had gone distant-quiet, he’d had to keep his focus on the others, and the conversation around them. There would be time later—tonight, after he went to bed, at least, if not before then.

“Jate. Ba’vodu?” Jaster called towards the kitchen.

“I’ll wait here until you return,” Jorin called back, having waved them all off when they’d gone to help with the clean-up, insisting that they had “more pressing matters to attend to.” “If it isn’t too late when you have finished, we can begin the process of seeing to Obi-Wan’s beskar’gam. Otherwise, I will be here to bid you goodnight, and return in the morning.”

“Jate,” Jaster said again. “We’ll be back soon.”

With that, he turned to the door, waving a hand for Obi-Wan to open it. He went first, but then hung back, realizing a bit sheepishly that he didn’t know the way to the communications center. Jaster patted his shoulder as he passed him, moving to take the lead, and Jango fell into step beside him.

After a moment, Jango pulled off his buy’ce, tucking it under his left arm, and leaned over towards Obi-Wan. Pitching his voice low, he murmured, “He’s back, isn’t he?”

“Ba’ji, you mean?” Obi-Wan clarified. Jango nodded, and Obi-Wan smiled. “‘Lek. He doesn’t leave often, and it’s never for very long. You sensed him?”

“The air did that… thing,” Jango said, a faint grimace crossing his face. “It felt… heavier.”

“I apologize if my presence causes some discomfort,” Ba’ji said, and Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if Jango could actually hear that or not, “but all will be explained, in time.”

“Did you hear that?” Obi-Wan whispered, and Jango shook his head. “Oh. He said he’s sorry if ‘his presence causes some discomfort, but all will be explained, in time.’ I don’t know what specifically he’s talking about, though.”

Jango nodded stiffly, and they both quieted, shooting too-innocent looks at Jaster when he glanced back. He sighed, the sound crackling a bit through his vocorder, and shook his head as he turned away, leading them down yet another turn in the long, winding halls. They didn’t speak further as they walked, Jaster leading them, Jango growing ever more tense with each step, it seemed, and Ba’ji distant again, but in a more thoughtful sort of way, this time, ready to return his focus to Obi-Wan when he tugged on their not-quite-bond.

Finally, they reached the comms center, a large space with a giant, rounded holotable in the center, several other, smaller rooms off to the sides, and Haat’ade clad in their beskar’gam milling about the space. They paused in their work as the trio entered, all of them saluting Jaster, fists pressed over their chests; Jaster sighed again softly in response, but nodded to them, waving a hand to dismiss them.

Jaster was quick to usher them both into one of the smaller rooms off to the sides, giving them at least some privacy for this conversation. He’d already offered Obi-Wan a slightly awkward, but genuine, apology for not being able to give him a truly private moment with Quinlan, but Obi-Wan understood, though he didn’t like it. The “investigation” into his… circumstances meant that any communications he had with the Jedi would be reviewed by both Jaster and the High Council, until that was wrapped up. The thought still made him scowl, but Ba’ji patiently and gently brushed over the back of his mind again, soothing some of his irritation.

Finally, Jaster had gotten the holotable in the comms room set up, and he stepped back, settling in on one side of Obi-Wan, and Jango on the other. Jango had put his helmet back on, so they were both fully-armored again; Obi-Wan couldn’t quite help the mental image that floated through his mind, then, picturing the Council’s reaction if Jaster hadn’t answered audio-only, wearing that apron—

Then the comm connected, the projector flickering to life, and the image resolving. Quinlan, as promised, stood at the front, with Master Tholme just behind him, a hand on either of his shoulders, and beside Tholme was Master Plo, and in front of him was Master Yaddle.

There was no time for any formalities, Quinlan starting to speak as soon as the connection was established: “Kriff! It really is you! Force, Obes, you look tiny, maybe even smaller than you were the last time I saw you! Have you been forgetting to eat again? Is it visions? I know you stop eating as much when you have visions, and—”

“Padawan,” Master Tholme interrupted him, that single word filled with such a familiar sort of exasperated-fondness that Obi-Wan couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey, Quin,” Obi-Wan said, grinning so broadly he was sure his cheeks would hurt, later. “Master Tholme, Master Plo Koon, Master Yaddle.” He gave them all a little half-bow, then gestured to Jaster. “This is Mand’alor Jaster Mereel—” Jaster nodded to them a bit stiffly, and Obi-Wan waved a hand towards Jango, next. “—and his son, Jango Fett.”

“We are pleased to truly meet those who have been looking after young Obi-Wan,” Master Yaddle said, nodding to them both, a smile on her face.

“You didn’t answer my questions, Obi-Wan,” Quinlan said, apparently having decided that was enough for the official niceties. Obi-Wan laughed again, shaking his head in his own fond exasperation.

“Yes, Quinlan,” he said. “Force, you’re almost as bad as these two are. I’m constantly being fed, here; no need to worry about that.”

“Good,” Quinlan said firmly, and then he softened, a bit, his shoulders visibly slumping forward, even with Master Tholme’s hold on them. “Kriff, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Quin,” Obi-Wan said, though he wasn’t willing to get much more personal than that—not because of Jaster or Jango’s presences, oddly enough, but because of the two Councilors also on the call. The Jedi in him was still squirming, insisting that he keep up the formality in front of them.

“They will not begrudge you your reunion, or your joy in it,” Ba’ji said, sounding-feeling amused. “The Councilors are simply Jedi themselves. They are just sentients, Ob’ika.”

“So you’re really… okay?” Quinlan asked, and Obi-Wan nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m okay, I promise.” His smile faded away, then, as he looked to the Masters. “Masters, I… I wanted to ask about Master Tahl. Is she… Did she make it back to the Temple in time?”

“She is still recovering, but the Healers’ prognosis is overall positive,” Master Plo answered, and Obi-Wan sagged a bit in relief. That was good news. “It will yet be some time before she is cleared again for field work, but she is recovering nicely.”

“I’m glad,” Obi-Wan said honestly, smile returning, though only for a moment, his next question not any happier, or easier to ask. “And… Master Jinn? I know you might not be able to tell me much, because of the ‘investigation’—” Something of his… distaste must have shown in his voice, or on his face, because Quinlan huffed and rolled his eyes, and Tholme’s expression tightened, marginally, but Obi-Wan barreled on. “—but… How is he?”

“He has been better, but he has also been worse,” Master Yaddle said vaguely. “Master Jinn is grounded in the Temple, at present, and is spending quite a bit of time with the Soul Healers. Time long overdue, I must say. It’s kind of you to ask after him.”

Obi-Wan looked down to hide the flush he could feel spreading over his face. Ba’ji, the Young, Jaster, Jango, and all of the other Haat’ade who knew the story might all insist that Master Jinn had been wrong to leave him on Melida/Daan— Melidaan, it would be soon, unified for the first time in centuries—but Obi-Wan had still handled their last interaction poorly. He shouldn’t have drawn his ‘saber, no matter what he’d thought. Ba’ji flared with a dull sort of disgruntled-indignation again, but Obi-Wan easily ignored him; they’d had this particular conversation more than a few times already.

“Speaking of Master Jinn, and our investigation,” Master Yaddle continued after a moment, once Obi-Wan had looked back up at them, and both Jaster and Jango stiffened on either side of him, “we would appreciate the opportunity to hear your version of events, in your own words—and not just on Melida/Daan, but going back to Bandomeer, and the missions between them, if you’re willing.” Jaster let out an unhappy rumble, and Yaddle’s ears flicked forward. “Not tonight, of course. We realize that it is growing late, in Keldabe. But if you are willing to submit either a written or recorded statement for us in the coming days, we would be grateful.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. He could do that much, at least. He’d already told the whole story to Jaster and Jango, after all, so it would only be easier the second time, right? “Yes, Master. It, ah, might take a few days, if that’s alright? I’ve been busy with placement testing, and I’m not quite finished with that yet,” he said.

“Of course,” Master Yaddle agreed. “Thank you.”

At the same time, Quinlan tilted his head, asking, “Placement testing? Testing for what?”

“Classes, Quinlan, obviously,” he drawled in response, though he was smiling again. “They’re starting for the season, soon, here in Keldabe, so I’ve been taking the placement tests to see what I should take.”

Quinlan blinked at him, starting to frown, but Master Plo simply chuckled. “A wise course,” he said. “I’m pleased to hear that your education is not being neglected. Though, one word of warning to you, Mand’alor.” Master Plo nodded to Jaster, who tensed even further. “Obi-Wan has something of a reputation for disappearing into the Archives. Why, I distinctly recall that he managed to hide himself away in them overnight no fewer than five times—quite a feat, escaping the notice of Madame Nu.”

Jaster huffed a bit of a laugh, some of the tension in his shoulders easing, and he nodded in return. “Message received. We’ll keep a close eye on him.”

“I believe he is in good hands,” Master Plo said, and Obi-Wan’s smile turned a bit softer.

“We won’t keep you much longer,” Master Yaddle said gently. “For now, we simply wished to see you for ourselves. We will keep you all apprised of any developments in our investigation, of course: two teams have been dispatched already, one to Bandomeer, and another to Melida/Daan. We will keep in touch with any news.”

“Jate,” Jaster said, nodding to them. “Good.”

But Obi-Wan winced, and tentatively said, “Masters, that… Well, that may not go very well. I did what I could, but… The Young don’t have the best opinion of the Order, and they don’t trust easily—especially not adults.”

“Understandably so,” Ba’ji murmured.

“Your warning is appreciated,” Master Yaddle said, dipping her head again. “But our investigator dispatched to Melida/Daan will not be going alone. We received the necessary approvals from three Senators; they will be accompanied by two full teams, one from the MediCorps, and another from the AgriCorps. Our aid to them will not be contingent upon their cooperation, of course, but it certainly can’t hurt our chances, hmm?”

Obi-Wan smiled. “No, Master. That’s good news.” He knew the Haat’ade had been doing everything they could, guiding the Young through the unfamiliar processes required to establish peace, form a new government, and otherwise stabilize the planet, but Melida/Daan could use all the help it could get.

“Troch,” Ba’ji agreed, his approval a warm buzz at the back of Obi-Wan’s mind. “This is the work the Order should be doing.”

“I… It’s really good to see you,” Quinlan said again, leaning forward as if he could reach through the holo to touch him. “You promise you’re okay?”

“Yes, Quin,” he said, his smile softer, now. “I promise. And… I know it might be… a bit difficult, with the investigation, but maybe we could set up more comms?” He looked to Jaster, then, who visibly softened, shoulders dropping again, and he nodded immediately.

“‘Lek, of course,” he agreed. “Until the investigation is finished, I will require at least one of the Haat’ade stay with you during any contact with them, no matter who is on the line, but I wouldn’t keep you from speaking with your vod’e.”

Obi-Wan’s smile grew wider. “Vor’e, Jaster.” Jaster leaned over towards him, telegraphing his movements as always, giving Obi-Wan ample opportunity to move away if he didn’t want to be touched, and slung his arm around his shoulders; Obi-Wan, in a rare display, for him, let himself sink into Jaster’s side, a bit.

“Ba’gedet’ye,” Jaster murmured back. Obi-Wan suddenly remembered that they were still actively on the line with two High Council Masters, and not just Quinlan, and flushed again as he looked back up at them.

Master Plo chuckled again, nodding to them. “We would have much the same condition, for now, but there are several others who would very much like to speak with you,” he said. “Your crechemates have been quite concerned about you.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said softly. “I—yes, that would be… That would be good. For now, Quin, can you tell them I’m alright? Especially Bant—you know how she worries.”

“Yeah,” Quinlan agreed, a little half-smile on his face. “I can do that.”

“As we promised, we won’t keep you much longer,” Master Yaddle said again. “But there are several other matters we wished to discuss with you, Mand’alor. Perhaps we might set up another call tomorrow?”

Jaster nodded. “Elek —yes. I’ll look over my schedule and message you; we do have visitors arriving tomorrow, but I can find the time,” he said.

Obi-Wan twisted slightly to look up at him. “Visitors?” he repeated softly.

“Alor be’Kryze, bal val Evaar’ade,” Jaster murmured back. Obi-Wan hummed, nodding; Jaster had told him some about the “New Mandalorians,” the pacifists who were at least nominally allied with the Haat’ade. Obi-Wan didn’t think their views would align with his own (for Force’s sake, he’d just finished fighting a war with child soldiers serving as an army; Obi-Wan knew better than many how unfortunately necessary violence could be), but he was looking forward to meeting them, and getting a view into more of the factions within Mandalorian society as a whole. And he knew Ba’ji was curious about the Evaar’ade, too, both of them wondering how much of traditional Mandalorian culture they had retained in their pacifism.

“Suvari,” Obi-Wan said softly, and then returned his attention to the Jedi again, waiting patiently for them to stop whispering to each other.

“Thank you, Mand’alor,” Master Yaddle said once she could tell they had turned their attention back to the conversation, dipping her head again. “Both for your care of Obi-Wan, and your time.”

Jaster shook his head. “There is no need for thanks for looking after him,” he said. “That is both our duty and our pleasure.” He squeezed just a bit, pulling Obi-Wan closer into his side, and he looked down at the floor again, feeling his cheeks heat once more. Ba’ji laughed again, warm and low and chattering, in the back of his mind, amused by his bashfulness, and approving of Jaster. “I’ll message you first thing in the morning, once I’ve had a chance to review our schedule for the day.”

“Of course,” Master Yaddle said. “Mand’alor, Serah Fett.” She nodded to them, and then looked to Obi-Wan again, smiling softly at him. “May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan.”

“And also with you,” he returned, bowing his head, since he couldn’t manage a full bow, pressed into Jaster’s side as he still was.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Quinlan called out, and then the holo winked out, the connection ended. Obi-Wan burst out laughing, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“That doesn’t mean much, Quin,” he muttered to himself, and then dropped his hand. Louder, he added, “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Nayc,” Jaster agreed. “They were… pleasantly reasonable.” He squeezed once more, and then let go, turning to nudge Obi-Wan back out of the room. As quickly as Jaster had let him go, Jango was there, nudging his shoulder against Obi-Wan’s.

“And now,” Jango said, obviously gleeful even through the flattening effects of his vocorder, “it’s time to get back to ba’vodu Jorin again, and start on your beskar’gam.”

By the time they returned to their rooms, Jorin had unpacked the crate he’d brought, setting the contents on the kitchen table. There were four different options, each with a buy’ce and at least one kom’rk lined up together, though Jaster couldn’t tell the differences between them, each appearing much the same to his eyes: bare, unpainted, shining silver. Jorin had brewed more shig while he waited for them as well, and Jaster smiled and nodded to him, gently nudging Obi-Wan forward. He went easily, and it both pleased and relieved Jaster to see that Obi-Wan was already at least somewhat comfortable with Jorin.

“I’m going to change again, but you two can get started; I’ll be back in a moment,” he said.

“‘Lek, Jaster,” Obi-Wan agreed, turning to smile at him before going to sit at the table.

“How was your comm?” Jaster heard Jorin asking as he guided Jango down the hallway, though he could tell that his oldest ad —his ad, his only ad, Jaster reminded himself—was itching to get back to them.

“Ori’jate,” Obi-Wan answered. “Quinlan was on his best behavior, for once, and they were able to tell me a bit about how Master Tahl is doing. That’s the Master who was on Melida/Daan first, the one we were sent to retrieve…”

“That went okay, didn’t it?” Jaster murmured to Jango, pausing in front of his door. Jango turned and nodded to him, though he was frowning ever-so-slightly.

“‘Lek, I guess,” Jango said, shifting a bit. Jaster raised an eyebrow at him. “I just… The more contact he has with them, the more I think… I know they’re like his aliit, but… It’s just another reminder that he might not stay with us.”

Jaster gave him a tight smile, reaching out to put one hand on the back of his neck, and then leaned forward to press their foreheads together in a kov’nyn. “Suvari, Jan’ika. But he’s still only just settling in, and the Jetiise have barely begun their investigation. I’ve already told him that I wouldn’t allow him to go back, if that is the choice he makes, until they’ve completed it. We have time.”

“‘Lek, buir,” Jango returned, and Jaster squeezed the back of his neck gently before he let him go.

He changed quickly, deciding, for once, to put off the cleaning and maintenance on his beskar’gam until tomorrow; Jaster had just done it the night before, after all, and today had been a datawork day, not even training in the yards with his verd’e, so there was little need for it just then. Nodding to himself, Jaster finished getting it all onto the armor rack and putting on his sleep tunics before heading back out to the kitchen, taking his comm with him, just in case.

He beat Jango back, and Jorin and Obi-Wan barely paused to look up at him; Jaster collected one of the mugs of shig from the counter and slid into his usual seat, watching the proceedings. Obi-Wan was holding one of the buy’ce’se, turning it over and running his fingers along it gently as Jorin watched. After a moment, Obi-Wan shook his head, gingerly setting the helmet back down on the table.

“It’s difficult to get a sense of that one in the Force, which doesn’t bode well about what would happen if I put it on,” Obi-Wan said lightly. Jorin nodded, smiling.

“Of course. That is a durasteel- beskar alloy,” Jorin said. “It has the highest concentration of beskar of any of those I have brought. I thought it less a viable option than an important baseline to set. Try this one.” Jorin picked up and handed over another buy’ce, and Obi-Wan hummed as he took it, examining it in the same way he had the last one. Finally, he held it up, and then closed his eyes. Slowly, the buy’ce rose up out of his hands, floating in midair, though it wobbled, a bit.

Jango chose that moment to enter, pausing in the doorway to stare at Obi-Wan for a moment before shaking his head and going for another of the mugs of shig on the counter before taking the seat beside Obi-Wan, still eyeing the floating buy’ce. Jaster caught his eye and shot him a smile, shrugging one shoulder; Jorin was simply watching Obi-Wan, steady and assessing. 

Finally, Obi-Wan opened his eyes and let the helmet fall back into his hands. “This one is a ‘maybe,’” he said. “It’s still a bit difficult to get a sense of it in the Force, which means using the Force in it might be harder, but it could be doable.”

Jorin nodded, taking the helmet back when Obi-Wan held it out. “Suvari. That one is another durasteel and beskar alloy, but with a lower concentration of beskar than the first. Try the third.” Obi-Wan repeated much the same procedure, running his hands over it, but he didn’t even try to lift it with the Force, instead shaking his head and handing it back rather quickly. “That one, too, has a rather significant percentage of haat beskar, along with several other metals. Try this one.”

Obi-Wan took the last buy’ce, his eyes lighting up, and a small smile appearing on his face. He didn’t close his eyes, this time, as he lifted it out of his hands with the ka’ra, slowly rotating it in the air for a moment; his control over this one seemed better than the last he’d tried levitating. He stared at it for a moment, and then, still a bit hesitantly, he took a hold of it again, and moved to put it on. Jaster smiled; he hadn’t done that with any of the others, so this one was looking promising.

Only a few moments later, Obi-Wan took it back off, though he didn’t immediately hand it back. “This one is… better,” he said. “In the Force, I mean. It’s heavier, though.”

“‘Lek,” Jorin said, smiling a bit wryly. “That has the lowest concentration of haat beskar; it’s mostly phrik.” Obi-Wan startled, looking up at Jorin with wide eyes; Jorin just chuckled. “In my experience, the buy’ce matters most, when it comes to the comfort of those connected to the ka’ra. But we would not wish to give you a buy’ce that is too heavy; that could cause many problems, long-term. There are some alterations I might be able to make to reduce the overall weight, if the material itself is promising enough.” Obi-Wan nodded slowly, handing the buy’ce back over; he opened his mouth to say something else before closing it again, tilting his head as if listening to something—the ka’ra, perhaps.

“Do you have any flimsi handy?” Obi-Wan asked. Jaster nodded, setting his shig down and rising, pulling open the universal “junk drawer” all households developed. He found a half-used pad of flimsi and a stylus quickly enough and handed them over, Obi-Wan gracing him with a little smile.

“Vor’e,” he murmured, and started writing as Jaster retook his seat. He scrawled something on it quickly, and then set the stylus down, looking over what he’d written before shrugging to himself and holding the pad out to Jorin. He hummed as he looked it over, then slowly set it down on the table, staring at Obi-Wan again.

He flushed, a bit, and squirmed slightly in his seat. Jorin tilted his head curiously. “Interesting,” he murmured. Jaster darted a look at the flimsi, on which Obi-Wan had scrawled a list of metals and percentages. “I know that there were Jetiise who wore armor of their own, back during the days of the Dral’akaan’ade, the…”

“Army of the Light,” Obi-Wan translated for him, and Jorin nodded his thanks.

“Did this suggestion come from the records the Jetii’tsad has of them?” he asked, gesturing to the flimsi.

“Ah, nayc,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “It’s… That’s what Tarre Vizsla’s beskar’gam was made from.” Jango shot Obi-Wan a look, and Obi-Wan turned to him, shrugging one shoulder. Jaster watched the by-play with interest, but didn’t comment, though he wondered what that was about, and if it had anything to do with the “Force osik” Jango had warned him he would need to ask about.

“Interesting indeed,” Jorin murmured. Jaster took another look at the flimsi, and the listed materials: beskar, of course, though there were two percentages listed, one 5% with a noted “buy’ce” beside it, and the other 54%. The other metals… There was a low percentage of durasteel, a rather high percentage of cortosis, and sacanium, of all things. “I admit, I’m surprised the Jetii’tsad have records of such a thing. I know that he was both Jetii and Mando’ad, but I would have thought that he would have kept the secrets of our Forge-Ways more private.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, flushing red again. “Ah. They don’t. The Jedi don’t have any records of his beskar’gam, I mean—at least nothing that… specific.” Jorin tilted his head again, staring at Obi-Wan for another long moment, though the ad had started trying very hard not to look directly at him.

“I see,” Jorin said slowly. Jaster could read the curiosity in his expression easily, and admitted, if only to himself, that this was yet another mystery to add to the list when it came to Obi-Wan, but he quietly hoped that Jorin wouldn’t push him for any answers. Thankfully, his ba’vodu knew better. “I believe we have enough of these materials to begin to forge your beskar’gam, though I will need several days to test the process before I begin in earnest.”

Obi-Wan looked up, still a bit red, but his shoulders dropped from where they’d crept up around his ears as he realized Jorin wasn’t going to question his impossible, strange knowledge. “Oh. Alright. Vor’e.”

“N’entye,” Jorin returned. “Not for this. I will also warn you now that the baar’ur’e will have to clear you to wear the full set before we will allow it. We wouldn’t wish the added weight to cause any harm, of course.”

Obi-Wan nodded, smiling just a bit. “Suvari.”

Jaster saw him stop himself from thanking Jorin again and smiled into his mug. Jorin nodded to him and gingerly began collecting the buy’ce’se he’d set out, putting them back into the crate, the kom’rk’e following. The four of them sat for a long moment in contented, easy silence, sipping at their shig. After a few minutes, Jorin was finished, and rose to put his mug in the sink before turning back to them.

“I shall leave you for the night, then,” Jorin said, nodding to them as he went to retrieve the crate.

“ Jate ca,” both of the boys chorused to him. Jorin paused to smile at them, and then met Jaster’s gaze, giving him a look. Jaster rose, already reading the demand for what it was.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, setting down his shig and rising to follow Jorin to the door.

Quietly, looking back down the hall towards the kitchen for a moment, Jorin murmured, “He presents quite the mystery.”

“Gar serim,” Jaster muttered back. He sighed, reaching up to tug a hand through his hair. “Jango told me there’s something I should ask about, but I’ve been putting it off, hoping Obi-Wan would soon be comfortable enough to bring it up himself. But if they keep this up…”

Jorin nodded. “‘Lek, Jango did say that he had ‘more of a connection to Mandalore than it might seem, at first,’ though he refused to explain further, deferring to Obi-Wan,” he said. “I have a feeling about him.”

“A good one?” Jaster clarified, and Jorin smiled.

“‘Lek,” he agreed, and Jaster managed an answering smile. “I will leave you to see to your ade. Jate ca, Mand’alor.”

Jaster rolled his eyes, though his smile stayed in place. Sometimes, it was difficult even for him to tell whether Jorin really just placed that much importance and emphasis on formality, or if he did it to needle Jaster. “Jate ca, ba’vodu.”

Jorin slipped away, and once the door was closed behind him, Jaster let out a long, tired sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face, and then squared his shoulders, heading back for the kitchen. Jango and Obi-Wan had their heads bent together, leaning in close to whisper to each other, though they fell silent and sat up straight, jerking apart from each other as soon as they saw him in the doorway.

“Me’vaar ti gar, ad’ike?” Jaster asked, reclaiming his seat and his mug.

“Naas,” they both chorused, and Jaster snorted, shaking his head.

“I don’t believe that one bit,” he said, and his boys exchanged looks. Jango raised an eyebrow at Obi-Wan, who rolled his eyes in response; Jango leaned over, gently bumping their shoulders together, and Obi-Wan huffed. They both looked back up after that silent conversation, and Obi-Wan squirmed a bit, his cheeks heating.

“There’s… something I should tell you,” Obi-Wan said haltingly. Jaster hummed, tilting his head to show he was listening, but didn’t prompt him for more, letting him speak in his own time. Obi-Wan shot another look at Jango, and then turned back to Jaster, face bright red, now. “What do you know about… about Force ghosts?”

“Very little, overall,” Jaster said easily. “I’ve read a few stories, most notably one about a Jetii’ba’ji who was killed by a Dar’jetii, and then later appeared as a ghost to his final apprentice to guide them in the coming war. Din, I think his name was? ‘Lek, Orgus Din—that was it. But that’s the extent of my knowledge, when it comes to the ‘Force ghosts’ of the Jetiise. I know far more of the stories when it comes to the ka’ra, and the Mand’alor’e and verd’e marching on ahead of us appearing to Mando’ade to guide us. Why do you ask?”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, gaze drifting to some point over Jaster’s shoulder instead of meeting his eyes, still flushed. “There’s… Well, the… I’ve been…” He paused again, and Jaster hummed, then picked up his shig again, sipping at it as he waited Obi-Wan out, letting him work up to whatever it was he was trying to say. Unfortunately, he’d picked the wrong moment for that, and the next words out of Obi-Wan’s mouth had him choking on his drink. “The ghost of Tarre Vizsla, ah… He sort of… attached himself to me? He… When I… I was three, and he… never really left.”

Jaster coughed, a bit, setting his shig down. He stared at Obi-Wan, who squirmed again, and then he looked to Jango, who shrugged at him helplessly.

“The ghost of Tarre Vizsla,” Jaster repeated dully, and Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly. Jaster opened his mouth to say something else, to ask a question, and then snapped it shut again.

By the ka’ra. The ghost of Tarre Vizsla. That was… dini’la, it was insane, but—

But it made so much sense. It explained so much, from Obi-Wan’s archaic Mando’a to his strangely specific knowledge of Tarre Vizsla’s beskar’gam, and… Well, Jaster knew it was possible. Tarre Vizsla had appeared to him, too, which made even more sense, now. Jaster remembered Obi-Wan’s reaction, when they’d first met on Melida/Daan, his irritation at the intervention of the ka’ra, how he’d somehow known it had been Tarre Vizsla who had appeared to him…

“Okay,” Jaster finally said, sounding far calmer than he felt. “How does that… work?”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, squirming slightly again. “Ah, well, he’s just… there? I used to only be able to connect with him when I was asleep—he took over my dreams, when I was younger, to help me with my visions before my shields were strong enough to block them out. But over time, he’s just… It’s like he’s always been there. I can hear him all of the time, now, though I still can’t see his projection, when I’m awake.”

Jaster stared at him for a moment longer, questions forming only to be replaced by another so quickly that he couldn’t settle on one to ask. He nodded and took another sip of shig, taking a moment to force his thoughts to slow down.

“Okay,” he said again, setting his mug back down. “What did the Jetiise think about this?”

Obi-Wan looked down at the table. “I never told any of them. I… At first, I was too young to know how to explain it. What would I have said? ‘There’s an armored Jedi Master in my dreams who keeps the visions away—oh, and he’s been dead for centuries?’” He paused, snorting to himself, and shook his head. “Then, when I was older, I learned that the Order thinks Force ghosts aren’t real. It’s heresy, to them, to even suggest it—they think it goes against the Code, because ‘there is no death, there is only the Force,’ and the idea of keeping your individual consciousness within the Force is what’s heresy to them, but—it’s not contradictory at all, really. But I—well, how would I have explained that, and gotten them to believe me in the first place?”

“I believe you,” Jaster said, and Obi-Wan finally looked back up. Jaster managed a smile for him, though he could feel it was a bit stiff. “It’s… a lot to take in, and I have so many questions that I don’t even know where to begin, but I believe you.”

“...oh,” Obi-Wan said again, slumping a bit, probably in relief. “Just like that?”

Jaster chuckled. “It makes too much sense, ad’ika. And he appeared to me as well, so I know it’s possible,” he said. “I am a bit… surprised, I admit. Especially by the Mando’a—our records aren’t at all clear on the time period he lived in, incomplete as they are after the Dral’han, but you implied before that it was more recent than we had thought, ‘lek?”

“‘Lek,” Obi-Wan agreed. “He was born about forty years before the end of the New Sith Wars, and fought in them. Once they were over, he left the Order and became Mand’alor. He died about… seventy years later? So that was all about three hundred years or so before the Dral’han.”

Jaster hummed, nodding slowly, more questions and theories starting to form. “Interesting,” he murmured. “I would have thought that his Mando’a would be closer to Middle Mando’a, at least, if not modern, but the accent and vocabulary are both Archaic…”

Obi-Wan tilted his head again, and it dawned on Jaster, then, that each time he looked like he was listening to something only he could hear, he was probably speaking with Tarre Vizsla. “Oh,” Obi-Wan said. “Apparently there were quite a few linguistic changes after the Dral’han? With the Clans scattered, several different dialects began to develop, and they weren’t combined again until a few hundred years later, after Mand’alor the Reclaimer called for the first great migration back to Manda’lase for the Clans scattered around the galaxy. What you call ‘Middle Mando’a’ is actually just one of those dialects, the most well-documented one during the period of the Great Return, before they were combined again and evolved into modern Mando’a.”

Jaster leaned forward, another question on the tip of his tongue, practically buzzing with excitement as it hit him that here was a primary source for so much of Mandalore’s lost history, but he was cut off by Jango, who started to laugh at him.

“Buir,” Jango said through his chuckles, “you hear that your Jeti’ika foundling has the ghost of Tarre Vizsla hanging around him, and one of the first things you want to ask about is linguistics?”

“It’s interesting,” Jaster insisted, and Obi-Wan joined Jango in his laughter, giggling to himself quietly. Jaster gave them an exaggerated eyeroll, huffing and sitting back in his seat, sipping at his shig. His show of projected petulance only drove them both deeper into their fits of laughter, and Jaster smiled into his mug.

There were more than a few questions to be asked (Had Tarre Vizsla been there to hear their summary of the Clan Wars? What had he thought about what became of his Clan, if he had heard that? Was his own philosophy closer to Jaster’s, or Tor’s? What had he taught Obi-Wan? Ka’ra, those were only some of the basic questions he had pinging around his mind, then), and Jaster was certain the shock of it all would finally hit him, at some point. But, for now, he chose to be grateful that he’d reacted gracefully enough to reassure Obi-Wan. His foundling’s well-being was the most important thing, of course—

That thought brought about another question, and Jaster quickly took another drink of his shig to hide the frown that started to form. But… Well, did all of this mean that Obi-Wan was actually Tarre Vizsla’s foundling? If that was so, then this had just gotten more complicated by far, because Mandalorian custom and law dictated that the Mando’ad who had actually found them had the first claim, and…

How was Jaster supposed to ask the ghost of a long-dead Mand’alor for permission to adopt his foundling? Without having to go through Obi-Wan to ask it, of course.

One step at a time, Mereel, Jaster told himself, forcing the frown away and setting his shig back down as his boys’ laughter petered out.

“I’m glad you told me,” Jaster said, nodding to Obi-Wan. He was rewarded with another smile, more relaxed, this time, and then turned to Jango, raising an eyebrow at him. “This is what’s had you out of sorts, then?”

“‘Lek, buir,” Jango confirmed, though Jaster still got the sense that he was hiding something, that he was still holding something back. One step at a time, he reminded himself again, and simply nodded.

“Alright,” Jaster said, and then glanced at the chrono on the wall. “It’s getting late, and we’ve had… an eventful evening.” Jango snorted, and Obi-Wan giggled again, and Jaster smiled at his boys. “We should all get some sleep; we can talk more about this in the morning. I’m sure I’ll have questions beyond linguistics once I’ve had a chance to process this.”

That earned him another round of giggles, and the chorus of “‘lek, buir” from Jango, and a simultaneous “‘lek, Jaster” from Obi-Wan. Smiling to himself, Jaster waved them off and went about collecting their mugs, promising to meet them in the karyai.

Once they were out of sight, Jaster let his shoulders slump, scrubbing a hand over his face again. “Wayii,” he muttered to himself. Feeling a little silly, but determined to give it a try regardless, Jaster added, “I don’t know if you can hear me, but, on the off chance that you can… We should… talk.” Though the air felt a bit… heavier, Jaster thought that was just his own imagination, the kitchen just as still and quiet as it had been. Jaster huffed. “Right. Well, it was worth a shot.”

Shaking his head, leaving the mugs in the sink, for now, to be dealt with in the morning, Jaster headed back down the hall towards the karyai, where his boys were waiting for him.

Chapter Text

It was so late that it was verging on very early morning when sleep finally found Jaster.

As he’d predicted, the shock of it all had finally hit, though he’d at least managed to see both of his boys to sleep themselves, first. Though he hadn’t so much as glanced at the chrono on his comm, Jaster knew that must have been several hours ago, by that point. He’d spent most of that time sitting silent vigil over Jango and Obi-Wan, absently going through the motions of keeping watch, falling back on familiar habits in the face of such uncertain territory. All the while, he’d let the questions come and go, not focusing on any one thing in particular, though he made mental notes here and there of what he really should ask Obi-Wan, at least sooner rather than later.

The matter of Obi-Wan’s education was definitely one of those topics in the “sooner” column. Though the more he’d thought about it, the less he’d worried over whether Tarre Vizsla’s philosophies and ideology were closer to Tor’s or Jaster’s, and the less he’d actively worried over just what Vizsla might have taught Obi-Wan. Jaster still didn’t know how closely the ghost’s ideals might resemble his own, but he had a feeling they wouldn’t even come close to his descendant’s. Not when Tarre Vizsla had been raised in the ways of the Jetiise as well as those of Mando’ade —Vizsla had even reached the rank of Master, within the Jetii’tsad, so he must have internalized a great deal of their teachings.

Jaster had learned more than a bit about the Jetiise before he’d ever even met Obi-Wan. He knew little in terms of how the Temple was run, what their individual lives looked like day-to-day, but their history and philosophy were easy topics to research. The Jetii’tsad —the Order—went out of their way to publish their writings, sharing them with anyone who was interested in reading them, and Jaster had certainly been interested. And their philosophies didn’t differ from Jaster’s own nearly as much as he might have thought: an emphasis placed on defending oneself and those in their care, protecting those weaker than themselves, using words to fight but not shrinking back from drawing steel when words alone failed… ‘Lek, there were many important points on which they aligned, and the more Jaster considered it, the more he thought Tarre Vizsla could have been successful in truly integrating both traditions and cultures.

Other questions remained, stubbornly rattling around in his mind: why had Vizsla chosen Obi-Wan specifically? Would Obi-Wan have ever made his way to Mandalore, to them, without Vizsla’s direct intervention?

Would this connection be another point in favor of staying on Manda’yaim, with them? Or would Obi-Wan still choose the Jedi? Was Tarre Vizsla encouraging him to decide on one path over another?

Finally, his racing thoughts slowed, if only by virtue of how late it was, and how karking tired Jaster had gotten. Sighing softly to himself, grimacing faintly as he finally laid himself down, his knee protesting having been in the same position for so long, Jaster closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing.

He didn’t consciously notice the transition from wakefulness to sleep, but it became obvious quickly enough that he was dreaming—though of what or where, he didn’t know. It looked like some sort of meeting or dining hall, probably doubling as both. The architecture looked Mandalorian, reminiscent of some of the more ancient structures in Keldabe, deeper and farther down, those few that had survived the Dral’han: stone construction with high, thin windows, shaped like an elongated kar’ta, towering arched ceilings leaving enough room for jetpack manouevres, clan sigils hanging down from the tall pillars, and several long, empty tables, no one at the accompanying benches, arranged around a cheerfully crackling fire in the center.

“Su cuy’gar, Mand’alor Mereel.” Jaster whirled around at the distinctive voice, only half-surprised to see Tarre Vizsla standing there, fully armored, the black paint and red cape familiar from the last vision-dream Jaster had had of him, but it was only now that he noticed the aliik’e he wore. There, on his chest and helmet, sat the sigil of the Jetiise —the Jedi—in red, and the familiar shriekhawk of Clan Vizsla in silver on both pauldrons, and the other side of his buy’ce.

“Ah,” Jaster said, caught wrong-footed even in a dream, even though he’d literally asked for this. “Su cuy’gar, Mand’alor Vizsla.”

Vizsla chuckled, the sound strange through his vocorder, low and chattering, almost clicking through the man’s helmet. “We have much to discuss.” Jaster nodded mutely, looking around once more, still taking it all in. Vizsla gestured for him to sit, and Jaster obeyed, the ghost taking a seat on the bench across from him.

“What is this place?” Jaster asked, deciding to ease into this with the basics.

“Keldabe,” Vizsla answered promptly, looking around himself, then. “But it is Keldabe as I knew it. This was the urci’ya within the Alori’ya, when I inhabited it. I find it is easier to project environments that are familiar, at least in some way, to us both.”

Jaster nodded, taking another look around, looking at it with fresh eyes. To see what Keldabe had been, before the Dral’han… He shook his head to clear it, refocusing himself. They had more important issues at hand.

“I… had hoped to speak with you about Obi-Wan,” Jaster started, turning back to Vizsla.

“‘Lek, I had assumed as much,” he said, a bit wryly. “You have been doing well with him; he already trusts you a great deal.” Jaster smiled, though it faded rather quickly.

Now that he had Vizsla here, he wanted to get that adoption conversation over with, but… Well, he was more than aware that there was yet another obstacle standing in the way of that. “Do you think he’ll choose to stay here? Or… return to the Je-di?” Jaster paused a bit awkwardly mid-word, catching himself from saying “Jetiise” instead; he was trying to break the habit, to mirror the words Obi-Wan used for them.

“He is yet undecided,” Vizsla said easily. “I have already said my piece on that score, and we have not discussed it again, not since he left that haran with you.”

Jaster hummed, tilting his head a bit. “And your opinion…?”

Vizsla laughed again, that strange, low chattering sound; Jaster was starting to get the impression that he was not-quite-human, perhaps not even near-human, because not all of that could be distortion from his vocorder. “I led you to him, and him to Manda’yaim, did I not?” he asked, and Jaster huffed a bit of an answering laugh. His amusement faded quickly, though, as Vizsla trailed off into a sigh, shaking his head and looking away, gazing at the fire. “The Jetii’tsad is not what it once was; my Order is long gone, after the Reformation. If this is what they have become… Obi-Wan would be better off here, certainly.”

Jaster nodded slowly, more questions on the tip of his tongue (what changes had there been within the Order, since his day? Jaster knew in theory what the “Reformation” was, the agreement that came at the end of the Wars against the Dar’jetiise, tying the Order more closely to the Republic and disbanding their Army of the Light, but not the specifics, and he ached to ask about that, too), but he stopped himself from voicing them. Again, there were more important topics to discuss, though Vizsla spoke again before he could ask anything else, anyway.

“I am quite pleased with the outcome of my gambit, I admit,” Vizsla said, and Jaster tilted his head again in silent question. “Neither Obi-Wan, nor myself, knew much at all about you. Within the Republic, both you and your Haat’ade, and the dar’manda and his Kyr’tsadiise —” Well, Jaster thought with a bit of a grim little smile, at least that answered the question of what Vizsla thought of his descendant and what had become of his Clan. “—are on ‘terrorist watchlists.’ Only the Evaar’ade are viewed favorably among them, and tied together as the Republic and the Jetii’tsad now are, the records of the Order reflect the same.”

Jaster scowled. He was well aware of his status within the Republic, the ignorant, fearful politicians lumping him and Tor into the same category, apparently seeing all traditionalist-leaning Mando’ade in the same light. But his irritation faded quickly into bemusement as that sparked another question.

“If you didn’t know anything about me, then how—and why —would you have called on me to find him, and help the Young on Melida/Daan?” Jaster asked.

“‘Foundlings are the future; this is the Way.’ Though you may not phrase it in such terms, now, any Mando’ad worth the name believes that. I willed the Manda to find the rightful Mand’alor, and direct me to them, trusting that the Manda would not choose one so unsuited as to refuse to help the Young. The Manda itself then led me to you,” Vizsla said easily. Jaster blinked at him, opened his mouth to respond, and shut it again. The enormity of what Tarre Vizsla had just so casually told him was… mind-boggling, frankly. Jaster had felt called to lead his people into a better future, down another path instead of retrodding the same endless cycle of conquest, that was true, but he hadn’t claimed to have been ordained, hadn’t claimed the title of Mand’alor for himself—his people had given it to him.

As if sensing his thoughts—entirely possible, Jaster realized, though he was still too startled to be alarmed or worried about that—Vizsla chuckled again, and added, “The Manda flows both from and to our people. The Manda urged you into your course of action, and the will of the people solidified it. No matter what the dar’manda claims marks him as Mand’alor, he has neither the will of the Manda, nor the will of the people, behind him. You do.”

“The Manda and the Force the Jedi use—are they the same thing?” Jaster asked, knowing that he should probably respond to the more important revelation, but… Well, frankly, even though that was good news, to put it mildly, it was… a lot to take in. He would need time to process that, too.

“They are intertwined, though not quite the same,” Vizsla said, easily allowing him to drop that subject. “The Force is an energy field, created by and flowing through all living things, whether they are able to sense it or not; the Manda speaks to and for Mando’ade alone.” He paused again, tilting his head as though listening to something else—almost exactly as Obi-Wan did, in fact. “Our time here grows short. I shall return to you when I can, though for now, I wished to inform you of a visitor who shall be arriving soon. I have called upon ner akaan’vod, my battle-sister—the last of them who yet exists on your plane. She will arrive within a week, she assures me.”

“Your—wait, what do you mean ‘the last of them who yet exists on my plane?’” Jaster asked, brow furrowing, and Vizsla laughed again.

“The last of my brothers and sisters in arms still alive,” Vizsla said, confirming what Jaster had thought.

“But—how old is she?” Jaster said. “By the ka’ra, she must be…”

“Fay is around one thousand years old; she was born only five years after I was,” Vizsla said easily, amused again, now, and Jaster knew he was gaping, probably making a very unflattering spectacle of himself, but that was…

“Wayii,” Jaster murmured. He shook his head, trying to refocus on the more important points. He would have time to think about this later, too. “You’ve called her here for Obi-Wan? She’s a Jedi, ‘lek?”

“‘Lek, of course,” Vizsla confirmed. “Her business is with Obi-Wan, though I am certain she would not begrudge you your questions. She has nothing to do with the actions of the wider Order, or their investigation. Fay has not been back to the Temple for two centuries. Her business with him is unrelated.”

“I see,” Jaster said, still reeling over everything Vizsla had just revealed. A Jedi, about a millennia old, and one who had fought with Tarre Vizsla in the Wars against the Dar’jetiise, was coming here, for his foundling— Obi-Wan—focus on him, first, Jaster reminded himself, cutting off his previous train of thought before he could spiral again. Obi-Wan was his most important consideration, which meant there was another question to be asked: “What is her ‘business’ with him, exactly?”

“It concerns his visions,” Vizsla said, “though anything more specific than that, I shall leave for him and Fay to tell you.” That was… fair enough, Jaster decided, and nodded. Again, Vizsla tilted his head as though listening for something only he could hear, and then looked back to Jaster once more. “We must go, now. We are both needed.”

“Needed?” Jaster repeated, even as the hall swirled, twisting and melting away, and Jaster heard something that sounded like glass shattering—

He jerked upright, blinking his eyes open and finding himself back in the karyai. It was still fairly dark, the skylights letting in the dull, weak light of morning, but between that and the fire, it was enough to see by. Jango was also sitting up, and his gaze met Jaster’s, a grim sort of look on his face. Jaster frowned, and looked to Obi-Wan between them, who was still asleep, but breathing faster than usual, his brow furrowed, fists clenched in his blankets—

Obi-Wan was having a nightmare, Jaster realized. He slipped out from underneath his blankets, moving to go wake him, when the light from the fire caught on something scattered on the floor: the broken glass, he realized. That had been real, not just part of the dream, and it had probably been Obi-Wan, lashing out in his sleep with the ka’ra —with the Force. Jaster frowned, knowing that he was probably going to get decked, if his experiences with Jango when he’d been younger and more freshly adopted told him anything, but he was entirely unwilling to just leave Obi-Wan to the night terrors.

Slowly, cautiously, he moved to crouch beside Obi-Wan, trying to make himself as small and non-threatening as he could, and vaguely thought to hope that he did get punched instead of tossed into the nearest wall. Jaster leaned down, gently touching Obi-Wan’s shoulder, though that didn’t wake him, which was strange, since he’d seemed like a rather light sleeper, before.

“Obi-Wan,” Jaster called, keeping his voice even and soft. “Wake up, Ob’ika. It’s just a dream.” He squeezed Obi-Wan’s shoulder where his hand rested, gently, but hopefully enough to wake him.

It was, and Obi-Wan’s eyes shot open, going wide and a bit wild, almost frantic, and his entire body tensed even further. Jaster tried to smile at him reassuringly, though he didn’t know quite how successful he was. Obi-Wan hadn’t had nightmares before; what had changed? Was it just a delayed stress response? Was he finally starting to process everything that had happened to him, now that he was starting to feel safe again?

Not helpful, he told himself, refocusing on the matter at hand. “Udesii, Ob’ika,” Jaster murmured. “It’s alright. You’re still in the karyai, and it’s just me and Jango here with you, now. Morut’yc, ori’haat.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to answer, blinking at him, still tense, but some awareness started to creep into his expression, some of the wildness calming. He looked around, and then sat up; Jaster didn’t move his hand from where it still rested on his shoulder.

“Oh,” he murmured. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you—”

“It’s fine, ad’ika,” Jaster assured him, squeezing gently again. “Are you alright?”

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, looking away. “I thought I was— I thought… Cerasi—”

Ah, kriff. Jaster had been afraid of that. Obi-Wan didn’t say anything else, instead starting to shake. Slowly and gently, giving Obi-Wan time to shift away or protest if he felt the need to, as he always did, Jaster moved, sitting beside him instead of crouching. He wrapped an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and just as he had the night before, his ad immediately sank into him, pressing even closer.

Jaster rearranged them so he could hold Obi-Wan, putting one hand on the back of his head when Obi-Wan pressed his face into Jaster’s shoulder. Obi-Wan clung back, still shaking. However unsurprising it was, it still broke Jaster’s heart when he finally started to cry.

It had been a… rough morning.

Just as Jaster seemed to have been, Jango had been jolted awake by the sound of breaking glass. His first instinct had been to shoot straight up, one hand already going for the Westar he slept with, kept tucked under his pillow, and he’d clicked the safety off as he scanned the room, though he’d kept it lowered, for the moment. His gaze had met Jaster’s at exactly the same instant Jango realized what must have happened. The karyai was still and quiet, for the most part, and there was no one else there, just the three of them. A quick glance towards the back wall revealed his suspicions were right: the lamp that usually sat on one of the shelves at the back of the karyai had broken, pieces of glass strewn across the floor.

Obi-Wan must have done that, lashing out with the ka’ra. Jango looked at Obi-Wan, Jaster already moving towards him, and grimaced. Yes, he was definitely having a nightmare.

Jango put the safety back on his Westar and slipped it back under his pillow, waiting until Obi-Wan was up—thankfully without lashing out at Jaster—and then slid out from underneath his blankets. Since Jaster had Obi-Wan handled, for now, and Jango thought they might appreciate a moment of privacy, there were other things he could do to be helpful just then.

He kept quiet as he slipped out of the karyai, heading down the hall towards the kitchen. Jango paused to put the kettle on, thinking longingly of caff because it was too karking early to be awake, and this was osik, and then went to retrieve the dustpan from under the sink. They had mouse droids who came in and cleaned, of course, but Jango didn’t want to wait as long as it would take to summon one of them. Nodding to himself and glancing one last time at the kettle, resigning himself to having to wait for caff, Jango went back to the karyai, pausing in the doorway to make sure he wouldn’t startle Obi-Wan when he reentered the room.

Obi-Wan was curled into Jaster, face pressed into his shoulder, his buir holding onto him just as tightly, dwarfing his small form, and Jango was transported back through time, for a second. He’d woken up just the same way, and clung to Jaster just like that, more than a few times, when he’d first been adopted after losing his maan’aliit.

Jaster glanced up at him over Obi-Wan’s head and gave him a sad little half-smile and a nod, and Jango nodded back. Taking that as clearance to come closer, Jango slipped around them and carefully started sweeping up the jagged pieces of the broken lamp, doing so as quietly as he could. If Obi-Wan noticed him cleaning it up, Jango had no doubt he’d immediately start apologizing again, knowing him. Thankfully, he didn’t move, still curled into Jaster; he might have still been crying, though Jango couldn’t hear him if he was.

His first task finished, Jango caught Jaster’s eye again and jerked his head towards the hall to the kitchen, signing “caff” to him. They were both fluent in jorhaa'gaan, out of necessity, with Jaster being mostly-deaf. His hearing aids had malfunctioned more than once in the field, a side-effect of concussive blasts and EMPs they couldn’t avoid, and though Jaster could lip-read, none of them were going to take their helmets off during an engagement. Jango had learned it quickly, so they could speak beyond basic battlesigns when the need arose.

Jaster gave him a nod and a slightly stronger smile, and Jango smiled back. He looked at Obi-Wan once more, his gaze lingering for a long moment, struck yet again by how much younger Obi-Wan looked than his actual fourteen years, with as small as he was. Finally, he pulled himself away and went back to the kitchen to dump out the glass and wait for the water to be ready for his caff.

His buir wandered in just as Jango was pouring his caff, letting out a tired sort of sigh and sitting down at the table. Jango had already set out shig for him and Obi-Wan, knowing Jaster hated caff and Obi-Wan wasn’t allowed to have any, whether he wanted it or not, on Shakka’s orders.

“Vor’e, Jan’ika,” Jaster said, waving for Jango to come over to him before sitting down. Jango went, and Jaster leaned up; smiling, a bit, Jango leaned down and met him for a quick kov’nyn before pulling away to sit down, and drink his blessed caff.

“How is he?” Jango asked.

“He’ll be alright,” Jaster answered. “He’s showering, first, and he said he needs to meditate after breakfast. Something about how skipping it last night made things worse this morning. I’ll try to convince him to take it easy today, maybe skip the rest of the tests, put them off until tomorrow, but—you’ve seen how he gets.”

Jango huffed and nodded. “He’s as stubborn as any Mando’ad already,” he agreed. He took a sip of his caff, burning his tongue a bit in the process, since he hadn’t waited for it to cool any. It was fine; he was used to that.

“If he doesn’t feel like coming along this afternoon when Adonai arrives, would you stay with him?” Jaster asked, and Jango immediately nodded.

“‘Lek, of course. Adonai would understand,” Jango said.

“And I’ll have to comm the Jedi back, at some point,” he sighed. Jango shrugged.

“I’ll be around all day,” Jango promised, and Jaster nodded, giving him a slightly more genuine smile than any of the others had been so far this morning.

They lapsed into silence, after that, Jango not any more talkative this particular morning than he usually was, at least not before caff, and Jaster seemed lost in thought. Finally, Jaster rose and went to the conservator to start breakfast, pausing to ruffle Jango’s hair as he went. Jango glared at him, and got an answering chuckle for his trouble.

Obi-Wan joined them shortly after that, face pink like he’d had the water too hot or scrubbed himself raw, but he looked a bit better. Calmer, at least. Jango grunted and gestured to the mug of shig already waiting—and cooled, by now, to an appropriate drinking temperature—at what had become Obi-Wan’s usual seat, drawing a faint smile out of him.

“Vor’e, Jango,” he murmured. He seemed to slump a bit as soon as he sat down, hands clasped around his warm mug. Obi-Wan seemed as content to sit in the silence of their too kriffing early morning as both he and Jaster were, so none of them broke it just then. Obi-Wan was idly watching Jaster as he cooked, but he looked a bit distant, his gaze faraway. Jango wondered if he was talking to his Ba’ji, to Tarre Vizsla, but the air didn’t feel any heavier than usual—although, he mused, maybe he was just getting used to it, now that the ghost didn’t seem to have actually left, much, and was “always just there.”

That thought spurred another, Jango frowning a bit as he finished off his first cup of caff. He’d thought that the ghost guarded Obi-Wan’s dreams—he’d said as much, after all, and Obi-Wan hadn’t had any nightmares before now. What had made last night any different, besides Obi-Wan skipping his meditation? But—well. It wasn’t like that was something Jango was actually going to ask Obi-Wan, at least not right now, so he shoved the thought aside and went back for more caff.

Jaster’s comm chimed, and he glanced at it before putting it back into his pocket without immediately replying, so Jango knew it wasn’t anything urgent. He continued ignoring it until he’d handed over their plates, taking a second to tap out a reply before going to take his seat.

“Adonai and his ade are set to arrive just after midmeal,” Jaster said, slipping his comm back into the pocket of his sleep pants, still not having changed into his beskar’gam for the day. “Since I have to comm the Jedi Council back today, I might as well do it while you’re meditating, Ob’ika. How long does that normally take?”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, blinking at Jaster. “It varies? Sometimes it takes a few hours, sometimes only twenty minutes or so.” He ducked his head again, stabbing at one of his tubers, adding, “But I feel like this is going to be on the longer side.”

“Alright,” Jaster said. “Take as long as you need; we can finish the rest of your placement tests tomorrow, or spread them out over the rest of the week since classes won’t be starting until then. We have the time.”

Obi-Wan looked up again, brow lightly furrowed as if he was about to argue, and then he tilted his head, and Jango just knew what was coming next. Predictably, the air grew thicker, heavier again, and Obi-Wan pursed his lips momentarily before shrugging. “Alright.”

Jaster smiled, and Jango found he wasn’t quite as grumpy about the ghost, either. Though he might not be able to hear him all of the time, and knowing that there was a ghost haunting them was… creepy, to say the least, Jango could get over that if he turned out to be a consistent ally in the fight to get Obi-Wan to take care of himself.

“Jate,” Jaster said, taking his comm back out, no doubt to ask the Jetiise if they were available.

Obi-Wan was still frowning down at his plate more than eating anything, so in an effort to distract him, since he seemed to eat better when he could listen to someone talk, Jango let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll be in this morning. I have to write lesson plans.”

“Lesson plans?” Obi-Wan prompted him, and Jango nodded.

“‘Lek, I’m teaching a few courses this season,” he said. Obi-Wan shot him another questioning look, tilting his head like a curious tooka as he was wont to do, and Jango raised a pointed eyebrow in return at his plate. That got him an eyeroll and a small smile, but Obi-Wan started eating again, so Jango started narrating between bites. “Two different groups for hand-to-hand, and another for marksmanship, and one of the astronav courses. I’ll probably also end up helping with the sen’tra classes. Those can get… interesting, so having extra help around never hurts…”

Jaster, obviously realizing what Jango was doing, started asking questions to prompt him along, and between the two of them, they kept Obi-Wan distracted enough that more of his food started making it to his mouth. By the end of the meal, Obi-Wan still looked tired, but better, now, back to giving them those wan, barely-there smiles that seemed to be his default expression, much of the time. Jango knew he still wasn’t fine, like he always claimed he was when asked—not just yet, anyway, but… he’d be alright. Jaster and Jango would see to that.

Chapter Text

There was one particular story from Quinlan’s time in the creche, one incident, as the report from his creche Master said, that really wasn’t his fault. Oh, he took the fall for it, willingly and unprompted, but still. He knew the truth, he remembered it well, though he hadn’t actually thought about it in a long time.

Quinlan had been nine, at the time, and Obi-Wan not-quite-seven, and though Quinlan had only been in the Temple for a little while, and his circumstances had been… unusual, something about Obi-Wan had made him feel right at home. They’d become fast friends, Obi-Wan one of the only Initiates around Quinlan who didn’t question why he was in the creche if he already had a Master, why he wasn’t a Padawan if he already had a Master, why he’d come to them so late, past the age cut-off, why, why, why…

So that had drawn Quinlan to Obi-Wan almost instantly, and they’d been damn near inseparable ever since, despite being, technically, in different creche Clans. But they’d met in the first place because the creche liked to pair off multiple Clans for larger activities, and their Clans were always paired together for everything —mealtimes, group meditations, trips to some of the gardens, certain games, and, of course, field trips.

This particular incident had been on one of those field trips, nine-year-old Quinlan and nearly-seven-year-old Obi-Wan, along with the rest of both of their Clans, heading down to the lower levels—though not too far down—to visit one of the joint MediCorps and AgriCorps stations. “Waypoints,” they liked to call them, as if the hungry and the sick who converged upon what was both a clinic and a food bank would, someday, no longer need them, like they were just a stop on these peoples’ journeys. Quinlan now, older, if not by that much, in the grand scheme of things, and more cynical if not exactly wiser, knew just how untrue that was, how many of the same faces had been showing themselves at these “Waypoints,” over the years, how many couldn’t escape their circumstances, even here in the heart of the Republic.

Anyway. Quinlan was never known for following instructions —Force only knew how many times his creche Master, kindly, gentle, and tired old Master Dalka had had to have a talk with Tholme about his technically-future-Padawan’s lack of impulse control —and it was a well-deserved reputation. That made it so easy to take the blame.

But it had been Obi-Wan who’d left the Waypoint first —perfect, goody-two-shoes Obi-Wan, who never broke the rules unless it was Quinlan who asked and it was only for a harmless little prank, like putting bubbles in the fountains, or dye in the showerheads in the communal ‘freshers in the salles. Quinlan had seen him hiding in the back room of the Waypoint and wondered what was going on; Obi-Wan hadn’t seen him; no one else had seen either of them. Quinlan had been the only one to know what happened, watching from a shadowy corner while Obi-Wan looked around, decided he was clear, and slipped out the back door.

Quinlan really should have just told one of the many adults who were immediately available, if not their creche Masters. But, well, Quinlan had a well-deserved reputation for not following instructions, and, worse than that, an untameable curious streak. So, naturally, he’d slipped right out after Obi-Wan.

They’d already had a bond, then, not as strong as it would one day become, but strong enough to follow it. Quinlan had darted around the back alleys of the lower levels (and thinking back on that now, with a few added years and the awful experiences that came from training as a Jedi Shadow when he had the dubious gift of psychometry, made him flinch, because Force, they’d gotten so lucky that day, any number of people could have grabbed them; Force-sensitives were worth their weight in phrik to slavers, and trained Force-sensitives at least double that, and Obi-Wan was a kriffing natural redhead, too, which wouldn’t have helped his cause—but they hadn’t been. …not then, at least, not until years later) following that feeling of Obi-Wan.

It hadn’t taken long to find him, but when Quinlan did, that was when he’d finally started thinking that maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea, and he really should have told the Masters. He’d ducked behind one of the walls nearby and peered out around the corner, watching as his idiot best friend chattered up at a fully-armored Mandalorian.

In a language Quinlan couldn’t even understand, no less. A language he’d never even heard Obi-Wan speak before. It was weird, but the Force wasn’t screaming danger, like it had that night, when his parents had—nope, not going there. Quinlan had hidden, and watched, because the Force wasn’t saying he needed to be saved, and, well. There came that curiosity again.

“—bal gar kom’rke,” Obi-Wan was saying when Quinlan started listening, the Mandalorian’s blank visor staring down at him, though Obi-Wan didn’t seem deterred. “Mesh’la! Kebiin bal ge’tal—ruusaanyc bal par gar buir’e, ‘lek?”

Quinlan had no idea what that meant. He had no idea what Obi-Wan was saying, or how he’d learned whatever that was, but he thought the language must have been Mandalorian, because the Mando reacted, nodding a bit stiffly. They looked around for a moment, then crouched slowly in front of Obi-Wan.

“Gar serim, ad’ika,” the Mando said, tilting their head. “Tion gar gai?”

“Obi-Wan!” he chirped, and the Mando nodded. “Bal gar?”

“Tseru Tervho, b’aliit Kryze,” the Mando said.

“Jatne urcye!” Obi-Wan answered, and stuck out his right arm. Tilting their head and somehow managing to look bewildered even while fully covered, the Mando—Tseru? Tervho? Kryze? Quinlan thought those might be parts of their name, but he couldn’t be sure, because he didn’t know what they were saying—reached out and carefully clasped it, their massive hand closing all the way around Obi-Wan’s tiny forearm with room to spare as Quinlan’s idiot best friend—seriously, what did he think he was doing? That was a Mandalorian, and they hated Jedi—clasped back in the same way, his tiny hand not even nearly going halfway around their arm.

“Bal gar,” the Mando, what Quinlan had settled on continuing to call them, for now, said. “Ad’ika —Obi-Wan—” The Mando paused, drawing their arm back, though they remained crouched, down on one knee. “Tion’vaii gar buir’e?”

Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force flared with guilt, and Quinlan tensed. “Uh, ner cabur’e cuyi pirebu. Ori’haat! A’ni ru’copaani jorhaa’i bah gar. Gar oyacyi sha Keld’ika?”

“Nayc,” the Mando answered. “Sha Manda’yaim — sha Sundari.”

“Kandosii’la!” Obi-Wan said, and the Mando made a noise, one that almost sounded like a laugh, though Quinlan couldn’t quite tell with their helmet on. “Tion’cuyi beroya? Ver’verd?”

“Beroya, ‘lek,” the Mando said, nodding. “Obi-Wan, ni copaani mar’eyi gar… cabur’e. Tion’vaii?”

Obi-Wan outright pouted. “Pirebu! Tion’gar —”

“Ad’ika,” the Mando interrupted him, somehow gentle but firm at the same time, like the creche Masters. Obi-Wan immediately stopped talking, staring at the Mando with wide eyes. “Tion’vaii gar cabur’e?”

It was then that Quinlan got a faint sense of second-hand alarm —not from Obi-Wan, but from his weak bond with Bant. Obi-Wan’s bond with her was far stronger than Quinlan’s, and true to form, Obi-Wan looked back down the alleyway they’d come through, though he quickly looked back to the Mando.

Kriff. The feelings they’d just gotten from Bant meant that the Masters realized they were gone.

“At ogir?” the Mando said, nodding down the alley the direction Obi-Wan had just looked. Just as they did so, Quinlan suddenly felt two Lights coming towards them. Two adult Jedi —two very familiar adult Jedi.

Their creche Masters were about to catch them both.

Quinlan sprung into action, darting around the corner and heading for Obi-Wan. “Obi!”

Obi-Wan startled, looking back towards him, and the Mando tilted their helmet again, aiming that blank gaze at Quinlan.

“Quinlan?” Obi-Wan said, blinking at him.

“Su’cuy, ad’ika,” the Mando said, nodding to him. “Gar vod?”

“Uh,” Quinlan said, edging a bit closer to Obi-Wan, squirming, a bit, under the Mando’s scrutiny. “Sorry, I don’t know… whatever language that is.” The Mando stared at him for another long moment, and then they turned to Obi-Wan again, as did Quinlan. He grabbed his stupid, idiot best friend’s arm and tugged. “C’mon, we have to get back! They’re coming, but I think maybe we can sneak back in before they get here, and they won’t even know we were ever gone, they’ll think we were just hiding somewhere inside—”

“But—” Obi-Wan started to protest, and then paused, blinking at him owlishly again. “You followed me?”

“Duh,” Quinlan said. “You’re not allowed to get in trouble without me.”

Obi-Wan giggled, and the Mando cleared their throat. Both Quinlan and Obi-Wan’s eyes had snapped back to them, still crouched in front of the pair of them.

“Your name is Quinlan, ad’ika?” the Mando asked. Hesitantly, Quinlan nodded. “Jatne urcye —well met. Where are you two meant to be?”

Kriff, Quinlan had thought, because he really didn’t want to tell the Mando the truth, but the Masters were coming, and that would tell it for them anyway.

“Pirebu,” Obi-Wan said, and Quinlan noticed he’d said that word a lot so far. He wondered what it meant.

The Mando sighed, but they sounded amused when they said, “So you’ve said, Obi-Wan. But if you speak our language, you must understand enough about us to know that, as Mando’ad, I have a duty to ensure you are returned to your caregivers, or otherwise looked after. If you tell me where you are supposed to be, I will make sure you get back safely. Coruscanta is no place for two adiik’e to be wandering around without their buir’e, or cabur’e.”

Quinlan and Obi-Wan exchanged looks. They weren’t, thankfully, wearing their Initiate tunics, instead having worn some of the more nondescript Corps jumpsuits for their visit to the Waypoint. So while the Mando might not have realized they were Jedi yet, telling them where they were supposed to be definitely would.

But so would the Masters finding them, as they did only a moment later. The two bright presences approached so quickly Quinlan knew they had to be using the Force to run faster—and he couldn’t wait to learn that trick, it would make so many different pranks easier. They both sensed it, and Obi-Wan and Quinlan whirled around in unison, alarmed, and terrified of all the trouble they were about to be in, and the Mando tensed, standing and then, surprisingly gently, pushing them both back, standing in front of them—

Protecting them, Quinlan realized. They’d acted scared of something, and the Mando was shielding them, even when they had no idea what, or who, was coming, why they were afraid.

…huh.

Master Dalka and Master Shari-Ta rounded the corner and came to a sudden stop. The Mando took a half-step back, pushing Obi-Wan and Quinlan along with them. The Masters tensed, Master Dalka’s hand twitching for his ‘saber where it hung from his belt, though he didn’t grab it. A tense silence fell, like the Masters and the Mando were having some sort of stand-off, and then Obi-Wan peeked out around the Mando’s legs.

“Hi, Master Shari-Ta, Master Dalka,” he said sheepishly. The Mando startled, head snapping down to point that blank visor at Obi-Wan again.

“Obi-Wan,” Master Shari-Ta said, and though she only spared the barest of glances for Obi-Wan and Quinlan, keeping her gaze carefully on the Mando between her and her charges, both her presence and Master Dalka’s reached for them, wrapping them in comfort-relief. “Quinlan. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan said. “We were… just talking.”

“This, ah, Mando was trying to find out where they should take us,” Quinlan added, hoping it would work, just this once, and he could actually talk himself out of trouble. “We were… lost! We got lost, and the Mando stopped to help us get back.”

Quinlan prayed to the Force with everything in him that the Mando would accept his slight alterations to the events that had occurred; the Mando turned to look down at him, next, but, thank the Force, didn’t say anything.

“Did they, now?” Master Shari-Ta said, and then she smiled. It was fake, though—not only was it a little wooden, but her lekku were still curled in that way that meant worry, and the Force around her was buzzing unhappily. “That’s quite kind of you.”

The Mando finally looked back up, meeting Master Shari-Ta’s gaze and shaking their head. “Mando’ade take our duty to adiik’e —young ones—seriously.” The Mando stared at the two Masters for another long, tense moment, and then, in a sign of trust that startled even Quinlan, who hadn’t realized just how much it really meant, as he did when he thought on that incident years later, the Mando turned their back on the Masters, crouching down in front of them both again.

“These are your cabur’e? The people you should be with?” they asked. Both Obi-Wan and Quinlan nodded mutely. The Mando studied Obi-Wan silently, and then Quinlan. He had to fight not to squirm, staring at his own reflection in the distinctive T-visor, but then, finally, the Mando nodded back. They stood again, turning back to the Masters and gingerly prodding Quinlan and Obi-Wan forward. “Go on, then.”

They went, and both Master Shari-Ta and Master Dalka were quick to grab them, gentle yet firm as always, hands on their shoulders. Once they had them in hand, both Masters finally started to relax, some of the unhappy buzzing in the Force around them easing.

“You have our thanks for your aid,” Master Dalka said a bit stiffly, bowing his head. Master Shari-Ta echoed the motion.

“Ba’gedet’ye,” the Mando said, nodding. “You’re welcome.” The four Jedi started to turn away, but then the Mando called out to them once more: “Before you go—” The Masters tensed again, freezing in place, hands tightening on the younglings’ shoulders. “—where were you born, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan twisted around Shari-Ta enough to look at the Mando again, giving them a gap-toothed smile. “Stewjon.”

“Huh,” the Mando said. “Well. It was… interesting to meet you. Ret’urcye mhi.”

“Ret’!” Obi-Wan answered cheerfully, waving at the Mando, who still managed to look flummoxed and a bit awkward even in their full armor as they waved back.

The Masters hadn’t even really asked what had happened. Normally, the Masters would take them aside individually to ask for their versions of the events, first, and Obi-Wan was never the type to admit that it had been Quinlan’s idea, and only ever told them what he had actually done. He was loyal, and kind, like that, always had been. But Quinlan had no qualms ratting himself out, taking credit for his glorious pranks.

But, this time, they hadn’t asked. Quinlan thought they might have been too frazzled by the “incident” and the encounter with that Mandalorian, and too eager to head back to the Temple, to follow their usual procedure. When they’d finally made it back to the creche, both Masters had sat them down together, and they’d both immediately assumed that Quinlan had been the one to sneak out, and ever-loyal Obi-Wan had only been following him as he always did, and the Mando had found them when they’d gotten lost.

Obi-Wan tried to tell them that wasn’t true, but Quinlan had spoken over him, and taken the credit, and the bulk of the blame. Obi-Wan had gotten a firm lecture on how he shouldn’t lie, even if you think you are helping your friend by doing so; if they don’t learn their lesson, it wasn’t helpful, was it? And you know better than this, young one. You should have told an adult; if not us, there were several dozen trusted members of our Order available to help you. You can’t keep charging off after your friends when they get themselves into trouble, Obi-Wan…

For his part, Quinlan got a two-hour lecture on how important it was to set a good example for the Initiates younger than he was, and how rules are made to keep you safe, young one, and both Quinlan and Obi-Wan got a month of Archives duty, spending half of what normally would’ve been play time helping there, mostly shelving things and fetching ‘pads for the Knights and Masters—though that was only really a punishment for Quinlan, since Obi-Wan liked the boring old Archives. Looking back, Quinlan thought that they’d gotten off so lightly—Force, he’d gotten three months of extra meditations before for some pranks, which was far worse than a month of Archives duty—because the Masters were just too relieved that everyone was alright, after finding two Initiates in the lower levels with a Mandalorian.

He’d also gotten two favors from Obi-Wan, which he’d called in for some spectacular pranks Obi-Wan would never have agreed to help with otherwise, and counted it worth it.

Quinlan had asked only once how Obi-Wan had learned to speak Mandalorian, and Obi-Wan had frowned at him. “It’s Mando’a, Quinlan,” he’d corrected him. “And I learned it from Tarre Vizsla.”

“The Mando Jedi?” Quinlan asked, tilting his head.

“Jetii’Manda,” Obi-Wan huffed back, and Quinlan had rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” he sighed. “He has stuff that’s still in the Archives?”

“There’s lots of things in the Archives,” Obi-Wan had answered with shrug, and a hint of suppressed laughter in his voice. Quinlan had let it lie there.

He regretted that decision, now. He wished he’d seen the deflection for what it was, and asked more questions—like why Obi-Wan had left in the first place, for one—and gotten a real answer out of him.

Quinlan hadn’t thought about it in years, though—not until he’d been standing with his Master and two High Councilors on a comm with the Mand’alor, the Mand’alor’s son, and his idiotic, reckless best friend, and finally heard him speak it again. One word, sure, but it was pretty obvious given the context that it was Mando’a.

Once the elation of finally seeing Obi-Wan again, even if only over a holo, wore off (which was quick enough to happen, with how awful he looked, but he’d been on a planet engulfed in a civil war that was actively harming the children in some way, though Quinlan didn’t yet know the specifics of that, before the Mandalorians had taken him back to their homeworld with them, so it only made sense that he looked poorly, with what he’d just been through), Quinlan had found his mind drifting back to that incident, sparked by that single word he didn’t know the meaning of, suvari.

None of it made any sense, in hindsight. Obi-Wan hadn’t even been seven, and though Quinlan knew his friend was smart, and good with languages—he’d fulfilled their language requirements by the time he was ten, after all, fluent in a total of four languages, between Basic, Bocce, Shyriiwook, and Ryl, though apparently it was actually five, including Mando’a… Well, teaching himself Mando’a from thousand-year-old records was a bit of a stretch. And, thinking on it, Quinlan was starting to get the impression that Obi-Wan had slipped out because of that Mando, just because he’d wanted to follow them, just to talk to them —

“Padawan?” Master Tholme murmured, accompanied by a gentle tug on their bond, drawing him back to the present. Master Yaddle and Master Plo, plus Master Dooku, who’d been operating the controls for the terminal for them, and projecting the call into the Council Chamber proper from the smaller comms room they’d gone to for this, were all staring at him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Quinlan said slowly. “I just… There’s something I just remembered—something I should… probably tell you.”

“...and the squad we sent should be reaching Galidraan eighteen hours from now,” Myles said. “Undercover, as instructed.”

“Jate,” Jaster said, nodding to his second. Myles returned the nod and sat back down on Jaster’s right when it became apparent he wasn’t going to ask any other questions of him.

Jaster looked out over the long table, usually at least mostly-full, with maybe one or two of his al’verde missing, off on other jobs in between larger campaigns; now, it was half-empty, the others having stayed behind on Melida/Daan. Speaking of which…

“What’s the timeline on the rest of the Haat’ade?” Jaster asked.

“Two and a half weeks, for the majority,” Jei Spar spoke up, having taken point on coordinating with the squads who were still on Melida/Daan. “Two squads will be staying indefinitely, to assist in the more difficult stages of the rebuilding. Though I’m pleased to say that much has already been done: they have a hospital up and running, our squads helped them construct three new greenhouses and reclaim enough soil for them to begin with, and the beginnings of the toxic waste disposal went very well. Most of the more populated areas have been cleared already. Running, purified water is still a work in progress, but they’re using the ships’ onboard scrubbers to get them through it until that’s done. Temporary housing is nearly complete, and it will be enough to see them through the region’s winter season.”

“Ori’jate,” Jaster said, nodding to her, and then a smile crept over his face. “And how many have new ad’e?”

A ripple of fond laughter swept over the table. “Twenty-five of the Young have been adopted; nine of them have been Claimed by those who’ll be remaining on Melida/Daan, and there are another twenty who declined adoption, but wished to come to Manda’yaim.”

“We’ll have to arrange a welcoming feast,” Jaster said, still grinning. “Forty-five new Mando’ade certainly is something to celebrate.” Jaster let them sit for a moment in that bittersweet happiness, rejoicing in the fact that these ad’e would be joining them, grateful that these young ones, at least, had allowed themselves to be cared for, yet mourning the circumstances that had forced them to make that choice, and angry at all that they’d been through already.

He let it go with a slow breath out and straightened, a bit, looking back to Jei. She sat up straighter in response, squaring her shoulders. “Speaking of Melida/Daan,” Jaster said, “you’ll need to warn the squads there that Jedi will be arriving soon—and in force, it sounded like.” That caused a swell of alarm, all of his al’verde bristling, and Jaster huffed, scrubbing a hand over his face. Kriff, he was so tired. “Poor choice of words. I just meant they’ll be coming in large numbers; the Jedi I spoke to said that they’ll be sending teams from their Medical and Agricultural Corps, along with two more Masters.”

Jei frowned. “Tion’jor?” she asked, tone falling a bit flat, a spark of anger in her eyes again. “They don’t seem to have cared about that place before now.”

Jaster shook his head. “No people are a monolith; not all of them are like Jinn,” he said bluntly. There were scoffs and sneers around the table at the mention of the man; Obi-Wan’s story had become common knowledge quickly enough, after all. Nield hadn’t exactly been discreet, or quiet, when he’d admitted the truth to Jaster. No, he’d been angry —irrationally so, yes, but furious nonetheless—because Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to save Cerasi. Jaster, in trying to calm him, at least for that moment, had suggested that he should at least try to talk to Obi-Wan, and at the mere mention of him, Nield had exploded. It had all come tumbling out, then, the story of how he’d come to be there, how they’d thought him a blessing.

“But what good is his fucking Force if it couldn’t — if it couldn’t even save her?!” Nield had shouted. He’d already grown a bit hoarse, by that point, and his voice gave out not long after. Finally, unable to shout it out anymore, he’d sagged, though he looked Jaster dead in the eye when he whispered, “He can’t stay here. I don’t — he can’t. …just take him. Take him with you, away from here. Jedi are nothing but a curse.”

Shaking his head to clear it, Jaster forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “The Jedi sent a Master to negotiate peace,” Jaster reminded them. “That Master was tortured and very nearly died; I’m told that they’ll be permanently blind, now, due to their injuries. They did try. That the Jedi they sent to rescue the first gave up on their cause does not change the fact that they did try.”

“And then they did nothing for a year, while one of their own fought the war his dar’buir had written off,” Eruin Priest said flatly.

“Elek,” Jaster said, grimacing. “But that is another wrong to lay at Jinn’s feet. He didn’t tell them the truth; the Jedi had no idea that the Young had entered the fight, that dar’buir’e had turned against their own ad’e. They thought Obi-Wan chose to leave the Order willingly—they had no idea his hand had been forced like that.”

“They still let Jinn leave him on a planet in the middle of a vicious civil war, one that nearly killed one of their Masters,” Jei added. “How could they not have realized he was in danger, whether he was an active participant in that conflict or not?”

“I don’t have all of the answers for you,” Jaster sighed. “But the Jedi I spoke to showed genuine remorse for those wrongs, and they are now trying to make it right. And besides, their Service Corps wouldn’t have been allowed on-planet until the fighting had ended anyway.”

“Me’ven?” Eruin said, tilting his head. “Why not? That’s when they’re needed most.”

“Not all Jedi are warriors,” Jaster said. “They know how to defend themselves, yes, but they are not soldiers. They send the Knights, first, to end the fighting, negotiate cease-fires and treaties, and then they send the Corps for the rebuilding.”

That sparked a few dubious looks, several bewildered head-shakes, and a few quiet, strained coughs. Jaster smiled, a bit, knowing how odd it was to realize that those they viewed as something close to their equals in battle weren’t all warriors, and they weren’t all capable of the kind of fighting the old songs described.

“They are to be treated politely,” Jaster said firmly, and Jei nodded, if a bit reluctantly. “Whether they are allowed to help or not, and, if so, what actions they’ll be allowed to take will be decided by the local government. Our people are not to influence their decision.”

“Elek, Mand’alor,” Jei said, bowing her head. She might not like it, but Jaster knew she would relay the message as he wanted her to.

Jaster glanced at the chrono on the wall and fought back a grimace: he only had fifteen more minutes before they’d have to break for midmeal. He wasn’t willing to miss it, not when he wanted to check on Obi-Wan, after their difficult morning, but there were still two more items on his agenda, and he had a feeling there might be some… pushback on these points in particular.

Well, there was nothing else for it. The sooner he told them, the sooner this meeting could end, and Jaster could get back to his boys. Leaning forward, resting his arms on the table and folding his hands together, he said, “Speaking of the Jedi… Their Council wishes to send four of them here.”

“Me’ven?”

“Tion’jor?”

“What makes them think they have any right—?”

Several voices began shouting at once, as predicted, and Jaster sighed. He let them yell for a few seconds, hopefully getting the worst of it out of their systems instead of winding themselves up even more, and then barked, “Gev!”

Obediently, they fell silent, staring at him. “They are not all like Jinn,” he repeated. “And of the four they wish to send, only two are Masters of their governing Council—and one of those Masters is technically my foundling’s ba’buir. The other Council Master is one Obi-Wan knows well, and seems comfortable with. And one of his vod’e and their Master are the final two.

“They recognized the harm their Order has done to Obi-Wan, and they are trying to correct it. And besides, there are aspects of their Force no one here understands; there are some… evaluations that must be done, to ensure my foundling is well. If he is comfortable with them, then I’m not about to turn away those who can help see to his welfare, whether I like them, or the situation, or not.”

Jaster stopped there, looking over the table again, hoping they wouldn’t pry for any specifics. It had seemed… personal, in a way Jaster didn’t fully understand. When he’d commed back before this meeting, Plo Koon had told him, head bowed and voice grave, that Obi-Wan needed to be evaluated by a Master, at least, if not one of their Healers.

“His bond with his former-Master did not seem to be a terribly deep one,” Koon had said, sounding saddened by that, though Jaster had thought that would be obvious, since the shabuir had abandoned him to die with an army of child soldiers, “but even so, it should be checked. We do not yet know what happened to Master Jinn, but he is… not entirely himself. There is something wrong, something affecting both his memory and judgement. Depending upon the cause, with the bond acting as a bridge between their minds…”

“It could’ve hurt Obi-Wan, too,” Jaster had finished.

“Yes,” Koon had said, a bit grim. “And, either way, he will need assistance to properly dissolve the bond. If done the wrong way, that in itself can cause backlash, and harm him…”

Thankfully, none of his commanders asked for any more details, and they softened quickly, as Jaster had known they would. Oh, they still weren’t happy, most of them still outright scowling, but ad’e would always come first. If Obi-Wan needed the help of the Jedi, then the Jedi would be allowed to come to Mandalore.

“What’s their timeline look like?” Myles asked, a bit stiffly, but no longer angry, at least.

“Six days,” Jaster said. “They’re on standby, and they plan to leave within a day once I comm them back to give them the go-ahead. I will also be asking Obi-Wan if those specific Jedi are acceptable to him, first.”

“‘Lek, ‘Alor,” Myles said, nodding absently and tapping away at his datapad again, no doubt typing up a memo to send throughout the Alori’ya.

“There is… one more thing,” Jaster said, deciding where to begin. He chose the approach that would, with any luck, make them come around to this one faster: “Tarre Vizsla appeared to me again last night.”

Another ripple went through the assembled al’verde, several of them exchanging significant looks, though they remained blessedly silent. No one looked doubtful, not anymore—not after Melida/Daan, and the explanation of how Jaster had known they were needed there.

“He told me that there is one of his akaan’vod’e still alive,” Jaster continued, and that did cause murmuring to start up again, though it was mostly surprised and wondering rather than questioning. “A Jedi named Fay; she has, apparently, not had much contact with the Coruscant Temple for the past few centuries. He also told me that he called her here, and she should arrive within a week.”

“Another Jetii?” Eruin grumbled. “Why can’t this Jetii be the one to help your ad?”

Jaster sighed. “I’m not entirely sure of that myself,” he said. “But Vizsla said her business with Obi-Wan is entirely unrelated to Melida/Daan, and the investigation into Jinn. And, given who summoned her here, and her purpose once she arrives, I’m not inclined to bar her.” More reluctant grumbling met that proclamation, but none of them argued, thankfully.

“I’ll make sure there’s a room prepared for her, and spread the word,” Myles said, frowning only slightly, and Jaster managed a smile for him.

“Vor’e,” he said, and then looked out over the table again, raising an eyebrow. “If there’s nothing else…?” Jaster waited a beat, receiving silence and a few shakes of his verd’e’s heads in answer, and then nodded to them, rising. “Dismissed, then.”

They rose and saluted, filing out of the room in pairs and trios, whispering to each other. Jaster sighed again as he watched them go, tugging a hand through his hair.

That certainly could have gone worse.

Jango had been honest: he really did have last-minute lesson plans to write. Thankfully, though, the bulk of that work was already done for him; Hasha had sent over their usual lesson plans, once Jango had agreed to take over their courses for the season, so all he had to do was modify them to better suit him as an instructor. Still, it was taking longer than it should have—not because of the work itself, but… Well, it was a little distracting, whatever it was Obi-Wan was doing.

Obi-Wan had decided to stay in the karyai with Jango for his Jetii meditation, which had pleased him. Jango had offered to cede the karyai to him and retreat to the kitchen for his work, if Obi-Wan didn’t want to do so in his room, but wanted privacy; he’d been even more pleased when Obi-Wan had shaken his head, not quite meeting Jango’s eyes, and said, “If you could stay, that would be… I would appreciate it.”

So Jango had flopped down onto one of the piles of cushions, rather than the couch, arranging himself so he was leaning against the wall, and stared at his datapad, reading over what Hasha had sent him. Obi-Wan had taken one single cushion closer to the fire and knelt on it, head bowed, but his shoulders back. The first few minutes, it didn’t seem like much was happening, when Jango glanced up every few lines to check on him. The tension Obi-Wan always seemed to carry when he was awake started to melt away, his face going not quite blank, more… peaceful.

Then, a few minutes later, things started floating. One of the couch pillows was first, and it was quickly followed by a stack of datapads, some of Jaster’s histories, and then a stray stylus… All too soon, half of the miscellany strewn about the karyai was hovering in midair, a rhythmic sort of gentle bobbing to them. Jango wondered if that was normal, but didn’t want to interrupt Obi-Wan when he looked so peaceful to ask him.

He’d tried to ignore it, but Jango kept startling every time he would return his attention to his ‘pad, only to be distracted again by something in his peripheral vision. And, besides that, as soon as things had started floating, the hair on the back of Jango’s neck stood on end, the air feeling sort of… Well, he might’ve said electric, somehow charged, but it was too… calm for that. He wondered if that, too, was normal, and made a mental note to ask Obi-Wan when he was finished.

Jango gave it up as a lost cause after struggling through another section, switching the ‘pad off and hesitating for a moment before tucking it under his leg, just in case. That should, hopefully, stop it from flying away. Instead, Jango turned to the now almost mindless, soothing, easy task of disassembling his Westars for cleaning and maintenance. The familiar act helped distract him from Obi-Wan’s meditation (and, Jango thought idly, at least Obi-Wan was still on the ground, and not floating himself; he would have no idea how to explain it to Jaster, or Shakka, if Obi-Wan had fallen back down to the floor and hurt himself while meditating), and it didn’t take long before Jango was absorbed in it.

Barrel. Stock. Trigger mechanism. Safety. Stun toggle. Charge pack. Vents…

The familiar mantra helped, Jango’s breathing slowing and deepening as he relaxed into the motions. He barely even had to pay attention, with this so ingrained into his muscle memory by now, so his awareness fell away, his mind going blissfully calm and almost blank—

Until he felt… something else. Someone else? Osik, he had no idea how to describe it, but, one second, he’d been calm and hazy as he worked through his task, and the next, there was this incredibly strange —if not unpleasant—feeling of warm-light settling in around him, something that didn’t feel like him at all. Something that Jango just knew wasn’t coming from himself.

A jumble of surprise-delight-excitement filtered through Jango, and he knew without a doubt that those weren’t his feelings. He jerked back, almost dropping the pieces of the still half-disassembled pistol he’d been cleaning, and hitting his head on the wall.

“Haar’chak,” Jango hissed. He shook his head, wanting to rub at the back of it but unwilling to let go of the blaster pieces in his hands, worried they would start floating, too, if he did. But, then, he knew for a fact that there were four other blasters and five knives hidden around the karyai, plus the hidden safe with another cache of weapons, and none of them had started floating. That made Jango start to wonder how conscious Obi-Wan really was of what was going on around him, if he was deliberately floating things and keeping away from anything dangerous—

A moment later, Obi-Wan’s eyes opened and he picked up his head, turning to look over at Jango; he opened his mouth to say something, only to snap it shut again. Both of them winced, a bit, at the clattering that sounded from the low table over by the couch, and turning to look confirmed that that had been Jaster’s datapads, falling back into place. Everything else had fallen, too, back into its proper place, only the datapads making any noise when they did.

“Sorry,” Obi-Wan muttered.

“It’s fine,” Jango quickly said. Now that Obi-Wan seemed to be aware again, Jango put the pieces of his Westar into his lap and rubbed at the back of his head, which was still stinging, a bit. “Do things usually… float, when you meditate?”

“Sometimes,” Obi-Wan answered absently, still staring at Jango. “We need to go to the medbay.”

Jango frowned. “Are you alright?”

“Not for me,” Obi-Wan said, rolling his eyes again—and, ‘lek, he was back to himself again, teenage habits and all. “For you.”

Jango’s frown deepened, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes right back. “I didn’t hit my head that hard, Ob’ika,” he protested. Obi-Wan blinked at him.

“What? No, I—” Obi-Wan cut himself off, shaking his head. “For the scanner, Jango. We need to test your midichlorian count.”

“Oh,” Jango said. “I’d almost forgotten about that.”

“Honestly, I had, too,” Obi-Wan admitted. “But there’s— you were— I’m… fairly certain I felt you, during my meditation.” Jango blinked at him.

“You felt me?”

“In the Force,” Obi-Wan said. “Not just your presence, exactly, but— more. Like I would feel another Force-sensitive I was meditating with. And you… I’m pretty sure you felt me, too. Didn’t you?”

Jango just blinked at him again for a second, not at all sure what he was trying to say, or what the significance of that was. A moment later, though, his stunned, sluggish, and still-stinging head put two and two together: had Obi-Wan been that warm-light feeling that seemed to wrap around him, like the feeling of a warm blanket next to a fire on a cold day settling over his mind instead of his body? Had those feelings that hadn’t been Jango’s been Obi-Wan’s?

He already knew the answers, in his gut, even as his mind asked the questions. And, if that was true, he knew very well what that meant.

“Oh,” Jango said again. “Haar’chak.”

Chapter Text

“...and how did he seem to you, Padawan Vos?”

Quinlan jerked his head up at the question, not having even realized his gaze had wandered down to stare at the mosaic on the floor. He felt himself flush, but took a breath, and answered.

“Fine, Masters,” Quinlan said. “Besides the obvious issues, like how thin he’s gotten, he seemed… happy. He was definitely actually comfortable with Mand’alor Mereel. He did seem a little… nervous, but honestly, I think that was more because there were two Councilors on the line than because of the Mandalorians with him. He’s always been…” Quinlan paused, second guessing the first word that came to mind: “uptight.” “Obi-Wan’s always… put a lot of emphasis on authority and structure.”

That garnered him a flash of amusement-fond-pride from Tholme again, who no doubt knew exactly what Quinlan had been going to say before he thought better of it.

“Thank you, Padawan Vos,” Master Plo turned to say. The other Councilors had retaken their seats, but Master Dooku and Master Plo had stayed in the center with them. As the lead investigators in Obi-Wan’s case, they were presenting the report as much as Quinlan was. “Your assessment matches my own.”

“I think we can put any fears about his well-being and general care to bed, for now,” Master Yaddle added. “I can’t imagine that the Mand’alor, or his son, would pose any danger to him—not after seeing the way they interacted. That was too genuine to have been staged.”

There were several ripples of agreement, and Quinlan could sense that topic coming to a close. Master Dooku looked to him, nodding his way and raising an eyebrow, pointedly but nonverbally telling him to speak up.

Quinlan cleared his throat. “Masters, I… There’s something else I should tell you,” he said. Master Yaddle waved her hand in invitation. “I hadn’t remembered it before, because it was such a long time ago, but… We’ve met a Mandalorian before.”

“You’re referring to the ‘incident’ in the lower levels?” Master Nu asked, raising an eyebrow much like Dooku had. Quinlan nodded.

“Not all of us are as familiar with your full files as Master Nu,” Master Gallia said lightly, a hint of humor in her voice and sparking around her in the Force. Master Nu had an eidetic memory, and she was the presiding Chair of the Council of First Knowledge. She’d seen everyone’s full file, at some point or another, and remembered every little detail. “If you could explain for us, Padawan?”

“Yes, Master,” Quinlan said. “Our Clans had gone on a joint trip to one of the Waypoints, down just a few levels and couple of grids over. The notes from our creche Masters said that I was the one who snuck out first, and that Obi-Wan followed me, but I wasn’t. I followed Obi-Wan, and took the blame. With my, ah… reputation —” Master Plo chuckled, and Master Yaddle smiled. Most of the other Masters were more stoic, physically speaking, but even they were radiating faint amusement. “—it was easy to make them think I’d done it. But Obi-Wan left first, and I just happened to see him leave, and followed him. Masters, I think… I’m pretty sure that he left specifically because he wanted to talk to a Mandalorian he saw. And he did—when I found him, they were talking about something, I still don’t know what. Obi-Wan never told me what they talked about, and I couldn’t understand any of it because it was in Mando’a.”

“How old were you both, at the time?” Master Yaddle asked slowly.

“I was nine, and Obi-Wan was almost seven. It was a few weeks before his birthday, I think,” Quinlan said. The Councilors exchanged looks, the Force between them all pinging again. Quinlan was starting to think that the entire Council had bonds with each other; that would be handy. He wondered if they were anything like Shadow-bonds, easily formed and dissolved at will.

“Interesting,” Master Nu murmured. “He has always been talented when it comes to languages. But a seven-year-old self-studying to a point of conversational fluency is…”

Quinlan nodded. “Yeah. Ah, yes, Master. I asked how he knew it, and he said he learned from Tarre Vizsla.”

Master Nu hummed, tilting her head. “Fascinating. Tarre Vizsla’s holocron in the Vaults does speak in both Mando’a and Basic, but I don’t believe Obi-Wan has ever had access to the holocron. Perhaps his journals… Those were written in Mando’a, and later translated into Basic. Those are all available digitally to be downloaded to any ‘pad connected to the Archives database.”

“Obi-Wan is quite intelligent, but even so, I wouldn’t have thought him capable of teaching himself another language at that age,” Master Yaddle said, her ears flicking. “Perhaps he knew at least one of them before coming to us.”

“I doubt that,” Master Nu said. “He was born and raised on Stewjon, for the first few years of his life. Stewjon is in the Deep Core, and they’re rather isolationist, not very… welcoming to offworlders. They also rarely leave their homeworld, unless they are from one of the few trading Clans. Which his family was not, according to his background forms.”

“Interesting indeed,” Master Sifo-Dyas hummed.

“Something to ask him about the next time we speak to him,” Master Gallia added.

“Yes,” Master Yaddle agreed, bobbing her head. “When we speak to Mand’alor Mereel tomorrow morning, we plan to ask if he would allow four of us to visit. Master Dooku, Master Koon, Master Tholme, and Padawan Vos will be our suggestions, if you have no objections.”

“None, Master,” Quinlan immediately said, shoulders slumping forward a bit in relief. Tholme pulsed another bit of peace-calm-warmth down their bond, and he relaxed even further, leaning back into Tholme again. “Thank you.”

Master Yaddle smiled, nodding to him. “Excellent. Once we have spoken to him, and gotten his answer, we will message you. It may be wise to begin packing tonight. If he agrees, you should depart as quickly as possible.”

“Masters,” Master Tholme said, accepting both the orders and the inherent dismissal. Quinlan took the prompt to bow in unison with Tholme, and he finally smiled again.

It only took about five days to get to the Mandalore sector from Coruscant. Tomorrow, he could be leaving for Mandalore, and five days after that, he might finally get to talk to his idiot best friend again, face-to-face. And given how reasonable Mereel had been, and how he’d reacted to Quinlan’s outburst… He was cautiously optimistic.

I’m coming, Obes, he thought to himself, tugging at their bond, though it didn’t do anything more than give off a faint sense of alive-distant when they were this far apart. I’ll see you soon.

Getting the medscanner wasn’t quite as quick an errand as Obi-Wan had hoped it would be, though he really should have known better. As soon as Shakka had heard they were in her medbay, she’d hunted them down, and subjected both Obi-Wan and Jango to an intense interrogation about their health, followed by an equally intense interrogation on what they wanted with the scanner.

In that moment, Shakka had reminded him so much of Master Healer Vokara Che that he hadn’t been able to stop smiling; Master Che had always been the same. There had been a period of about a year or so when Bant kept getting sick, and was in and out of the Halls, and Obi-Wan would go every day to visit her and take her the day’s homework. Thankfully, the Healers had found a supplement and hydration regimen that helped, but for the year that Bant’s troubles had lasted, Obi-Wan had been subjected to this very sort of questioning, even though she knew he was only there to visit his friend.

Thankfully, Obi-Wan’s explanation of what he wanted with the scanner, and exactly how he would program and calibrate it, eventually convinced Shakka that he could be trusted with it. Jango had been quiet and tense, no doubt hoping Obi-Wan wouldn’t bring up whose midichlorian count they wanted to test.

Finally, after nearly an hour, they headed back to their rooms, prize in hand. That had done wonders to make Jango relax, though he’d grumbled that they wouldn’t have a chance to deal with the scanner until later. By the time they made it back, they would need to prepare for midmeal, and then they were due to greet the Evaar’ade.

They’d just hidden the scanner away in Obi-Wan’s room when the door opened again, Jaster calling out a greeting to them. Jango jumped slightly, looking almost guilty, and Obi-Wan snickered at him, rolling his eyes. Jango huffed at him, then started to herd him back out of his room, towards the kitchen.

Jaster was already rifling through the conservator when they entered, though he paused in his search of their stores to smile at them both. Jango pointedly, if gently, pushed Obi-Wan towards one of the chairs, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at them again, and obeyed. Jango nodded, obviously pleased, and went for the kettle, no doubt to make more shig. It wasn’t quite the same as tea (one of the little things Obi-Wan found he missed most from the Temple), but it was pleasant in its own way.

“How was your meeting?” Jango asked, and Jaster groaned softly. “That bad?”

“I’m glad only half of my officers were there,” he said. “If it had been the full set, I would’ve missed midmeal, taking the time to calm them all down. But it worked out fine. They’re not happy, but no one ever is, when it comes to politics.” Jaster fished a container out and went to put it on the stove to reheat it; when he turned around to look at Obi-Wan, he had that look on his face again, with the false, plastered-on smile that made it look like he was actually trying not to grimace. He tilted his head curiously, wondering what it was Jaster was dreading having to say now.

“We talked a bit about the Je-di,” Jaster said slowly, no doubt having just caught himself instead of saying Jetiise, since he always tried to use the Basic words for them instead. Jango shot him a look, then glanced at Obi-Wan, and then finally turned back to his task, shaking his head a bit. “Has… your Ba’ji said anything about the Jedi he summoned here?”

Obi-Wan frowned, tugging at Ba’ji. “Nayc,” he said slowly. Ba’ji?

“Apologies, Ob’ika,” Ba’ji said. “I had been waiting to tell you until I was certain she would be both able and willing to come. I gained her agreement yesterday, and needed Mand’alor Mereel’s confirmation that she would be allowed, yet.”

“Suvari,” Obi-Wan sighed, then paused as he realized he’d said that aloud. Jaster tilted his head, and Jango glanced over his shoulder at Obi-Wan again.

“I would guess he just did, then?” he asked, and Obi-Wan huffed, not quite a laugh.

“‘Lek,” he said. “Well, sort of. He didn’t say who.”

“Master Fay,” both Jaster and Ba’ji answered in unison. Obi-Wan sat up straighter in his seat, perking up.

“Master Fay? As in the wandering Master half the Temple is convinced either doesn’t actually exist, or has been dead for centuries?” Obi-Wan said. Ba’ji chuckled again.

“The very same,” he said.

“I can’t speak to what the Jedi believe, but your Ba’ji did say that she hasn’t been back to the Temple for… two hundred years, I think,” Jaster said, turning back around to check on the pot. Nodding to himself, he turned back around again, still with that look. “He said something about calling her here for your visions.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said. “Oh.” That could make things easier for all of them—if he and Ba’ji could convince Master Fay that the dangers he saw in his visions were real, whatever it might be that looked like it could very well lead to the destruction of the entire Order within Obi-Wan’s own lifetime… Well, the Council might not believe Obi-Wan on his own, but surely they would listen to her?

“My thoughts exactly,” Ba’ji said. “If you are willing to share them with her, she can assist us on that front.”

“‘Lek, Ba’ji,” Obi-Wan said, starting to smile. That was another weight off of his shoulders; he’d been worried about how he might be able to change things, to avert the future he saw in his dreams, even now, when he wasn’t sharing space with Ba’ji. The sickeningly familiar little hovel on Tatooine, the twin suns and endless desert eventually allowing him to identify the planet, and the Darkness all around them, the Lights of the Jedi snuffed out, leaving the galaxy so cold…

And Obi-Wan had known the Council wouldn’t believe him alone—he was too young, and they distrusted visions in the first place. But with the legendary Master Fay backing him up…

“You wouldn’t mind her coming here?” Jaster asked, and Obi-Wan blinked, refocusing on him. Jango had just finished the shig, setting their mugs on the table and sliding into his usual seat, alternately glancing between Jaster and Obi-Wan.

“Not at all,” Obi-Wan said. “It would be good.” Jaster nodded again, though there was a bit of a ripple in his presence that told Obi-Wan he still had more to say.

“Jate,” Jaster said. “The other Jedi, from the Temple, also asked this morning if four of them could visit. If you agree, they can be here in six days. I’ve already hashed that out with the Haat’ade, though they weren’t… thrilled about it. But they’ll be polite, if you agree to allow these Jedi to come.”

“Which Jedi?” Obi-Wan asked slowly. Jaster’s smile grew a bit more genuine.

“Your vod, Quinlan Vos, and his Master, Tholme, to begin with,” Jaster said, and Obi-Wan’s answering smile grew. “And two Council Masters, Plo Koon and Yan Dooku.”

“...oh,” Obi-Wan said, blinking at him. “It would be good to see Quinlan and Tholme in person, and I know Master Plo well, but… I’ve never met Master Dooku.”

Jaster tilted his head, brow furrowing lightly. “Wouldn’t he be something like your ba’buir? He trained Jinn, after all,” he said slowly, and Obi-Wan nodded, smile slipping.

“‘Lek, but… Well, for  one, they don’t… get along,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m not sure why, but they rarely saw each other even before I became Master Jinn’s Padawan. I also haven’t been back to the Temple since I first left for Bandomeer, and Master Dooku is mostly grounded on Coruscant, now, just like the other Councilors, so we didn’t even have much of an opportunity to meet. Why would they be coming, anyway? Two Councilors, a Shadow Master, and their Padawan is… overkill, honestly, for most missions.”

“For you,” Jaster said, and Obi-Wan blinked at him. Jaster smiled, glancing back to check the pot, and giving it a stir before turning back to him again. “Quinlan and Tholme were included because they’re more familiar with you, I would guess. The Masters said something about needing to make sure the… Your bond with Jinn needs to be broken, and they said if it’s done the wrong way…”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, wincing a bit. It was already fading, growing ever weaker, but it was still there, still intact. And even if he did return to the Jedi, eventually, that would still need to be done, since he still doubted Master Jinn would want him back after all of this, and Jaster had forbidden it anyway.

But… letting two Councilors look that intently at his bonds, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure he could hide his connection to Ba’ji from them. It wasn’t… quite the same thing as a bond, but it functioned very similarly, with a space dedicated just for him in Obi-Wan’s mind.

“I fail to see the problem,” Ba’ji said drily. “All that that would serve to do is convince them of the truth, and force them to reconsider their narrow-minded definition of ‘heresy.’ And if Fay is here at the same time, she will be able to assist us in explaining it to them as well.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan repeated, smiling again. “‘Lek, that’s a good point.” Flushing, a bit, realizing that he was leaving Jaster and Jango out of half of the conversation, he nodded to Jaster again. “The Masters are right, about the bond. It’s fading, and I can barely feel anything other than that he’s alive, somewhere far away, but it’s still there.”

“And you would be happy with those four in particular?” Jaster asked.

“‘Lek,” Obi-Wan said. Master Plo was familiar to him, since the Kel Dor was a frequent visitor to the creche, and it would be interesting to meet Master Dooku. Tholme was also familiar by virtue of being his friend’s Master, and he’d visited the creche often enough to see Quinlan that Obi-Wan had seen him a fair bit, too, by extension. They got along well, Tholme’s dry sort of humor reminding him of Ba’ji, in a way.

“Jate,” Jaster said. “Once we’ve seen to Adonai’s arrival and gotten them settled, I’ll message the Council back again.” He turned back once more, humming to himself. “Soup’s ready. We’ll need to leave right after we finish eating, to be there by the time they land.”

“‘Lek, Jaster,” Obi-Wan said, matched, as was becoming typical, by Jango’s “‘lek, buir.” Jaster turned to give them a fond sort of smile, relaxing again as the topic of the Jedi was left behind, for the most part.

Still, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but dwell on the excitement he’d started to feel. There were Jedi coming to Mandalore—for the first time in centuries, almost certainly since before the Dral’han, there were going to be Jedi visiting Mandalore. This could be a great opportunity for both the Jedi and the Haat’ade, if they played their cards right.

“What did I tell you, Ob’ika?” Ba’ji said, sounding amused and satisfied. “You are the next bridge between Mando’ade and Jetiise.”

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to roll his eyes again and mentally swatted at Ba’ji. That only served to make him laugh, though, and Obi-Wan huffed softly in exasperation. Trying to turn his thoughts and attention back to those physically in the room with him, Ba’ji obligingly went quiet again, still there, but no longer interrupting.

Still, the rest of the conversation throughout midmeal washed over Obi-Wan without him absorbing much of it. He was far too excited, far too focused on that singular, exceptional idea.

There were Jedi coming to Mandalore, for the first time in at least seven hundred years. And the entire reason they were coming, and being allowed to come, was for him.

…no wonder Ba’ji sounded-felt so kriffing smug.

Neither Satine, nor Bo-Katan, had stopped staring at him yet. Adonai could feel their gazes, the weight of their attention, focused on him throughout the relatively short journey from Sundari to Keldabe. He knew why, of course: neither of them often saw him with his full beskar’gam on, at least not anymore. Satine was barely even old enough to remember the days when he had still been a warrior, a warlord, and Bo-Katan had been far too young to remember that at all. He had so few occasions to wear it in full in Sundari, these days, though he still wore his chest pieces, pauldrons, and vambraces daily. It was a reminder to him of what he was and what he had been just as much as it was a reminder to the rest of the Evaar’ade of what it meant to be Mando’ad.

“Buir,” Satine said, that tone to her voice, a deliberate sort of carefulness that told him she was about to do her best to begin an argument. “Don’t you think that wearing full armor like this sends the… wrong sort of message?”

“Nayc. I do not,” he answered simply, without looking up from his ‘pad.

“I think it’s cool,” Bo-Katan said. “Bal meshla!”

“Bo,” Satine hissed, and then she paused, clearing her throat lightly. Still, he didn’t look up. “But, buir, armor can be used as a weapon so easily, and it tells other people that you expect to see violence. That isn’t who we are, not anymore!”

“Lionia once stabbed someone with a stylus,” Adonai returned, keeping his voice even and calm, not rising to Satine’s bait. “Anything can be used as a weapon, with enough force and creativity. Beskar’gam is only a dangerous weapon if we choose to use it as one. It honors our traditions and ancestors, and provides inherent protection. Just because I am now a pacifist does not mean that I will not defend myself, nor does my pacifism mean that I have ceased to be Mando’ad. I honor our traditions, even still.”

“Li’bu really stabbed somebody with a stylus?” Bo-Katan asked, sounding a bit awed. Adonai glanced up, smiling beneath the cover of his buy’ce at her wide-eyed expression, and nodded. “Did she kill them?”

“‘Lek,” Vhonte said, on the other side of Bo-Katan. “She did. That was one of my first missions, as a matter of fact. It was a Houk ver’verd working with Kyr’tsad, and she got ‘em in the neck. Took good aim and a fair bit of brute strength to make that work. Houks are fleshy and strong, especially around the neck.”

“Oya!” Bo-Katan breathed. Satine huffed softly and folded her arms over her chest, not at all pleased by this turn in the conversation.

“Buir,” Satine said again, “I just mean that it could give them the wrong idea about you—”

“Mand’alor Mereel knows me well,” Adonai said, finally looking up to meet Satine’s gaze through his visor. “He knew me as a verd, and as an Al’akaan, and now he knows me as a pacifist. I wear my beskar’gam to honor my past, and Mandalore’s past. I do not wear it because I expect to see any violent situations here. He will understand.” Adonai glanced down pointedly at his light green and grey beskar’gam. “And besides that point, I’m fairly certain that my change in ideology is represented clearly enough.”

Vhonte and Asteille both chuckled, but Satine huffed again and looked away. Still, she wasn’t quite finished yet, apparently. “It’s just that I think it could—”

The comms flicked on, their pilot, Neevan, giving them an update: “We’re making our final approach. Prepare for landing.”

Adonai settled back in his seat, smiling again to himself as he watched Bo-Katan try to twist around to look out the viewport behind her, straining to get a better look at Keldabe. She had never been, before, too young to accompany him on an official visit; Satine had only been once before, when she had been far younger, and likely didn’t even recall much of that trip. That had been just after Lionia had died, and he had taken his vengeance for it. Once he’d seen that done, Adonai had gone to Jaster to give his resignation and promise further support in other arenas, off the field of battle; Satine had been just old enough to understand that Lionia was gone, marching far away, and had been too distraught to be left behind, separated from her remaining buir. There had been other visits between Adonai and Jaster, of course, but he had never brought his ad’e along before.

Finally, they landed, and Bo-Katan leapt out of her seat first. Adonai caught her hand as she tried to dart past him towards the hatch, chuckling when she strained against him.

“Patience, Kat’ika,” he murmured, unmoved by the pout she aimed at him. “I know you wish to see Keldabe, and you will soon. But you know our cabur’e must disembark first, no matter how safe we believe ourselves to be here.”

“‘Lek, buir,” Bo-Katan sighed, and sat down beside him to let Asteille and Vhonte go first; Neevan would bring up the rear, after the post-flights were finished.

The hatch opened, the ramp extending, and the two cabur’e went first; Adonai started to frown as Vhonte paused at the top of the ramp, hesitating for a brief moment before continuing down. Switching off his external speaker in favor of their personal channel, he asked, “Me’vaar ti gar?”

“Naas,” Vhonte answered promptly. “We’re all clear.” She paused briefly, and then added, “Looks like the Mand’alor has a new ad.”

Adonai hummed, satisfied that nothing was wrong; Vhonte had likely just been surprised, and focused on the new child. He gestured for Satine to stand, and she sighed, but obeyed, though moving slowly. Adonai gave her a warning look that he knew she could read even through his buy’ce, a pointed reminder to be polite and well-mannered, and she looked away again.

Sighing softly to himself, Adonai switched his external speaker back on and offered his hand to Bo-Katan, who eagerly took it, and let him lead the way out of the ship, Satine following them. At the top of the ramp, Adonai immediately noticed the new ad Vhonte had mentioned, a redheaded humanoid, far too thin and pale to be healthy, tucked between Jaster and Jango. The ad wore no beskar’gam, not even vambraces, which told Adonai that they must have only recently come to be in Jaster’s care, since they looked to be at least twelve, if not a bit older. It was difficult to tell, with how small they were. The usual officers and guards flanked either side of Jaster and Jango, and Adonai recognized Liika and Myles both at a glance, nodding to them in greeting.

“Mand’alor,” Adonai said, letting go of Bo-Katan’s hand to salute properly.

“Alor be’Kryze,” Jaster returned. “Ad’e be’Kryze, bal Cabur’e be’Kryze. Olaram.”

“Vor entye, Mand’alor,” both of his girls chorused. That Satine had deigned to use Mando’a was a blessing; even that piece of their culture she had somehow found a way to take offense to, and defaulted to Basic whenever she could get away with it.

Jaster nodded to them, smiling. “This is my son, Jango Fett, and my foundling, Obi-Wan Kenobi—”

“No karking way,” Vhonte said—over their channel and not aloud, Adonai realized after a moment, when none of the others reacted. She still had her external speaker switched off.

Quickly switching over himself, Adonai said, “Vhonte?”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “Just… Long kriffing odds.”

“Vhonte.”

“Later, Alor,” Vhonte hissed back. Acknowledging that now was not the time for whatever discussion they apparently needed to have, Adonai switched his external speaker back on as Jaster finished the usual formalities. There would be time enough later for both Vhonte’s explanation and for Adonai and Jaster to greet one another more privately, as the akaan’vod’e they were.

“Vor entye, Mand’alor. This is Asteille Larrak, and Vhonte Tervho, Cabur’e be’Kryze.”

Something like recognition flashed over Obi-Wan’s face, though it was quickly hidden behind a small, diplomatic sort of smile. Adonai hummed softly, wondering what that was about. Perhaps Vhonte had known the ad’s first aliit, before they had been Found by Jaster. But, in any case, it still wasn’t the time for such questions, and so Adonai set aside the mystery for later, returning his attention to Jaster and the formalities.

“We’ll show you to your rooms, for now. We have a few hours to go before latemeal; perhaps your ad’e would like a tour of the Alori’ya, in the meantime?” Jaster suggested. Bo-Katan perked up, nodding enthusiastically.

“‘Lek, gedet’ye!” she immediately said, and Jaster chuckled warmly. Satine shot her sister a dirty look; no doubt she had wanted to decline, but now that Bo-Katan had agreed for the both of them, she had no way to politely refuse.

“Ori’jate,” Jaster said. “This way.”

Vhonte almost hadn’t recognized the ad tucked in between the Mand’alor and Jango. It had been a long time, so they appeared quite different, now, and how awful they looked was fairly distracting. Wherever Mand’alor Mereel had picked this kid up, they hadn’t been having a good time. Still, something about them had seemed strangely familiar, but not enough to place them. Not until the Mand’alor introduced them, anyway.

Obi-Wan Kenobi. Vhonte hadn’t ever heard his Clan name before, but she did recognize Obi-Wan after all.

When Vhonte had been seventeen, she’d still been apprenticed to one of her buir’e, training to become a cabur. Her ori’vod, though, had already been set loose on the galaxy, following in the footsteps of their other buir to become a beroya. She’d been a bit jealous, admittedly, of all of the adventures he got to go on, all of the places he got to see, while she was stuck in Manda’lase, one of the junior guards assigned to their Al’aliit.

Tseru had always had a soft spot for Vhonte, and always commed after he completed a job. It served as proof of life, yes, a check-in, but it was also so he could take the opportunity to tell her about the places he saw, and the people he met, letting her live vicariously through him. Sometimes he sent over vids he’d captured from his buy’ce footage, setting it to record.

And when Vhonte had been seventeen, she’d gotten the ping of a message right before her comm went off, Tseru calling. “Ori’vod! So, you haven’t gotten yourself killed yet,” she’d answered chipperly.

“Did you see that vid?” he’d asked, skipping over their usual pleasantries and teasing.

“Nayc, I literally just got it. You know what transmissions are like between here and the Core,” she’d grumbled back, rolling her eyes at him, alone in the karyai, and therefore safe from any teasing from her buir’e about the gesture, and “teenage moodiness.”

“Watch it,” Tseru had ordered. “Seriously, you have to see this. I’ll wait.”

“Ooh, this must be good,” Vhonte said, grinning, and picked up her ‘pad, starting up the holo.

The most copikla little redheaded adiik immediately appeared on the screen, and Vhonte cooed softly. Her first thought was “adorable,” and her second was “my ori’vod is too kriffing young to be adopting anyone, no matter how karking copikla they are.”

The ad’s Mando’a was cute, too, with their strange accent, and she wondered if that was what the Mando’ade who lived in Keld’ika, on Coruscanta, all sounded like. She knew Tseru had been there to turn in the bounty he’d just finished, and she vaguely recognized the surroundings in the vid from others Tseru had sent her, over the last few years: they were somewhere in the lower levels on Coruscanta.

For a few minutes, the adiik chattered away at Tseru about their beskar’gam, and asked about their profession, and where they lived, and Vhonte cackled as Tseru kept asking after their buir’e, their cabur’e, hearing the near-panic in his voice that was mostly hidden through the vocorder’s flattening effects, so the adiik didn’t seem to pick up on it.

Then the second adiik appeared—a Kiffar, she thought, given the facial tattoo on such a young ad —and they didn’t seem to know a single word of Mando’a. Still, it was obvious the redhead, Obi-Wan, and the Kiffar, Quinlan, were vod’e. Vhonte had started to think that they were both foundlings, and Obi-Wan had just been with their new buir’e longer.

And then the Jetiise arrived on the scene.  The beige-and-brown blurs resolved into adult Jetiise as they stopped using their magic to run so fast the cameras in Tseru’s HUD couldn’t even pick up the whole movement, stopping dead in front of them. The adiik’e weren’t foundlings—at least not Mandalorian foundlings. They were Jetii’adiik’e.

Vhonte hadn’t been laughing, anymore, holding her breath as she watched, waiting for the inevitable fight.

The Jetiise looked tense, and worried, but they didn’t immediately go on the offensive. Tseru took a moment to confirm with both ad’e that these were the people they were supposed to be with, the second step in the usual checklist they were all trained to run through when dealing with lost ad’e (ensure their immediate safety, then try to find their buir’e, make sure those really are their buir’e before you let the ad’e go with them, and only take them with you if you can’t find their buir’e, the buir’e are dar’buir’e, or the buir’e are dead, and the ad’e can’t be given back).

Obi-Wan turned around at Tseru’s last question, “where were you born?” The Jetiise were still so tense, but that adiik certainly wasn’t, not afraid of Tseru in the least. They gave Tseru a gap-toothed little smile, missing a few baby teeth, and answered, “Stewjon.”

“Huh. Well, it was… interesting to meet you. Ret’urcye mhi.”

“Ret’!” The vid cut out shortly after that, and Vhonte scrambled to pick up her comm again.

“What the kriff was that?” she demanded. Tseru laughed.

“I know,” he said. “I was there, and I don’t even know what the kriff happened!”

“I think you might be the first one in our aliit to meet Jetiise,” Vhonte had said. “And you’re definitely the first one to meet a Jetii and not fight them.”

Tseru laughed again, a manic sort of sound. “We’re not telling our buir’e. Ever.”

Vhonte had smiled to herself. “Oh, really? And what do I get for my silence?”

The promise of a new set of knives for her next name day had sealed their pact of secrecy, and Vhonte hadn’t ever talked about that incident with anyone but Tseru. She understood why, knowing that their buir’e would have been beside themselves at the near-miss with the Jetiise, and likely to refuse to let Tseru leave the house without an escort for his next bounty, grown adult or not. Still, she’d watched the vid again by herself more than a few times, laughing and wondering how a Jetii’adiik who’d been born and raised in the Deep Core knew any Mando’a in the first place. And then, after a few months, she’d forgotten about it.

Until now, anyway. What were the kriffing chances of this? As she’d said to Adonai, this had some long kriffing odds of happening, but—there they were, a gangly, too-skinny teenager, but unmistakably the same Obi-Wan her idiot brother had chatted with on Coruscanta.

Once they’d been introduced, and her explanation to Adonai on her reaction was pushed off until later, Vhonte had fallen back on stoic, quiet professionalism, taking up the rear of their little troupe with Asteille while they wound through the Alori’ya towards the guest quarters. Vhonte itched to call Tseru, off chasing another bounty even now, to tell him about this (“Su’cuy, ori’vod —hey, guess what? That Jetii’adiik you met years ago, Obi-Wan, is here on Manda’yaim now, in Keldabe, and, oh yeah, they’re the Mand’alor’s foundling!” Kriff, it would be so funny to see the look on his face if and when she got to say that to him). Vhonte wanted to ask how the kriff a Jetii’adiik had ended up on Mandalore. And she desperately ached to ask why the Hels they looked so awful (seriously, what had the Jetiise done to them?), but…

She kept quiet, because she didn’t know how they’d come to be on Mandalore, in the care of the Mand’alor himself. Vhonte didn’t ask any questions because she didn’t know if the Mand’alor even knew if Obi-Wan was a Jetii or not, and… Well, if he didn’t already know, Vhonte didn’t want to be the one to out Obi-Wan. Jaster Mereel wasn’t the sort of person to hold the ad’s past against them, she knew that, but could the same be said of everyone in the Alori’ya? Let alone everyone in Keldabe proper?

So Vhonte kept quiet, and didn’t protest when she was assigned to stay with Adonai while he chatted with the Mand’alor, for the moment, and Asteille was sent off with the ad’e while Jango and Obi-Wan gave them a tour. Adonai shot her a questioning look, but she just shook her head. Adonai might be her Al’aliit, but Obi-Wan was an ad, and they always came first. Adonai’s curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied until she could get a moment alone with Obi-Wan Kenobi to ask her questions, figure out exactly what the kriff had happened, and what the Mand’alor already knew about them.

Vhonte could feel a headache coming on, because… Well, what if he didn’t know that he’d picked up a Jetii’ad? She thought of the tense, protective Jetiise in the vid Tseru had sent her, the silent standoff that had only been deescalated by the ad, and how even though not a single threat had been spoken, their body language had done it for them. Those Jetiise would have killed her ori’vod to get their ad’e back, if they’d thought they had to.

And now one of them was the foundling of the kriffing Mand’alor. That would certainly put a target on his back, if and when the Jetiise realized where Obi-Wan was.

Shaking her head again, Vhonte pushed it all aside for later, and quietly took up residence beside the door, standing guard over her Al’aliit and the Mand’alor as they started in on a more personal conversation.

(Still, Vhonte took just a moment to curse her ori’vod for making her life so complicated—ignorance really was bliss.)

Chapter Text

“...and, I admit, I’m beginning to grow… concerned about Satine,” Adonai sighed, swirling his tihaar for a moment before taking another sip. “She’s nearly fifteen, now, and still hasn’t been to the goran’e. I’ve offered, numerous times, and in the beginning she found excuses to put it off, but now… She simply refuses outright. It’s… troubling.”

Jaster shot him a sympathetic look and took another drink of his own tihaar, then moved to refill both their glasses. “From what you’ve told me about her views on Mando’a… Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Adonai sighed. “Nor am I,” he agreed. “Though what to do about it… I’m not sure. I’ve considered sending her elsewhere for schooling—Manda only knows how many times she’s asked for it herself. She wants to go to the Core, and I’ll admit that the idea of removing her from the more fanatical influences in Sundari is becoming more and more appealing.”

Jaster hummed, leaning forward. “Why not send her here for a season or two?” he suggested. “Keldabe is a good place to find balanced perspectives, and it is the capital, after all. If she still wants to follow you into politics, that should be enough of an excuse to justify it to her.”

Adonai chuckled. “She would hate the idea,” he said. “But she would likely agree to it. Particularly since Bo-Katan is already demanding to be allowed to do so once she turns ten. Though I believe she needs more time in Sundari. How they turned out such opposites, I have no idea.”

“Well, if you’re seriously considering it, we would be happy to host them both,” Jaster said. “And Jango and I will be grounded this season as well; he’s taken on several teaching rotations. It would be easy to keep an eye on them.”

Adonai nodded slowly. “I will speak to them, and see how much Hel Satine would give me over it,” he said drily, and Jaster laughed. “But enough about my troublemakers, for now. You’re remaining grounded for your foundling, of course?” Jaster nodded, and Adonai smiled. “How recently was he Found?”

“Almost two months ago,” Jaster said. “Though we only got him back less than a week ago. We Found him on Melida/Daan, in the middle of a war. Fighting with an army of child soldiers against their own parents.”

Adonai startled, then quickly set his tihaar down, pinning Jaster with a look. “Demagolkase,” he spat.

“Gar serim,” Jaster said grimly. “The war is over, now, and half of the Haat’ade remained behind to help with the immediate aftermath. But Obi-Wan will need quite some time for mirjahaal before he goes anywhere.”

Adonai nodded again, refocusing on Obi-Wan rather than the planet of dar’buir’e. The war was already over, the fighting done, and so anger at them would serve no useful purpose, and he let it go with a slow breath. “How old is he?” The barest hint of a smile crossed his face as he added, “He looks young enough to adopt, yet.”

Jaster huffed, shaking his head. “He is; he’s barely fourteen, now. But it’s… His situation is more… complicated than most other foundlings’ are,” he said. Adonai gave him a curious look, but didn’t pry; Jaster would tell him if he wanted to, and if Obi-Wan was willing to let him. Jaster’s comm chimed, and he glanced down at it and then sighed. “That was the hour warning before dinner.”

“And we do still have much to discuss,” Adonai sighed, setting aside the topic of their children for now with no small amount of regret. Even with as much trouble as his girls caused him, Adonai would happily discuss them over politics any day, and he knew Jaster felt much the same about Jango—and now Obi-Wan, too.

“‘Lek,” Jaster agreed, sobering. Adonai knew the look on Jaster’s face, trying to hide the fact that he was about to say something he was dreading having to voice, and he tensed. “Before we were… diverted to Melida/Daan, we were meant to take a job on Galidraan. To make a long story far shorter, the job and the Governor who tried to hire us are… suspect, to say the least. We have some intel that it’s another Kyr’tsad trap.”

Adonai grimaced, reaching for his tihaar again. “It’s been quite some time since they were bold enough to attempt something like that,” he said. “Though perhaps they were only waiting for Pre to pass thirteen.” They heavily suspected that Pre Vizsla was being groomed to take his buir’s place, after Tor’s death on Korda 6, but they had no confirmation. Not yet, anyway.

Jaster was silent for a long moment, and then he sighed again. “We believe Tor Vizsla might still be alive. I sent a squad undercover to Galidraan, and we’ll have their initial report in the morning,” he said. “And as far as Tor goes, I doubt I’ll truly believe he’s dead and gone until I see his corpse put to a pyre for myself. How many times has he crawled back out of whatever hole we’d left him to die in?”

Adonai’s stomach churned, and he took a slow, deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. If Tor Vizsla was still alive, and Clan Vizsla, and Kyr’tsad, had only been biding their time, gathering their strength, working in the shadows… That meant that a resurgence of Kyr’tsad could come at any time.

If that was true, then that meant that their civil war wasn’t yet over.

“I think it would be best to have you sit in on tomorrow’s meeting,” Jaster said, and Adonai nodded, reopening his eyes to focus on Jaster, who looked just as grim as Adonai felt. “If it is true, we’ll have to plan our response, and how to present it to the rest of the Evaar’ade. They won’t be happy about renewed war.”

“Nayc, they won’t be,” Adonai agreed, pushing aside his feelings, for now. There would be time to process that possibility later. “But if this is true, then we have no other choice. The majority of them still remember the worst of the war, and what Kyr’tsad is like, the depths they are willing to sink to. If we plan well enough, we should be able to use this to bring the Evaar’ade closer to the Haat’ade, and perhaps even the Old Clans.”

“Most of them are still clinging to their ‘neutrality,’” Jaster sighed. “They refuse to swear until I win the Dha’kad, and it’s still ‘missing.’ Hidden away with Tor, I would guess.”

“That would explain its absence,” Adonai agreed. He and Jaster had both thought it was because the blade had been passed down to Pre, and he had still been too young to take on the leadership of House Vizsla, and Kyr’tsad.

“In any case, we won’t know anything more about that until tomorrow,” Jaster said. “But that isn’t the only… important political discussion I wanted to have with you.”

“Oh?” Adonai tilted his head curiously, distantly thinking to hope that their next topic wasn’t as grim as the possibility of Tor Vizsla’s continued survival.

Jaster nodded. “We’re going to be having some… visitors, soon,” he said. “From the—” His comm chimed again, and then once more immediately after. Sighing, Jaster looked at it again, starting to frown, his brow furrowing. “Ni n’e —excuse me for a moment. That was Jango; he’s taking Obi-Wan back to our rooms early.”

“Of course,” Adonai said. “Your ad’e must come first. We can reconvene later this evening, after dinner, if need be.”

Jaster flashed him a tight smile and nodded, rising and heading into one of the other rooms to comm Jango. Adonai sighed and sat back, sipping at his tihaar and staring, unseeing, at the floor.

Tor Vizsla, still alive… Ka’ra, how he hoped that wasn’t so, but… Jaster was right; Tor Vizsla had let them believe that before, only to return again. And Tor had the patience and cunning to remain hidden all this time, to convince them that he was dead and gone while he built up his strength and shored up his power in secret.

As much as Adonai wanted to believe that this was just a false alarm, or an attempt by Pre to resume his father’s war, he had a terrible feeling that Jaster had been right. And if he was, and Tor Vizsla still lived…

The war had never truly ended, and none of them were safe.

Obi-Wan didn’t know what to make of the Kryze sisters.

He’d gone along with them on the tour Liika, Myles, and Jango were conducting mostly to be polite, as he’d sensed that Jaster had wanted a moment to speak to Al’aliit Kryze alone, and he’d known that there was no hope of him finding his own way back to their rooms, not when he still couldn’t make heads or tails of the sprawling, tall morut they inhabited. He hadn’t wanted to have to pull one of them away just to take him back, and he hadn’t wanted to keep Jaster from speaking to Adonai Kryze, and he was, admittedly, still curious about the Evaar’ade. Ba’ji was, too, he knew, though he’d gone still again. He was there, as always, but quietly observing, for now, instead of distracting him.

When the Evaar’ade arrived, Obi-Wan had been prepared to see Mando’ade without a single plate of beskar’gam in sight, or Mando’ade in full beskar’gam, so Adonai Kryze’s appearance had come as no surprise. The colors, too, made sense: light green for a lust for peace, and the grey of remembrance and mourning, for his riduur, no doubt. It was after her death, he’d been told, that Adonai Kryze had joined the pacifist faction. It was an interesting story, Obi-Wan thought, the warlord turned pacifist leader.

His daughters, Satine and Bo-Katan, each seemed to have claimed only one half of their buir’s identity for themselves, though. Bo-Katan had been all too eager to leave the halls where the classrooms were, and the Archives, and the kitchens, instead asking after the armory, the training rooms, and the shooting ranges. Satine, however, was quite the opposite, and kept pursing her lips and sighing softly when Bo-Katan wanted to linger in the training rooms to watch the verd’e there.

Satine also had some… interest in him. Why that was, he couldn’t quite tell, but she kept drifting over to him, staring while trying to pretend that she wasn’t, looking away whenever he turned to her. They didn’t get much of a chance to speak, at first, the others moving the tour along at a brisk pace.

Finally, though, they went out to the gardens, several terraced rooftop levels filled to bursting with greenery. Obi-Wan hadn’t seen this before, and he was sure his eyes were as wide as Bo-Katan and Satine’s. Bo-Katan immediately ran off to climb one of the taller trees, Asteille, one of the cabur’e, as well as Liika and Myles going to supervise her while Jango hovered just behind Obi-Wan, and Satine, too, drifted closer to his side yet again.

“This is lovely,” Satine said, and Obi-Wan nodded.

“‘Lek,” he agreed. “It is.” He glanced back at Jango, still close behind them. “You didn’t show me any of this.”

“We’ve been busy,” Jango said, and Obi-Wan just smiled and shook his head at Jango, then turned away. He wasn’t wrong, but Obi-Wan would have loved to have known this was here for his meditation.

He started down the winding path with both Satine and Jango nearby, looking at all of the flowering bushes and tall trees, idly wondering how much soil they’d had to place up here to make all of this possible. Even though Obi-Wan wasn’t very strong in the Living Force, even he could practically sense it singing here.

“May I ask where you’re from?” Satine asked, pointedly staring at the plants around them rather than looking at him. Still, it was obvious she was speaking to him.

“I was born on Stewjon,” Obi-Wan answered, “and raised on Coruscant.”

“I thought that sounded like a High Coruscanti accent,” Satine said, starting to both sound excited and radiate it into the Force. “Is that where you were Found?”

“Nayc,” Obi-Wan said, and didn’t say anything else for a long moment. Satine looked over at him, frowning, and he stifled a sigh. “Jaster Found me on Melida/Daan.”

“You found us, more like,” Jango said, drawing even with him and gently bumping their shoulders together. Obi-Wan huffed, though he was smiling, a bit.

“Melida/Daan?” Satine repeated. “I’m not familiar with it. Is it another Core World?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Nayc. It’s in the Cadavine Sector, on the opposite side of the galaxy.”

“I see,” Satine said slowly. “How long have you been here?”

“Less than a week,” Obi-Wan answered honestly. Satine blinked at him, surprise flaring around her in the Force.

“Really? I’d thought it must have been longer, if you already speak Mando’a,” she said. Jango snorted.

“He came like that,” he said, and Obi-Wan smiled, shrugging one shoulder.

“You studied Mando’a before you were Found?” Satine asked slowly, giving him a curious look—one that was also almost… disapproving. That was… odd.

“‘Lek,” Obi-Wan said. “I learned mostly from… historical sources—” Ba’ji chuckled again, amused by the technical truth, and Obi-Wan smiled. “—so I’ve been told that I sound positively ancient. But, yes, I was already fluent before I was Found.”

“What inspired you to study Mando’a, of all things?” Satine said. “It seems a strange choice, for someone raised in the Core.”

“I studied several languages, not just Mando’a,” Obi-Wan deflected. “My… education was rather thorough.”

Satine brightened, starting to smile again. “Was it? Well, perhaps—if you don’t mind, of course—you could tell my father about it,” she said. “I’ve been trying to convince him to send me to the Junior Legislators Academy on Coruscant.”

“I had several joint projects with the Junior Legislators,” Obi-Wan said, and Satine’s smile grew even wider. “It’s an intense program, I’ll say that much.”

“I’ve heard wonderful things about it,” Satine said. “One of my father’s advisors, Almec, attended it for several years. What school did you go to?”

Obi-Wan, thankfully, was saved from having to answer that by Jango, his comm chiming at just the right moment. He knew that it was common knowledge among the Haat’ade that he’d been a Jedi, and he wasn’t intending to go out of his way to hide it (why would he even bother, when there were Jedi coming here specifically to see him? In a matter of days, everyone would undoubtedly be aware of his history), but he had a feeling that once Satine found out, they would discuss nothing but the Jedi, and he still had questions of his own he was trying to think of a polite way to ask.

“That was the one hour warning before dinner,” Jango said. “Maybe we should go pull your vod’ika out of her tree.”

Satine sighed. “Yes, that would be wise,” she said, and they turned to head back down the path, back towards Bo-Katan.

“I had noticed that Bo-Katan already wears kom’rk’e, bes’marbur’e, tadun’bur’e, and cetar’bur’e, but her older sister wears no beskar’gam at all. This is as good a time to ask after their beskar’gam as any,” Ba’ji said, speaking up at last.

‘Lek, Ba’ji. I’d noticed that, too, Obi-Wan projected, careful not to say that aloud. “How old is Bo-Katan?” he asked.

“Nine, now,” Satine answered easily. “Though only seven months from her tenth name day.”

“She may finish off her beskar’gam a bit after her tenth birthday, then, ‘lek?” Obi-Wan asked, and Satine sighed.

“Father forced her to slow down,” she said. “Bo-Katan began neglecting the rest of her education in favor of combat forms. He plans to give her the full set by the time she’s eleven.”

“And yours?” Jango asked. Satine outright scoffed.

“I neither want nor need it,” she said. “I follow the path and live the ideals of the New Mandalorians. As a pacifist, I won’t have any need of armor or weapons, since I will not seek out violence.”

Ba’ji laughed, this time a rougher sound than the usual pleasant chattering, almost like a bark. Obi-Wan abruptly stopped walking, turning to stare at her. Satine stopped a beat later, though it took Jango a few steps longer to realize they weren’t just behind him anymore, and turn around to look at them.

“Me’ven?” Obi-Wan said. Satine raised an eyebrow at him pointedly. “ Beskar’gam and aranov are both part of the Resol’nare.”

Satine huffed, shaking her head. “Violent ideals for a violent culture,” she said. “How much of the conflict in Mandalore’s past did we create ourselves, either by threatening our neighbors or attempting conquest outright? If we wish for peace, we must live as peaceful people. Constantly arming ourselves and wearing armor at every turn only encourages the old ways and the impression of a violent Mandalore.”

“Giving up the Resol’nare, beskar’gam, and the entire concept of self-defense wouldn’t bring you peace,” Obi-Wan said. “It would only make you an easy target.”

Satine looked down her nose at him, a bit, in a way that reminded Obi-Wan rather surprisingly of Master Jinn. “If we are not the aggressors, then we won’t see conflict,” Satine said. Obi-Wan couldn’t help himself, and he laughed.

“Oh, ad’ika,” Ba’ji sighed. “How naïve she is. Almost painfully innocent.”

“If only that were true,” he said. “Raiders, pirates, and slavers are real, you know, just to list a few groups who don’t need to be provoked to create conflict.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you,” she said primly. “And I do acknowledge the need for a small security force to patrol our borders, the need for law enforcement, but that isn’t what I’m talking about. I only mean that we should put an end to the stereotype of Mandalorians showing up and solving other peoples’ problems by force alone. We should never go on the offensive like that—we should fight with our words, not weapons. Negotiation and diplomacy are the ways of the New Mandalorians, the tactics that will take us into a new era of peace. Seeking out violent confrontations is never the right answer— offensive violent action is unconscionable under any circumstances. Self-defense is one thing, if we were attacked, but to take on violent situations on behalf of others is entirely unnecessary. There’s never a good enough reason—it’s nothing more than mindless violence!”

Obi-Wan spared a brief moment to wonder if she realized what she was doing, expressing her disdain for the ver’verd’e and beroya’se among Mando’ade in front of Jango, the son of the Mand’alor, and one of the Commanders of the True Mandalorian Mercenary Company. Ba’ji sighed again, but… Well, Obi-Wan had quickly gotten stuck on one of Satine’s statements in particular.

“Never?” Obi-Wan repeated. “There is never a good reason to go on the offensive? Never a good reason for a violent confrontation?”

“Obi-Wan,” Ba’ji said, a hint of a warning in his voice, no doubt feeling the shift of his emotions.

“Never,” Satine repeated solemnly. “Why do we continue to insist on behaving as if we were still in the middle of the old Crusades, shipping off to other worlds and sectors to take care of whatever problem they believe can be solved by paying a Mandalorian to point a blaster at another living being? There is always another way, and each time we stoop to it, we reinforce the idea of Mandalorians as violent barbarians and conquerors. To have peace, we must live in peace, and show others that we can do so.”

Obi-Wan knew that this was just a heated, passionate discussion with a fellow teenager. He knew that they were in the Alori’ya, surrounded by Haat’ade, and in no danger whatsoever. But Satine had struck a nerve, tugged at a still-raw wound, without even realizing what she’d done, and he could feel his heart rate picking up even as his mind went focused-unnaturally-calm, the same way it had for the past year on Melida/Daan, as soon as the Young would slip out of the network of interconnected catacombs and sewers they hid in to go above ground to go on the offensive and force a violent confrontation with the Elders.

He’d never wanted to fight a war. He’d never wanted to kill anyone, or solve Melida/Daan’s problems with violence. Every time a light winked out in the Force, he felt it, and it hurt even more to feel it and know that he had done that. He’d never wanted any of it.

The conviction, the irrefutable fact, in Obi-Wan’s mind, that he had done the right thing, staying behind, throwing himself into a war, killing Elders, all to protect the Young was what had gotten him through it.

And now Satine Kryze wanted to tell him that his cause hadn’t been worthy? That it wasn’t a good enough reason for him to have fought and killed? That it wasn’t a good enough reason for Jaster and the Haat’ade to join them in the fight? That the Young hadn’t been worth protecting?

“Obi-Wan,” Ba’ji said again. “Udesii, Ob’ika—”

“Never?” Obi-Wan repeated, so distant from what he was actually saying, so disconnected. “Nu draar?”

“I do mean it,” Satine said, nodding. “There is never a good reason to choose violence over negotiation and diplomacy.”

“Obi-Wan,” Ba’ji said, a bit more forcefully, more urgently, now. “Ke’pare —”

“What about an entire planet of dar’buir’e?”

When Obi-Wan and Satine Kryze had started to argue, Jango had started to wish that he could be literally anywhere else. He’d wanted to come up with some excuse to end the discussion, to take them all back inside and get ready for dinner; he’d wanted to take Obi-Wan home, and shove shig at him until he calmed down. He hadn’t liked the turn the conversation was taking even before Satine had started insulting the entirety of the Haat’ade, and showing such blatant disrespect for the Resol’nare that he had to wonder how she was Adonai and Lionia’s child at all.

And now this.

Jango’s stomach dropped down into his boots as he realized exactly what landmine Satine had just stepped on, and the trap Obi-Wan was leading her into. He discreetly tapped at his vambrace, pinging Jaster. There was no way this was going to go well. He wondered if he could interrupt them, or if one of them would snap at him if he tried. Knowing them, probably the latter, and in Obi-Wan’s case, Jango might find himself launched into the nearest tree. He grimaced and decided, since Obi-Wan had yet to raise his voice, and still seemed aware of his surroundings, he would let him go on making his point, at least until Jaster got there to back him up.

Satine raised an eyebrow. “The entire population of a planet mistreating their own children seems so… unlikely. But, I suppose if that did happen, there must be some root cause, some cultural belief behind it. Once that is determined, they can be stopped through mediation to treat that root cause. Those who are personally guilty of abuse would be imprisoned and treated by mindhealers, of course, to ensure that the cycle is truly broken.”

“And if there was no cause?” Obi-Wan asked. “Nothing anyone could identify that caused the fighting beyond hatred for the ‘other side,’ and a determination to see them eradicated?”

“Obi-Wan,” Jango started to interrupt, but Obi-Wan didn’t look at him, and neither did Satine, who scoffed, both teenagers still staring so intently at each other.

“People don’t fight over nothing,” Satine said. “There must be a cause.”

“Their ire over the enemy’s continued existence,” Obi-Wan said, almost flippantly, not quite sarcastic. “If that is the cause, then how do you convince them to stop fighting, and put down their arms?”

“No one hates blindly,” Satine insisted. “There must be some reason, and if there is, they can be helped. And I don’t see how that has anything to do with renounced parents.”

Obi-Wan paused for a moment, tilting his head. “Do you know where Mand’alor Mereel has just come back from, Lady Kryze?”

Satine tilted her head. “Melida/Daan, I would guess.” Obi-Wan nodded.

“‘Lek. And do you know what he and the Haat’ade were there for?” he asked. Satine began to frown, and shook her head.

Obi-Wan paused again, just long enough that Jango was about to say something, to stop him, but then Obi-Wan continued before he could interrupt.

“The Melida and the Daan had been at war for so long that no one could even remember what started it. They were killing the planet, they’ve destroyed their own cities, and left themselves with few resources. Their overall population has dropped so low that it will take them at least seven generations to make it out of the ‘critical’ category. And their children were tired of it.

“They ran away from their buir’e, if they still had them, or the orphanages if their buir’e had already been killed in the war,” Obi-Wan continued, and Satine blinked at him again, looking tentatively hopeful. “They called themselves the Young, and they were the children of both sides, the Melida and the Daan. They wanted peace, and tried to negotiate with their Elders.”

Satine’s eyes lit up, and Jango took another step towards Obi-Wan, not wanting him to go on any further, but he’d already started again: “And then their own parents opened fire on them. Parents, killing their own children because they saw them as just another faction in their pointless, endless war.” Satine jerked back as though she’d been struck; Jango sympathized. He’d felt the same way when they actually got to that haran, and found out what was happening to the ad’e, and why. “The Haat’ade went to save the children, and that meant helping to end the war. Which they did.”

Satine frowned harder, her brow starting to furrow. “I’m assuming it wasn’t won through negotiation.”

Obi-Wan smiled pleasantly at her, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Two Jedi Masters tried to make peace between the Melida and the Daan. One was captured, tortured, and nearly killed for her trouble, and the other barely managed to get them both off-world and to safety before she died of her injuries.” Satine pursed her lips, apparently not quite knowing how to respond to that. “There are some people who cannot be reasoned with. The violence was happening and would have continued to happen if nothing was done, and negotiations had already failed spectacularly twice over. What should the Haat’ade have done, Lady Kryze? Should they have turned away instead of fighting for those children, because ‘offensive violent action is unconscionable under any circumstances,’ or should they have weighed one life against another as they did, and killed the parents to save the children?” Satine opened her mouth to answer, and then snapped it shut again.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything, and Jango had just started to hope that he would be able to get Obi-Wan’s attention and pull him away from Satine kriffing Kryze when she spoke again.

“How do you know so much about this? What were you doing there if you were raised on Coruscant?” Jango had finally had enough. He stepped forward and put a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Obi-Wan,” he said.

“I was the second Jedi Master’s Padawan,” Obi-Wan admitted easily, ignoring Jango; Satine’s eyes widened. “When he left, I remained behind. I believed in the Young’s dream: peace. But to obtain it, we had to fight for it. I was one of four generals of an army of children. The youngest I saw kill was seven, and the youngest I saw killed was three.” Satine paled, and Jango’s hand tightened on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “We were winning without the Haat’ade, that much is true. But how many more children would have died in the name of peace before the war was won without their intervention? Is that a good enough reason to you?”

Satine simply stood there, so pale and utterly speechless, and Jango did feel a bit bad for her. She was a brat, that was true, but that had been… a lot. Jango nodded to her.

“Lady Kryze.” Satine turned wide eyes on him and Jango fought back a grimace. “Let’s get you back to your vod’ika, and then we can have the others escort you both back to your buir.” He glanced at Obi-Wan, who looked far too blank for comfort. “I think Obi-Wan and I will excuse ourselves from dinner tonight.”

“Of course,” Satine murmured, looking away, down at the ground. She glanced at Obi-Wan, a few times, on their walk back to the others, but he didn’t look back at her. Neither of them said anything else, and Myles, Liika, and Asteille seemed to be able to read the tension at a glance, and quickly ushered the Kryze ad’e off, leaving Jango and Obi-Wan alone near one of the garden’s entrances.

Obi-Wan didn’t move as the others began leaving, and Jango turned to him. “Obi-Wan?”

He looked… stricken. He was almost as pale as Satine had been, now, his eyes distant, almost vacant, his brow furrowed, frowning… Jango didn’t like that look. He took a step closer, making sure he would be in Obi-Wan’s field of view as he approached, and then slowly reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Despite the fact that he must have known it was coming, Obi-Wan still jumped when Jango touched him, though he shuddered and then relaxed into it after a second.

“It was,” Obi-Wan murmured. “It was a good enough reason.”

“‘Lek,” Jango agreed. “It was.”

“The Young were worth it,” Obi-Wan said, barely above a whisper.

“You were,” Jango answered. Finally, that made Obi-Wan focus, eyes clearing as they fixed on Jango’s face, looking almost startled. But why—? Oh. Jango had noticed how Obi-Wan always tended to talk about the Young as if he hadn’t been one of them, as if he was some sort of outsider.

It bore repeating, though, Jango thought: “You were worth it, and I would do it again tomorrow, if I had to. No matter what the pacifist or’diniise have to say about it.”

Obi-Wan huffed a laugh, and then, unsurprisingly, that slid into a hiccup. Jango tugged at him gently, and Obi-Wan let himself be guided forward. He seemed even smaller, then, with Jango’s arms wrapped around him. Obi-Wan clung back, finding the gaps in his beskar’gam to hang on to his kute.

“The Young were worth it,” Jango repeated, and Obi-Wan hiccupped again. “You were worth it. A lot of people failed the Young, but you weren’t one of them. You did the right thing—don’t ever doubt that.”

For the second time that day, Obi-Wan burst into near-silent tears, while Jango just stood there and held him, doing his best to shield him from the rest of the galaxy, even if only for just a few moments.

Chapter Text

Adonai knew the instant his ad’e returned to him that something had happened. Satine looked troubled, and pale, and wouldn’t meet his gaze, and Bo-Katan and Asteille kept shooting her looks full of heavy curiosity. Myles and Liika both seemed eager to take their leave, and scampered off after the barest of greetings.

He waited only until the door had closed behind the three who’d just returned before demanding, “Me’vaar ti gar?”

“Naas,” Bo-Katan answered promptly. Satine just shook her head.

“May I be excused from dinner tonight?” she asked, still refusing to look directly at him. “I… have a bit of a headache. I’d like to lay down early, I think.”

Adonai hummed. “What happened?” he asked again, and Satine folded her arms over her chest defensively.

“A… debate of sorts has put a lot on my mind,” she said vaguely. Adonai’s eyebrows rose.

“A debate with whom?” he asked pointedly, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer, given that Jaster had told him both Jango and Obi-Wan had also bowed out of dinner already. Adonai had tried to insist in turn that they cancel for the evening and resume their discussions the following day; they needed him now, and so Jaster’s place was with his children, as was any Mando’ad’s. But Jaster had told him that Jango insisted that he had this, and they really shouldn’t put these things off—though they were old friends, they were also a pair of political leaders from what had become, technically speaking, rival factions. Adonai had bowed to that wisdom, however much it grated to know that he would be taking Jaster away from his ad’e for the evening.

Satine winced, all but confirming Adonai’s suspicions, and he sighed. “Obi-Wan, ‘lek?” Satine nodded. “And what topic were you ‘debating’ that has put so much on your mind?”

“It was just politics, buir,” Satine said.

“Politics, peace, and violence, I would guess,” Adonai corrected. Satine winced again, and Adonai sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He loved both of his ad’e more than he had words to describe, but they were both foolhardy and stubborn, in their own ways, with more passion than sense. To say that he was disappointed in her for beginning an argument on the merits of pacifism with a foundling who’d just been rescued from a war against demagolkase fought alongside fellow ad’e was an understatement.

But, judging by the look on Satine’s face, and the hunch of her shoulders, she had already recognized her wrongs. “You may be excused, if you wish,” Adonai conceded, and she gave him a small, tight smile before turning away and darting to her room without another word.

Bo-Katan watched her go, brow furrowed and nose scrunched up. “What’d she do?” Bo-Katan asked, twisting around to look at Asteille, who shrugged in return.

“Did you have fun?” Adonai asked, easily redirecting Bo-Katan. She perked up again, smiling and nodding enthusiastically as she turned back to Adonai.

“‘Lek! They showed us three different training rooms and said if there’s time while we’re here I can watch the Haat’ade spar, and there are two different shooting ranges, and the armory, and then they let me climb trees in the gardens on the roof!” she said, and Adonai chuckled. He was certain there had been far more to the tour than that, but it didn’t surprise him in the least that Bo-Katan had fixed upon those particular highlights.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Adonai said honestly. “And you still wish to go with me, Kat’ika?”

Bo-Katan gave him a look that told him she found that to be a stupid, silly question. “Do I want to go have dinner with you and the Mand’alor?” she asked. “Duh. Of course I do!”

Adonai laughed, shaking his head. “Very well. It will just be the three of us, then, and our cabur’e. Jango and Obi-Wan have already retired for the evening.”

Bo-Katan’s eyes lit up. “So we get the Mand’alor all to ourselves? Kandosii’la! I have so many questions I want to ask him.”

Adonai shook his head, still smiling. “Just remember to be polite, and don’t speak with your mouth full,” he reminded her, and then pointedly looked her over. “Your tree climbing seems to have made a mess of you. Why don’t you go change before dinner?”

“‘Lek, buir!” she easily agreed, scampering off towards her own temporary bedroom.

He watched as she, too, left the room, and went to retrieve his glass of tihaar, left unfinished and still sitting on the table. Allowing himself one last sigh, he downed the rest of it. What Adonai had half-thought would be a pleasant visit with his Mand’alor, and his friend, was turning out to be far more trying than he’d hoped.

It turned out to be easier than Vhonte had expected to find an excuse to speak to Obi-Wan. He and Jango had excused themselves from dinner—as had Satine, claiming a headache and locking herself in her room in their guest quarters almost as soon as they got back—and Vhonte saw her opportunity. The kitchens had sent enough food for nine people to the formal dining room just down the hall from their guest rooms, expecting them all to attend, and it was already conveniently plated for them, settled on trays on a hovercart…

“Why don’t I take something down to Jango and Obi-Wan?” she’d offered, and the Mand’alor had shot her a warm, if tired, smile. “If my memory serves, Jango isn’t much of a cook.”

That had made Mand’alor Mereel laugh, shaking his head. “He’s gotten a bit better, over the years. Still a better baker than anything else, though— ka’ra, does he have a sweet tooth.” Vhonte snorted; she remembered that, too. “You did quite a bit of your basic training together, didn’t you?”

“‘Lek, ‘Alor,” Vhonte confirmed. Mereel’s shoulders relaxed further, and he nodded.

“If you don’t mind making the trek, that would be appreciated,” he said.

“Not at all,” Vhonte assured him. She nodded to Asteille and Neevan, one of whom would stand guard first, and then rotate out so they could both eat; then she looked to Adonai. He raised an eyebrow at her, clearly not having forgotten her reaction to the ad, and she gave him her best innocent smile in return. Adonai just shook his head at her, but didn’t comment, instead turning to help Bo-Katan push in her chair, her feet not even close to touching the floor.

Vhonte took her opportunity, called up the map of the Alori’ya on her HUD—it had been ten years since she’d spent any real time here, after all, and the place was huge —and started down to their quarters with three trays still loaded on the hovercart. She hoped that Jango still trusted her enough to let her have a moment alone with Obi-Wan, but… Well, even if he didn’t, she trusted him. If he didn’t already know about Obi-Wan’s past, and this conversation revealed it, she trusted him to do what was best for Obi-Wan.

It took a long moment for anyone to answer the door when she hit the chime, and Vhonte took that time to remove her buy’ce again, setting it down on the cart for convenience. When the door slid open, she was completely unsurprised to see Jango loosely holding a blaster pistol in one hand, though politely pointing it at the floor, and already dressed down for the evening in his sleep clothes.

“Su’cuy, vod,” Vhonte greeted him chipperly, nodding towards the cart. “I brought you some food. Manda knows you’d starve if the kitchens didn’t keep you fed.”

Jango barked a laugh, shaking his head at her. “Good to see you too, Vhonte,” he said. “Vor’e.”

He stepped aside, slipping the pistol into the holster built into the back of his waistband as he did so. If Vhonte didn’t know his luck, and his history, she would’ve thought it was paranoid, answering the door to his own quarters in a morut filled with Haat’ade with a blaster in hand. But, well—sometimes it really did seem that the Manda liked to pick on Jango, throwing one bit of osik after another at him.

There was no sign of Obi-Wan as Vhonte brought the cart in, helping Jango set the trays on the table, moving slowly to try to draw it out, hoping he would wander in. When he didn’t, she resigned herself to having to ask after him.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?” she asked, keeping her voice light. Jango sighed.

“Karyai,” he said shortly. “It’s been a… rough day.” Vhonte nodded, grimacing faintly.

Dropping her voice, she said, “I heard about where, and how, he was Found. Demagolkyc shabuir’e, harming their own ad’e.”

Jango nodded, expression tightening for a moment. “‘Lek.”

“It’s good that he’s here, now,” Vhonte said, and that, at least, drew a small smile out of Jango. “I… was actually hoping to have a word with him.”

Jango frowned at her. “I don’t think this is a good time for that,” he said slowly. “Like I said, it’s been a rough day.”

Vhonte nodded slowly, turning the problem over in her mind. She really didn’t want to put this off any longer, knowing that Adonai would demand answers by tomorrow morning, if not tonight when she returned to their suite. And she did trust Jango, after all.

“Do you know… where he came from?” she asked vaguely. Jango frowned at her.

“He was born on Stewjon, but raised on Coruscanta,” he answered slowly. “Why?”

“Well, he’s… I don’t know what you know, and…” Vhonte trailed off, huffing to herself, and then leaned in close, whispering to him: “He’s a Jeti’ika.”

Jango tensed. “How do you know that?” he demanded, tone just as stiff as his posture, now. Vhonte smothered a wince.

“Tseru ran into him, once, on Coruscanta,” Vhonte murmured. “He’d gotten lost, separated from his minders, and Tseru followed protocol. He recorded the whole thing, and asked after his buir’e. It was a bit of a shock when the Jetiise turned up. He sent me the vid, after—I recognized his name, at least, though he looks… different, now.”

“When was that?” Jango asked, voice still flat, expression still a bit stony.

“About seven years ago or so,” Vhonte answered. “Look, vod, I’m not… trying to stir up trouble, ori’haat. I just didn’t know if you already knew, and if you didn’t, that could be… dangerous, for all of us. The Jetiise are protective of their ad’e.”

Jango scoffed, shaking his head. “Not as protective as they should be,” he muttered, and Vhonte’s eyebrows rose. Jango sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “‘Lek, we already knew. We found out before we left Melida/Daan, and the Jetiise know he’s here. It’s… complicated, but it’s fine.”

Vhonte sighed roughly, the sudden release of her tension knocking the air out of her. “That’s a relief,” she said. “Ka’ra, the Jetiise in the vid Tseru sent me looked ready to rip his throat out if he didn’t hand over their adiik’e fast enough. I was… a little worried. How’d he end up in a warzone, anyway? What happened to his Jetii’cabur?”

“Not my story to tell,” he sighed, and then paused, tilting his head. “Do you still have a copy of that vid?”

Vhonte smiled. “‘Lek, I do.” She waited a beat, Jango giving her an unimpressed look, and then she laughed. “Do you want to see it?”

“Nayc, I just want to keep talking about it,” Jango said, rolling his eyes at her. “‘Lek, of course I want to see it.”

Vhonte laughed again and pulled out her datapad, going back through her saved files to find it, and then handed it over. But only a beat later, Vhonte heard footsteps coming down the hall, and then Obi-Wan rounded the corner into the kitchen. He paused, blinking at her, taking in the trays, and then smiled, though Vhonte noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked… wrung out, and even paler than he had the first time she’d seen him on the landing pad.

“Su’cuy, Cabur Tervho,” he said—and ‘lek, he still had the same distinctive, weird, adorable accent. Vhonte couldn’t help but smile back.

“Su’cuy,” she answered easily.

“Vhonte figured out dinner for us,” Jango offered, “so we won’t be forced to eat either junk food or rations for dinner.”

“Jango Fett,” Vhonte said, turning back to him, “please don’t tell me that you still actually eat rations when you’re left to fend for yourself for one night.”

Jango shrugged. “They’re easy,” he defended himself. Vhonte huffed, turning her face up towards the ceiling.

“Ka’ra preserve me,” she groaned, and Jango slapped her on the arm.

“You two know each other?” Obi-Wan asked, coming closer to the table, though keeping a wide berth from either of them.

“‘Lek,” Jango said. “We had a few of our basic training courses together, about… What was it, ten years ago?”

“‘Lek,” Vhonte agreed. “You were all of twelve and so excited about your verd’goten, and I’d finally changed my mind about following my ori’vod into becoming a beroya.”

“Your ori’vod?” Obi-Wan said, now looking at her more intently. Vhonte smiled, pleased to have been given the easy opening to bring this up; with any luck, he might remember it, though he had to have been young, then. She guessed about five, based on how small he’d been in that vid.

“Tseru Tervho,” she said, and Obi-Wan blinked at her for a moment. Finally, though, he huffed a laugh.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose it really is a small galaxy after all. Tseru was the first Mando’ad I’d ever spoken to. I wandered away from where I was supposed to be on a field trip, chasing after him.”

“Why?” Jango asked slowly, tilting his head. Obi-Wan, interestingly enough, flushed a bit, jerkily shrugging one shoulder.

“I wanted to meet a Mando’ad,” he said, which, Vhonte thought, was justification enough for an adiik that young to go wandering off. “And, ah… Tseru was the first Mando’ad I saw who wore an aliik that wasn’t on one of the Republic Judicial terrorist watchlists.” He winced, but Vhonte couldn’t help herself. She threw her head back and laughed, pressing a hand to her stomach.

“Oh, that is hilarious, ad’ika,” she said. “You scared the osik out of my brother because he was the first one of us you saw that you could be pretty sure wasn’t a terrorist?”

“I scared him?” Obi-Wan repeated, eyebrows inching up. Vhonte laughed again.

“Of course you did!” Vhonte said. “He was barely nineteen, and then there was this lost adiik who wandered right up to him, and he told me the whole time he just couldn’t stop thinking ‘I’m too young to adopt! I’m too young to adopt a striil, let alone an adiik!’ Then… Ah. When your… cabur’e showed up, that was a bit of a… shock, too.”

Obi-Wan winced again. “‘Lek, I’ll admit I hadn’t really thought that part through,” he said, a bit sheepish. “I’m guessing he told you about it, later?”

Vhonte’s smile grew even wider. “Oh, he did better than that, ad’ika,” she said, and then nodded to Jango. He waved the datapad, and Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. “He recorded the whole thing on his HUD—it’s protocol when dealing with lost adiik’e. You know, just in case.”

Obi-Wan blinked at her, and then groaned softly, dropping his face into his hands. Jango huffed a bit of a laugh at him and moved to start up the ‘vid, only to be interrupted by the chirping of his commlink. Grumbling softly to himself, Jango set Vhonte’s ‘pad on the table in favor of his commlink, huffing again—a far more discontented sound, this time—and scrubbing a hand over his face once more.

“What?” Obi-Wan said, and Jango waved a hand at him.

“Nothing,” he said, a little too quickly. Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed again, and Jango sighed, no doubt realizing he wasn’t going to get away with lying to the ad. “One of our… other visitors just arrived. But Jaster’s going to meet them, so we can stay here. He’ll take care of the formalities.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, perking up a bit. “Master Fay?”

“Pare, ‘Master?’” Vhonte repeated, even as Jango nodded to Obi-Wan. “As in one of the Jetiise?” Both Jango and Obi-Wan nodded, then, and Vhonte blinked at them. “...huh. Does Adonai know, yet?”

“Not sure,” Jango said, shrugging one shoulder. “Probably, considering they interrupted latemeal. Again.” Obi-Wan chuckled softly, then moved to take one of the trays, heading over to put it in the conservator. “Obi-Wan—”

“I really should be there,” the ad insisted, and Jango stared at him for a moment. He hadn’t changed so much that Vhonte couldn’t still read him, so she was easily able to tell that he was wondering if he could get away with refusing Obi-Wan. Finally, though, Jango just sighed and nodded again, looking so tired and exasperated.

“I suppose I’d better go make sure Adonai does actually know,” Vhonte said, and Jango shot her a bit of a smile. “It was good to meet you, Obi-Wan.”

“And you,” he returned. “Thank you for ensuring Jango won’t starve.”

“Excuse you,” Jango grumbled, but he was smiling even as Vhonte and Obi-Wan shared a laugh at his expense. With that, Jango took the other tray, and Vhonte reclaimed the cart, leaving Jango her ‘pad, for now (only partially to let him see the ‘vid, and mostly to give her an excuse to pull him aside again later—there were still more than a few things they needed to talk about, like what the kriff had happened to Obi-Wan, and what Jango had meant when he’d said that the Jetiise weren’t “as protective as they should be”), and waved to them as she saw herself out.

A kriffing Jetii’ad was on Mandalore, in the capital, as the Foundling of the fucking Mand’alor, and now there was a Jetii Master coming? Vhonte sighed to herself, pausing in the hallway to jam ber buy’ce back on, hoping to hide whatever face she could feel herself making from anyone she might run into on her way back.

Both Jango and the Mand’alor hadn’t been kidding when they’d said it was complicated. But, Vhonte thought to herself with a bit of a smile, at least it was no longer her problem.

And, since it didn’t seem to be a secret, either… Maybe Vhonte would get to break the news to her idiot ori’vod after all.

When Jaster commed to check on his ad’e, Jango had insisted that he and Obi-Wan were both fine, and that Obi-Wan was just “wrung out, like this morning,” which… Well, that was less than reassuring, but Jango promised he had this, and pointed out that even though he and Adonai were old friends, they were also the leaders of their factions, and dinners like this were more political than Jaster wanted to admit, which meant he couldn’t afford not to take the opportunity. He wasn’t wrong, of course, and Jaster had eventually conceded to letting Jango look after Obi-Wan until he got back. They were still in the morut, he’d reminded himself, and he could get to them in less than five minutes, if he needed to.

Dinner was mostly pleasant, despite the itch to get back to his boys. Adonai was quieter than usual, and a bit tense himself, though Jaster thought a great deal of that had to do with what they’d discussed beforehand. At least his youngest was there to distract them from such matters, oblivious to the tension in her buir and Jaster’s distraction, his thoughts still circling his ad’e.

Bo-Katan asked a steady stream of questions, and, in typical fashion for an ad her age, barely stopped to breathe, much less let them answer: “How old do I have to be to join the Haat’ade? Will any of them spar with me while we’re here? Liika and Myles said that I could watch the Haat’ade train if there’s time— will I have time? How long are we going to be here?”

“Kat’ika,” Adonai sighed, and Bo-Katan rolled her eyes. He shot her a stern look, but Jaster just chuckled, feeling a bit of his own tension ease in the face of her enthusiasm.

“We accept Mando’ade into the Haat’ade proper when they’ve completed their verdgoten’e, and become eligible for their apprenticeships,” Jaster said, and Bo-Katan sighed heavily. “But we do have classes for younger students.” She perked up again, shooting a wide-eyed, pleading look at Adonai, who just shook his head and went for his tihaar again, seemingly torn between exasperation, amusement, and fondness at his youngest’s antics. Between what Adonai had said earlier and Bo-Katan’s reactions, Jaster got the feeling that this was something Bo-Katan had asked for repeatedly and often.

“We might be able to find a few hibir’e about your age to spar with, if that’s alright with your buir, and if we have time,” Jaster continued. “I do think you’ll have time to watch the verd’e train, at least—there are quite a few things your buir and I need to discuss, and you’ll need something to do, won’t you?” Bo-Katan perked up even further, beaming at him and nodding eagerly. “I don’t know how long this visit will be, but, as I said, we do have much to talk about. It may take a while.”

Given that Adonai’s visit had originally been planned to give them an opportunity to discuss the trade agreements between the Evaar’ade in Sundari and on Kalevala and the Haat’ade, and they hadn’t even touched that topic yet, nor had they actually finished their discussion on how to break the news of a renewed war to the rest of Adonai’s people, there was still much to discuss. Jaster guessed they might have to remain for at least a few weeks, if not a month.

“What about Obi-Wan?” Bo-Katan asked. “Does he know how to fight? Would he spar with me?”

“He hasn’t been cleared by the baar’ur’e, yet,” Jaster hedged, and Bo-Katan frowned. “But there are other ad’e here in the Alori’ya, of course.”

“Can I watch you spar?” Bo-Katan asked, and Jaster couldn’t help but laugh.

“Now that, I don’t know if I’ll have the time for,” Jaster said, and she pouted, eyes going wide again.

“Kat’ika,” Adonai said, more firmly this time, a clear warning.

“Buir,” she tried to whisper, failing to actually keep her voice down, as most ad’e did, “he’s the Mand’alor! He’s gotta be amazing, like Li’bu was!”

“Lionia was an exceptional verd,” Jaster said, and Bo-Katan looked back to him, her food entirely forgotten, now. “She was one of the first to join the Haat’ade, back when it was nothing more than a small mercenary company. She was a force all her own.”

Bo-Katan smiled. “I want to be just like her.”

Jaster chuckled, nodding. “With training, and patience, you’ll get there,” he promised, and Bo-Katan puffed up her chest in pride. Copikla, he thought, but didn’t say, knowing it would only offend her. “But Lionia was also a scholar, you know. We used to spend quite a bit of time debating philosophy and history.” Bo-Katan wrinkled her nose, though Adonai shot him a grateful sort of look. The ad opened her mouth to say something, but Jaster’s commlink chose that moment to chime, of course. He glanced at it and frowned. “Ni n’e —I’m afraid I have to take this.”

“Of course,” Adonai said.

Jaster got up and went several feet from the table before answering, technically not far enough to keep them from overhearing, but a polite distance away. Myles, he thought, would’ve sent him a ping warning him if it was a sensitive matter, since he knew very well where Jaster was at that moment, and who he was with.

“Mereel.”

“Mand’alor,” Myles said, voice a bit tight. “The first Jetii, Fay, is here, asking for landing clearance.”

Jaster closed his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What is it with them and their sense of timing?” he grumbled, mostly to himself. “Constantly interrupting latemeal, these Jetiise.” Myles snorted, and Jaster sighed. “Let her land directly on one of the pads here; I’ll be down to greet her shortly.”

“Elek, Mand’alor,” Myles not quite snapped. He would obey, Jaster knew, but he still wasn’t happy in the slightest about their visitors. Sighing to himself, Jaster disconnected and turned back to the table, finding them all staring at him, wide-eyed.

Ah. Right. Jaster had forgotten that he hadn’t had a chance to warn Adonai about the Jetiise.

“There’s a Jetii here?” Bo-Katan said. “Are you going to fight them?”

Jaster laughed, unable to help himself. “Nayc, ad’ika,” he said. “They aren’t here to fight, just to talk.”

“Oh,” Bo-Katan said, sounding rather put out, wilting a bit. Jaster was beginning to see her buir’s point about her overly enthusiastic nature when it came to their traditional fighting ways.

Adonai pointedly raised an eyebrow at him, and Jaster reached up to tug a hand through his hair. “It’s a long story,” Jaster said, “and one I’ll have to tell you later. Her business here isn’t actually with me; she’s come for Obi-Wan.”

“Obi-Wan?” Bo-Katan said, wrinkling her nose again. “What’s a Jetii want with him? They’re not gonna try to steal him, are they?”

“Nayc, ad’ika, they are not going to ‘steal him,’” Jaster sighed. More quietly—though not quietly enough, considering the way Bo-Katan’s eyes went wide and Adonai froze with his tihaar halfway to his mouth—he added, “It would be hard for them to steal someone who was theirs in the first place.”

“Me’ven?” Adonai said, setting his glass down quickly. “Your foundling is a Jeti’ika?”

“Well, he was,” Jaster said. “Now, technically, he isn’t. It’s… complicated. But the Jetiise know that he’s here, and though they are coming to see him specifically, it will be his choice whether he wants to stay with us, or return to them.”

Adonai’s expression was still a bit pinched, his vod obviously worried, but he just nodded. Bo-Katan’s eyes were still so wide, the adiik startled and confused, but Jaster didn’t have the time to explain it any further than that—nor did he have any desire or willingness to explain more than that. Given the circumstances, with so many Jetiise headed their way specifically for him, they’d all realized that there was no way Obi-Wan would be able to hide his origins, and Jaster knew Obi-Wan wouldn’t mind him revealing that much, at least. But anything more… Jaster wasn’t willing to tell Obi-Wan’s story for him; that was for him to speak of with whomever he chose to tell.

“We should have taken it as a sign when Satine, Jango, and Obi-Wan all decided to stay in tonight,” Adonai said, obviously trying to smooth things over, trying to act as if this was all normal. Bo-Katan wasn’t having any of it, still just staring at Jaster, wide-eyed and still so confused.

Jaster smiled at the effort and nodded to Adonai. “We’ll give it another shot tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll see you at the briefing, just after firstmeal.”

Adonai nodded back. “‘Lek, ‘Alor. Good luck with your… other guest,” he said, and Jaster huffed, not quite a laugh. His comm chimed again, Myles sending over their landing platform assignment, and Jaster sighed softly. He couldn’t linger any longer, if he was going to be there about the time they landed. With one last nod to his vod and the adiik, Jaster plucked up his buy’ce, tugged it on, and turned to leave.

Time to go deal with the first Jetii of many, then.

The very sight of Mandalore now made Fay’s chest tight, sorrow and regret and distant anger curdling in her stomach. Force, the last time she’d seen it, almost a century after Tarre’s death, the capital world had still been lush with plantlife, green and so beautiful, covered in vast forests and jungles. To know that her own had helped to do that, that the Jedi had dealt this damage, and that they had done so in a preemptive strike… Well, that had been one of the many reasons Fay had distanced herself from the Coruscant Temple and the Council—that this was what they were willing to sink to simply because of the Senate’s mandates only demonstrated how lost they had become.

Shaking her head to clear it, Fay guided the latest ship she’d acquired into the dome encircling Keldabe, taking in the sight of the ancient city as she let the autopilot bring her in towards the landing coordinates she had been sent. She could only faintly see the original stone workings down at the bottom of the city’s tall towers—and, again, as she had remembered it, nearly the entire city had been comprised of buildings made from that beskar- threaded stone—and above it, they had built overtop of the original structures in newer dura-and-transparisteel towers, though the designs still echoed what she was used to from Mandalorian architecture, sporting many of those kar’ta beskar- shaped windows, long and thin, tapering to points at the top and bottom.

The rest of what she immediately noticed was more in line with what she expected of Mando’ade: colorful banners hung from balconies, covered in various Clan sigils and other designs, and she saw more people using sen’tra’se to navigate the air than she did speeders. There were many rooftop balconies and terrace gardens with what looked to be some of the native vegetation, and Fay was pleased that they had managed to preserve at least some of the original flora. Perhaps one day, it could thrive again outside of the domes.

The autopilot guided her along the flight path their control tower had sent over, and brought her to a landing pad jutting from the tallest tower near the city center. Fay saw several people waiting for her, three in beskar’gam, and one smaller figure without any armor. She made sure to be quick with her post-flights, not wanting to keep them waiting. Standing, she smoothed her hands over her robes, wondering if it might have been better for her to change into something that less obviously screamed “Jedi,” but set the thought aside. It was a moot point, given that she had announced herself to flight control as “Jedi Master Fay.” With that, she headed for the ramp, and disembarked.

None of the four standing just outside the doors into the tower moved as she exited the ship, and Fay studied them more carefully as she approached. There in the center, standing just in front of the other three, was the Mand’alor, his beskar’gam recognizable enough to immediately identify. Fay didn’t know either of the other Mando’ade, but the unarmored teenager on one end—so small, and obviously so thin even at a distance, with bright copper hair that shone even in such dim light—she thought she could guess the identity of. Halfway to the group, Fay felt a presence reaching for her, just the barest brush up against her own mind, both a greeting and getting a sense of her. Smiling, she pulsed back softly and felt a little flare of giddy-delight before they retreated.

Fay stopped several feet away and chose the traditional Mandalorian salute rather than a bow; after a slightly awkward, not-quite-tense pause, the Mand’alor bowed his head, and the other two Mando’ade followed suit.

“Su cuy’gar, Mand’alor Mereel,” Fay greeted him. “Thank you for allowing me this visit.”

“Ba’gedet’ye, Master Fay,” Mereel returned, nodding to her. “This is Myles Senn, my second—” Mereel waved a hand to the Mandalorian on his left, and Fay nodded to him, though he remained still, just staring at her. “—and this is my son, Jango Fett.” Mereel indicated the other armored Mandalorian on his right, and Fay nodded to him, too. It looked like Fett was just going to stare as well, until the boy on his other side elbowed him between the plates of his beskar’gam, prompting him to nod back, and Fay suppressed a smile. “And this is Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Master Fay,” he said, stepping forward and bowing properly, at the waist. Fay did smile, then—you could take the Jedi out of the Temple, but you could never quite take the Temple out of the Jedi—and bowed in return.

“Jatne urcye,” Fay said, looking to the others to include them as well before returning her attention to Obi-Wan. Even studying him for only a moment had her smile slipping—Tarre hadn’t exaggerated. This was… disturbing. He was still very much of the Light, that much was obvious from just the barest peek at his presence, but there were jagged edges and stains of Darkness pressing down from without, and Fay recognized what that meant. But, then, given what he’d been through, and where he had been before the Mand’alor had brought him back to Keldabe, Fay was hardly surprised that Obi-Wan’s presence reminded her of those Jedi she’d been close to during the war.

“Thank you for coming,” Obi-Wan said softly, the words obviously meant only for her, and Fay’s smile returned.

“‘Lek,” Tarre spoke up, and Fay looked up at his projection, standing just behind Obi-Wan. “Vor entye, vod.”

“N’entye,” she answered. “Not for this.”

“Can you—” Obi-Wan started to say, keeping his voice low, glancing back over his shoulder before turning to her again. “Can you actually see him?”

“Of course,” Fay said, and his eyes widened.

“Oh. I can hear him, now, even when I’m awake, but I can only actually see him when I’m asleep,” Obi-Wan said.

“And even that, you had to learn in time,” Tarre said. “You will learn this as well, with enough practice.”

“‘Lek, Ba’ji,” Obi-Wan said, and it was so clearly an automatic, reflexive response. Fay’s smile grew a bit wider still, the interaction so reminiscent of watching Tarre with his Padawans during the war that she couldn’t help the nostalgic amusement that inspired.

Fay decided that any further discussion between the three of them could wait, looking back to the others who had all been blatantly staring at them. Seeing that they had her attention again, Mereel said, “It’s getting late, and we’ve had… a busy day.” His son, Fett, snorted at that descriptor, and Mereel shot him a look that Fay read easily even through his buy’ce as exasperated. Reading armored body language was a skill Fay had cultivated long ago, yet another product of the war. Back then, of course, even Jedi had worn armor of their own; Tarre had been exceptional only for the heritage of his, and how rarely he had taken any of it off in public, though he had blended in well enough, for the most part, in the Temple.

“We’ve prepared rooms for you,” Mereel said, recapturing her attention again, and Fay nodded. “Myles will lead you there, and we’ll come find you tomorrow morning for firstmeal.” Fay bowed her head in both thanks and acceptance, knowing that repeated verbal expressions of thanks on Mandalore was discourteous. Once was polite, twice was to insist that you literally meant to accept a debt, and anything more than that was excessive, and sometimes verged on rude.

“I was planning on meditating tomorrow morning before firstmeal, if you’d like to join me?” Obi-Wan said, eyes bright and hopeful. Given what Tarre had told her, Fay guessed that it had been at least a year since he had meditated with another Jedi, and it had been far longer than that since she had done so—five years? Perhaps six? When one grew as old as she had, the years tended to blend together, but she knew it had been some time since she and Master Antilles had run into each other in the Outer Rim and joined forces for several missions, and that had been her last contact with another Jedi—another living Jedi, rather.

“Yes, I would like that a great deal,” Fay said, and Obi-Wan’s smile turned pleased. She looked back to Tarre, then, ignoring how the Mandalorians all followed her gaze and then exchanged looks with each other when they saw nothing. “I assume you will be joining us?”

“Naturally,” Tarre said, reaching out to put a hand on—or, well, just over, given that he was a projection—Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Where he goes, I tend to go as well.”

Fay smiled, and Obi-Wan chuckled softly, both of them ignoring the way the Mando’ade were staring at them, now. “Of course,” Fay said, and then turned back to Senn, nodding to him to indicate she was ready to go. Senn glanced at Mereel, and then back to her, nodding in return.

“This way, Jetii.”

Galidraan was downright frigid, the biting wind and copious amounts of snow making Tyvokka infinitely grateful for the dense fur that kept him warm. There was little he could do about the other sort of cold this place radiated in the Force, the stains of the Dark, besides shore up his mental defenses. Even still, it seemed to beat and batter against his shields just as the wind was against his body.

Though field missions were becoming increasingly rare for him—much to his disappointment and discontent—due to his position on the High Council, he had managed to wrangle himself a relief mission, escorting an AgriCorps flotilla from Taanab to Desevro. It was important work, of course, protecting the large, slow, and bulky freighters during the journey. There were many pirates along their route, and slavers fixed their sights on Force-sensitives as often as they could, and with so many trained Force-sensitives concentrated in one place… Well, Tyvokka had been able to convince the rest of the Council that his help would not go amiss.

Despite the hazards and risks, the assignment had gone well, with only two encounters with pirate bands who had to be dissuaded from attempting to attack them. Tyvokka had stayed long enough to see the AgriCorps begin distributing aid and seeking out the best location for their new base; he would have stayed longer, had the Council not tasked him with such an important assignment almost as soon as he made contact with them again. As the closest Jedi to Galidraan at the time who was not permanently attached to the AgriCorps as one of their traveling Knight Guards, Tyvokka had agreed, given the obvious urgency of the situation. One way or another, they could not have afforded to wait for others to be dispatched from Coruscant, not when Tyvokka was a full day’s travel closer. They were still sending a team, of course, but Tyvokka had been sent to ascertain the truth of the situation, and their real target, before the rest of the strike force arrived.

Tyvokka reviewed the facts again, turning the situation over in his mind as he waited to be seen by the Governor: the Senate had requested an immediate and large-scale intervention by the Jedi at the behest of Galidraan’s Governor. There were innocent civilians, including cubs, who had been senselessly killed, seemingly for sport—that much, of course, Tyvokka knew to be the truth. The evidence that had been attached to the Governor’s claims was undeniable, and that had spurred Tyvokka to spend much of the journey here meditating to release his anger, to ensure he would be level-headed enough to think clearly.

But the rest of the situation… That was not so straightforward as the Governor and the Senate had claimed.

The Governor had said that Mandalorians had killed his people, and he did have evidence to back those claims as well. The few holos the Governor had collected did show armored Mandalorians engaged against what appeared to be civilians, and the Governor had identified them as “True Mandalorians,” members of a mercenary company under the command of a man named Jaster Mereel—a man claimed by a majority of those within Mandalorian space as the Mand’alor.

But the Council had quietly informed Tyvokka that they knew for a fact that Jaster Mereel and many of his True Mandalorians had been elsewhere until very recently—on the other side of the galaxy, in fact. They had shared no more than that, however, revealing neither how they knew that nor what the True Mandalorians had been doing, wanting Tyvokka to be as objective as possible; while it may not have been Mereel personally who led the Mandalorians on Galidraan, there was still a chance that a portion of their forces had split off and made for Galidraan, either with Mereel’s knowledge and consent, or without it.

Jocasta had also reviewed the holos and also made a note that the sigil on the armor of the Mandalorians who were on Galidraan was not a match for the sigil of the True Mandalorians, and she had sent both along to Tyvokka for reference. That, at least, seemed to be additional evidence that it had not been any of the True Mandalorians—though something about this unknown sigil seemed to tug at Tyvokka’s memory, as if he had seen it somewhere before, though he couldn’t recall where. The rest of the Council assured him that they were looking into that as well.

Frankly, Tyvokka had begun to wonder if the Governor had simply confused two different groups of Mandalorians. It wasn’t so outlandish a theory, he thought, given that outsiders knew so little about Mandalorians beyond what their distinctive armor looked like. Before this mission, Tyvokka himself had only been distantly aware that there were several factions on Mandalore, the New Mandalorian pacifists, and several different groups of traditionalists, though what their platforms and differences were, he still didn’t know. The Order did its best to stay out of Mandalorian affairs, after all.

But the Force seemed to whisper false-lies-deception, and the cold of this place, sharper than the climate itself would account for, was that of the Dark. Something was happening here beyond what the Governor had revealed to them, and Tyvokka intended to find out what.

The doors to the Governor’s office finally swung open—real wood double doors, and though Galidraan was heavily forested, wood was still in such high demand that the doors themselves, intricately carved and heavy, were worth a small fortune—and his aide shot Tyvokka nervous smile. “Master Jedi,” they said, nodding to him. “The Governor will see you now.”

[Thank you,] Tyvokka rumbled, though from the way the aide blinked rapidly at him and shrunk back as though intimidated, he thought it unlikely they were familiar with Shyriiwook. He nodded to them for good measure as he rose, distantly thankful for the fact that, as usual, the lightsaber obviously hanging from his sash identified him as a Jedi to those who could not understand him and his own introduction.

Tyvokka followed the aide into the office, studying it quickly as he went. It was richly appointed with more readily apparent displays of wealth and power beyond the double doors: a large, wooden desk that was just as intricately carved as the doors themselves; plush, thick carpets in brilliantly woven designs; heavy curtains in front of the tall, arched windows; a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling; several overly-stuffed armchairs that were also largely made of wood… Each observation made him that much more irritated—from what little he knew of Galidraan from his research during the journey, the citizens here were struggling and poor. That the Governor flaunted such power and wealth while his people were struggling so was not a good omen for his rule.

A protocol droid stood beside the desk, and the chair turned towards him to reveal the Governor, an older human sporting blue robes topped with furs and a matching cap. The Governor smiled at Tyvokka, but it was a fleeting, nervous expression. Tyvokka noted it, and the anxiety-fear pouring from the Governor in waves, before approaching the desk and bowing at the waist.

[Thank you for seeing me, Governor,] Tyvokka said. The Governor looked to the protocol droid, who translated for him, and then nodded.

“Of course,” the Governor said. “I will be more than happy to answer any questions you have—I realize that you and your team must be anxious to get to work.”

[The others will be arriving tomorrow,] Tyvokka said, and the Governor’s shoulders hunched slightly, relief pouring from his presence in thick waves as soon as the protocol droid had interpreted that for him. [Now, I understand that you named the “True Mandalorians” as the group responsible for these attacks on your people. How did you come to that conclusion?]

“I had asked to hire them,” the Governor answered, “to help me against a band of armed insurgents. I had petitioned the Senate Security Commission for aid, but I was denied. Lacking any other options, I sought the help of these Mandalorians for my problems.” My problems, Tyvokka noted. Not Galidraan’s problems, not my peoples’ problems —the Governor’s problems. Still, Tyvokka just rumbled softly and nodded to indicate he should keep going. “They had initially accepted the contract, but pulled out at the last minute, claiming that they had gone off on another job. Imagine my surprise when, two days later, Mandalorians arrived in force here, and began slaughtering people in droves! It almost seems as if they are coordinating with the insurgents, instead of fighting against them.”

Half-truths, the Force whispered. Warped-honesty.

[I see,] Tyvokka said. [What motive do you believe they have for this?]

The Governor’s expression twisted, and genuine disgust flared around his presence. “They are Mandalorians,” he said. “As I understand it, killing is part of their religion—they’re little more than savages. Do they need any further motivation for such violence?”

Tyvokka rumbled again, quickly drawing on the Force, wrapping the Light around himself to counter his own anger at that before gently letting it go. He might not know much of the Mandalorians or their ways, but to reduce an entire society to such things was very much counter to everything the Jedi believed. Not to mention that it sparked more questions for him, making him wonder why the Governor would have attempted to hire those he obviously distrusted and disdained.

[Since you called for a Jedi strike force,] Tyvokka said, [then I assume there are still Mandalorians on-world now?]

“Some, yes,” the Governor agreed. “Most have fled already—back to Mandalore, I believe. But we tracked them to an encampment up in the mountains. I will have my aides give you the coordinates.”

[Thank you, Governor,] Tyvokka said, nodding to him again. [That will be a good place to begin.]

“Thank you, Master Jedi,” the Governor said. “I can only hope this will be resolved quickly.”

[As do the Jedi, Governor,] Tyvokka returned. He turned to the aide as they approached, holding out his hand for the datachip they offered, no doubt with the coordinates of the Mandalorian encampment, and then turned to bow to the Governor. Without another word, he spun on his heel and left.

Something was wrong, here. The Force was insistent on that, and Tyvokka’s gut agreed. He had twenty more hours to determine what before the rest of the strike force arrived, and idly debated whether to hire a speeder or take his ship over to the coordinates the Governor had given him as he navigated his way out of the mansion.

Stepping back out into the cold, Tyvokka immediately bristled—both his hunter’s instincts and his Force senses agreed: someone was watching him, intently enough for their attention to be a weighty, prickly sensation.

Stepping to one side of the gate into the Governor’s palace, Tyvokka made a show of pulling out his commlink and typing a message, reaching out with the Force as he did so. There were Lights, presences, in every direction, spread out around the little town at the foot of the palace, situated away from the few larger cities on Galidraan. Most of those Tyvokka could sense weren’t radiating anything out of the ordinary: weariness, frustration, happiness, sadness, humor—all of the marks of life going on around them as usual.

But there, off towards the treeline… Tyvokka stretched out with the Force, confirming what he thought he’d sensed: six Lights, all giving off a feeling of sharp-attention-predatory-waiting. Glancing up, Tyvokka confirmed that the group was facing him, and they were close enough for him to see that they looked like the other fur traders he’d spotted on the way in—there were quite a few of them, on Galidraan, trapping and logging being the two main industries here. Trilling softly to himself, Tyvokka took a moment to truly send his summary of the meeting with the Governor off to Master Gallia, who had been tasked with coordinating the rest of the strike force, and then put his commlink away.

Perhaps, Tyvokka decided, he could spare a few moments to speak to these citizens before heading up to the mountains.

Chapter Text

Jango hated mornings on a good day, and this was very much not a good morning.

First, he’d woken up late to find that Jaster had given Myles the go-ahead to escort Obi-Wan and the Jetii up to the gardens to meditate, though Jango had intended to go. Given everything the Jetiise had already done—and everything they hadn’t done, given their negligence—Jango hadn’t intended to let Obi-Wan out of his sight when he was anywhere near one of the Jetiise. But by the time Jango actually woke up, that ship had left the port.

Second, immediately after breakfast would be the critical briefing they’d been waiting for, where the squad Walon had taken to Galidraan would report back in on what they’d found there. Though Jango hoped that they’d been wrong, that Obi-Wan had been wrong, and Kyr’tsad had nothing to do with Galidraan, and Tor Vizsla was truly dead… Some part of him just knew that Obi-Wan had been right, and Ky’rtsad —and, more importantly, Tor—was there. Still, the anxiety of waiting was osik, and that much worse before caff.

Third, they still hadn’t gotten a chance to use that scanner they’d borrowed from Shakka. Though Obi-Wan had taken the time that Jaster was out having dinner with Adonai (or, well, trying to have dinner with Adonai, though the attempt hadn’t lasted long) to program it to check for midichlorians and calibrate it using his own count, Vhonte had shown up, and then the Jetii after her (and it really did seem like the Jetiise just had a sense for that sort of thing, inserting themselves at the most inconvenient moments possible).

Jango was still torn, wanting to know and yet dreading the answer at the same time. He didn’t want to have to think about magic ka’ra osik, ori’vor’e. Jango wasn’t much of a philosopher, and he did far better with tangible concepts than the intangible: reading a battlefield or a sparring partner, tending to plants and animals, puzzling out what people were thinking based on their body language and reactions—those were the sorts of things Jango was good at. But the abstract concepts involved in karking magic weren’t really his thing. Though Jango also knew enough to realize that if he was ka’ra’tigaanla, then training wasn’t optional. Mando’ade might’ve trained their stars-touched very differently from the ways the Jetiise did, but they, too, acknowledged that leaving them without any guidance was dangerous.

Naturally, those facts combined had led Jango to be in a terrible mood all morning, and it wasn’t helped at all by having to sit down for firstmeal with the Evaar’ade and the Jetii along with his buir and Obi-Wan. He much would’ve preferred to be able to check on Obi-Wan more privately, but he wouldn’t be getting the chance to do that, either, it seemed. At least Satine was quiet, mostly staring down at the table in between little looks at Obi-Wan, though she kept turning away again and back to her breakfast before Obi-Wan could meet her gaze. And the Jetii, Fay, looked so… unnaturally calm, save for the secretive little smile on her face, one that Obi-Wan returned, every now and then, smirking or biting his lip as if to keep himself from laughing. Jango wondered if the two of them were doing something with the ka’ra, or the ghost, though that wasn’t a question he was going to ask them. Well, maybe Obi-Wan, later, somewhere quiet and private, but not here and now, in front of everyone.

It was Bo-Katan who finally broke the awkward, uneasy silence after the first few, too-long minutes (normally, Jango knew, Jaster wouldn’t have let a long silence like that hang, but he seemed deep in thought, honestly rather worried about something, which did not help Jango’s own mood any). The adiik stared at the Jetii for a moment, and then turned to Obi-Wan. “Were you really a Jetii?”

“Bo-Katan,” Adonai and Satine chorused. The adiik looked over at them and shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Obi-Wan, thankfully, just laughed.

“‘Lek, I was,” he said. “I was raised in the Coruscant Temple, though I… left the Order about a year ago, now.”

“Oh,” Bo-Katan said, blinking at him, nose starting to wrinkle in an expression of confusion universal to adiik’e. “I didn’t know Jetiise were allowed to leave.”

“Of course we are,” Fay said, giving Bo-Katan a gentle smile. “Any Jedi may leave the Order at any time—though, if they are still Initiates—” That inspired a few blank looks from Satine and Bo-Katan, and Fay backtracked. “Initiates are younglings, or crechelings. We call our young that until they are claimed by a Knight or a Master as a Padawan—an apprentice—or transfer from the Knights Corp to one of the Service Corps. But to return to the question, if an Initiate wished to leave, then they must have a suitable guardian to claim them, or at least a plan in place for their life after their departure. I’ve seen very few choose to leave entirely over the years, but several of them were Initiates who chose to attend a more traditional school.”

“Oh,” Bo-Katan said. “If you were a Jetii, does that mean you have a Jetii’kad?”

Jango huffed under his breath, not quite a laugh. From the exposure he’d had to Bo-Katan on that tour the day before, that question certainly seemed typical for her. Predictably enough, Satine pursed her lips, eyes narrowing in displeasure, and Adonai rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, looking as though he was praying for patience. It was a look that Jango, admittedly, knew he’d inspired in both Jaster and his tal’buir’e, particularly when he’d been Bo-Katan’s age.

“I did,” Obi-Wan said, “though I surrendered it to my Master when I left the Order.”

“Oh,” Bo-Katan repeated, sounding a bit disappointed. She perked up only a moment later, though, as she very obviously remembered that there was another Jetii at the table with them. “What about you? Do you have a Jetii’kad?”

Fay’s smile, this time, was sad, not unlike Obi-Wan’s had been. “I did, once,” she said. “Though, much like Obi-Wan, I gave mine up. I laid it to rest at the end of the Wars. The blade had seen enough.”

“And here I’d thought it was just a creche rumor they told about you,” Obi-Wan said. “You really only use hand-to-hand and the Force?”

“When it becomes necessary, yes,” Fay answered. “I do.”

“I’m sorry, but what ‘Wars’ do you mean?” Satine asked, voice carefully even and polite. “As far as I can recall, the Jedi and the Republic haven’t been involved in any full-scale wars since the end of the Sith Wars.”

“Quite right,” Fay said easily. “I laid down my ‘saber and distanced myself from the Core Temples at the end of what are now called the New Sith Wars, and the Reformation.”

Again, there was a bit of an awkward pause, all three Kryzes just staring at Fay. Yet again, Bo-Katan was the one to break it: “Wasn’t that like a thousand years ago?”

“Very nearly, yes,” Fay said. Obi-Wan looked down quickly, trying to hide the small smirk that crossed his face, though Jango still saw it. Jaster just looked tired again.

“How old are you?” Bo-Katan asked, ignoring Adonai’s hard look for the question. Thankfully, the Jetii didn’t seem to take offense and just chuckled.

“Well, when one grows as old as I am, the years tend to blur together,” she said. “And my homeworld no longer has any of the records available from that time period, so we can only take our best guess. That said, I believe I’ll see my thousandth year within the next decade or so.”

“Wayii,” Bo-Katan breathed, eyes wide. “Is that a Jetii thing?”

“In some ways,” Fay said, giving Bo-Katan a little smile as though pleased by her interest. “Though not all Jedi possess such a lifespan, it is the Force which grants me my extended life.”

“Wow,” Bo-Katan said. She looked like she had many more questions to ask, suddenly far more interested in the Jetii than she had been, but Jaster, thankfully, finally decided to take control of the conversation.

“If you’re staying for a while, then I’m sure we’ll have time to discuss such things later,” Jaster said. Jango chose to be grateful that he wasn’t going to ask his own questions right about then. He knew his buir well, and he was sure the historian in him was squealing with glee on the inside about having another “primary source” available to him. “After the briefing later this morning, we should have a while before we’re needed elsewhere.”

Fay tipped her head in an acknowledgement, and then both she and Obi-Wan looked over towards the door. Only a beat later, it opened, and Myles slid in.

“Ni n’e, ‘Alor,” he said, going over to stand beside Jaster. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but the verd’e who’re preparing to report in sent something ahead.” Jaster just sighed softly and nodded, holding out his hand to take the offered ‘pad. His eyebrows inched up as he read whatever was on it, glancing back at Myles for a moment before shrugging one shoulder.

“Master Fay,” Jaster said slowly, glancing over at her, “given your… distance from the Coruscant Temple, you don’t know much about what they’re up to, do you?”

“Generally speaking, no,” she said easily. “I see the same updates in the news the general public does, and every once in a while the Force draws me near to another Jedi who’s able to tell me a bit more. But the last time I saw another Jedi was about five years ago, and it was Master Antilles, who has a similarly ‘distant’ relationship with the Coruscant Temple.”

“So he is still alive!” Obi-Wan said, and Fay laughed.

“Yet another rumor they tell about the ‘Wanderers’ in the Temple,” she said teasingly. “Master Antilles has been believed dead perhaps twenty times over by now.” They shared a smile for a moment before Fay turned back to Jaster. “Is there some reason in particular you ask?”

“Just… an odd report from some of my verd’e in the field,” Jaster hedged, shrugging one shoulder. Despite the light, casual way he’d said it, Jango noticed how stiff, how tense, Obi-Wan suddenly went.

“Galidraan?” Obi-Wan asked, and Jaster looked up and nodded. Obi-Wan grimaced faintly, setting his fork down and pushing his plate away, though he hadn’t eaten all that much. “There are Jedi there.”

“One confirmed Jedi is on-planet, ‘lek,” Jaster said slowly. Obi-Wan winced faintly, and Jaster’s frown deepened. He kept studying Obi-Wan for a moment, an appraising sort of look on his face like he was trying to make some decision. Finally, he added, “You can join us for the briefing, if you’d like.”

Obi-Wan perked up a bit, immediately nodding, and Jaster’s frown eased. Jango knew that wasn’t something Jaster would’ve normally allowed, given that Obi-Wan wasn’t actually a Haat’ad verd, though Jaster did consider him to be an adult. “Melida/Daan more than counts as a verdgoten,” Jaster had said, “and Hels, even what happened on Bandomeer before that would’ve been enough to count. Bandomeer and Melida/Daan were both far above and beyond what we would ask of our ad’e in their verdgoten’e.”

“‘Lek, vor’e,” Obi-Wan immediately agreed, and Jaster finally smiled again, nodding to him in return. After a beat, Jaster turned to the Jetii, his smile slipping again, but only a little.

“Would you like to come as well?” Jaster asked, and Jango couldn’t quite help the way he stiffened. That was far more surprising to him than Jaster allowing Obi-Wan to sit in.

Fay hummed, tilting her head. “I believe that may be wise, if you’re willing,” she agreed. Her gaze drifted over to Obi-Wan, then, and Fay frowned, her eyes going distant the way Obi-Wan’s sometimes did when he was listening to the ka’ra.

Far quieter, and in perfect unison, both Fay and Obi-Wan chorused, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Haar’chak. Jango didn’t sigh, though he very much wanted to, because he’d heard that enough by now to know that they’d just been jinxed.

These were… strange days indeed.

Though Jaster knew he should be focusing on the situation at hand, a large part of his mind couldn’t help but revolve around the sheer oddity of this disparate group of people forming a semicircle around the terminal, waiting for their field team to comm. Jango was to his left, and Myles to his right; Obi-Wan was to Jango’s left, and Fay beside him, with Adonai across from her, beside Myles. When Jaster thought of it all objectively, it was certainly a strange group: a former-Jedi Padawan, an ancient Jedi Master, his ad, himself as Mand’alor, his second, and a former-verd turned pacifist leader.

Jango turned towards him enough to shoot him a little half-smile, more an expression of commiseration than happiness, and Jaster leaned over just enough to brush pauldrons with him in response. Thankfully, before he could spend any more time spiralling down that train of thought, the projector flickered to life.

“Mand’alor.” Walon saluted properly along with his greeting, always one for formality, though he still had his beskar’gam off, looking like a fur trader. Jaster was pleased to note that he looked fine, no superficially visible injuries to be found.

“Ruus’alor,” Jaster returned. “Your last message sounded rather urgent. Me’vaar ti gar?”

“We were able to gather some information on Kyr’tsad and their activities,” Walon spat, and Jaster felt his expression tighten. “But the situation has become more urgent. There’s another… ‘interested party’ who has agreed to speak with you.”

“The Jedi?” Jaster asked, and Walon nodded.

“Elek, ‘Alor.”

“If they’re willing, we might as well,” Jaster said. Walon nodded and leaned down, adjusting the terminal on his end, widening the view. Two more of Walon’s squad flickered into the frame—Veld Kirlon and Derron Karr—and, between them, a massive Wookie. They wore a sash over them, though they had no robe, and their kadau hung obviously and openly from it.

[Mand’alor Mereel,] the Wookie said with a graceful bow. [I am Jedi Master Tyvokka.] Jaster nodded to them, more deeply than he would have most outsiders. [It would seem that— Master Fay?]

They’d noticed the Jedi standing with the Mandalorians, then. Fay bowed herself in greeting. “Master Tyvokka,” she said. “It’s been quite some time.”

[Indeed it has,] Tyvokka said, and Jaster wished he was familiar enough with Wookies to be able to read Tyvokka’s body language and tone. But it had been a struggle to even learn Shyriiwook, given how few Wookies there were among their people—they were yet another set of ancient enemies of Mando’ade. Though a handful had made their way to them, over the years, they were few and far between. Tyvokka let out a rumbling sort of noise, one that even Jaster could discern was discontented. [Obi-Wan? Cub, what are you doing on Mandalore?]

“It’s… a long story, Master,” Obi-Wan said slowly.

“I’m surprised you didn’t already know,” Fay said. “It does seem like the sort of thing the Master of the Order should have been made aware of.” Jaster carefully tucked that information away; they’d been dealing with the Council, but it hadn’t occurred to Jaster that the leader of their Order hadn’t already been aware of Obi-Wan’s… situation. If he didn’t already know, then Jaster was certain he would have questions.

[I have been out of contact with the Temple for some time, on assignment,] Tyvokka said. [In fact, that is a large part of the reason the Council dispatched me to Galidraan for the initial investigation. I gathered already that the Order has recently been in contact with the True Mandalorians, though I was not informed why so that I might be more impartial. But I believe I can now guess at the cause.]

Tyvokka stared at Obi-Wan for a few beats longer, and Jaster was just about to say something, to prompt the Jedi back onto the topic at hand with a question, when they turned back to him.

[The Governor of Galidraan recently contacted the Senate requesting emergency aid. He claimed that there were Mandalorians slaughtering innocent civilians here, and he was quite specific in naming those he believed to be behind these attacks: the True Mandalorians.] Jango, Myles, and several of the others behind them, out of view of the projector, growled and made other angry noises, but no one actually interrupted. Jaster himself shoved his own anger at that away—this wasn’t the time or the place for it, and he would be better served presenting a calm, steady front for the moment. There would be time for righteous fury later, assuming this wasn’t just some misunderstanding. [This caught the Council rather by surprise, as I understand it, because they already knew with great certainty that the True Mandalorians had been elsewhere.]

“The other side of the galaxy,” Jaster confirmed with a nod. “The Cadavine Sector, more specifically.”

Tyvokka went rigid. [Melida/Daan, then,] he rumbled with another glance at Obi-Wan, and again, Jaster nodded. Tyvokka took a slow breath, obviously calming himself down, and then continued: [When I met with the Governor, he provided the same story, claiming that it was the True Mandalorians who were behind these attacks. He also claimed that he had attempted to hire you, and you declined only to show up on Galidraan to hunt civilians for sport.

[There is some grain of truth to the Governor’s tale,] Tyvokka continued, and Jaster didn’t need to be very familiar with Wookies to be able to tell that he was angry. [Civilians here on Galidraan have been killed, and the holos the Governor was able to provide as evidence do show the beings responsible were wearing Mandalorian armor.]

“Kyr’tsad,” Jango said, sounding as grim as Jaster felt.

[That is what your people said as well, when I showed them the holos,] Tyvokka agreed. [There is a large group of them still on-planet now, and the Governor directed me to them. It is yet unclear if he was mistaken, simply confusing your two groups, or if this was some sort of trap that has now backfired on this “Death Watch.” I suspect the latter, but at present, I have no proof of that.]

Jaster nodded. “Further investigation into the Governor will be needed, then,” he said, “but the Kyr’tsadiise on-world… They must be dealt with swiftly. They’re incredibly good at slipping away and laying low if we don’t catch them while we have an active lead on them. I can have my people there in well under a day.”

Tyvokka rumbled softly. [There is a Jedi strike force en route, with orders from the Senate to arrest—or dispatch, if necessary—the “Mandalorians responsible for these attacks,”] he said. [I see no reason we should not abide by that mission mandate. Innocents have died at their hands in what I believe is an attempt to frame you and your people. Still, no matter the reason and motivation behind it, that must be answered.]

“We’ve uncovered some additional intel, ‘Alor,” Walon said. “The job the Governor attempted to hire the Haat’ade for was only partly falsified. The ‘innocent civilians being killed,’ as he said it, were initially armed insurgents. It seems that Kyr’tsad handled that problem for them, and then moved on to civilians in their attempt to frame us.”

“Since they were doing the Governor’s dirty work for him,” Jaster said, “then it sounds as if he was cooperating with them. But now that they’ve moved on to true civilians, he’s turned the trap initially set for us on Kyr’tsad, and aimed the Jetiise at them.”

“It seems so, ‘Alor,” Walon agreed.

[If that is true, and we can verify that intelligence,] Tyvokka said, [then the Jedi will deal with the Governor as well. We do not take kindly to being used in such a fashion. Regardless, the most urgent matter at the moment is dealing with this “Death Watch” group still on-planet. The Jedi strike force will make orbit in approximately eighteen hours.]

“We could have a group there in about the same time,” Myles offered. “And we likely should send help. If Kyr’tsad really did help cook up this scheme, then they know that Jetiise are on the way. They’ll be prepared for you.”

Tyvokka rumbled, a more thoughtful than discontented sound, this time. [If you do send a team, place them on standby until we give confirmation that they are cleared to land,] he said. [Until and unless we can truly clear your people of these accusations, your involvement will only make matters more complex, and your people being here in force will only provide greater evidence against you, unless we are careful.]

“Agreed,” Jaster said, however much he hated it. Jango obviously did too, bristling, but he thankfully stayed any protests. “If it will help, we can forward the Governor’s communications to us over to you and your people.”

[Anything you have would be welcome,] Tyvokka said. [Truthfully, even if this Death Watch group on-world now is dealt with, I fear that if we do not truly clear your people, the Senate might order further action to be taken against you. We must move quickly and decisively to avoid that outcome, and ensure that the blame rests with the guilty parties.]

“The holos of verd’e killing civilians, painted Kyr’tsad colors with their aliik, isn’t enough evidence for the Senate?” Walon asked drily, and Tyvokka chuffed again, another disgruntled sort of noise.

[It is not,] he said. [They were willing to accept the Governor’s claims that those were True Mandalorians—they cannot tell one group from another. No, we need something more than that. We can provide proof that you were on the opposite side of the galaxy, Mand’alor, but the entirety of your people did not go with you. It could be argued that another group made for Galidraan simultaneously.]

“Eighteen hours would be enough time to interview the Governor more thoroughly, ‘lek?” Jaster said, and Tyvokka nodded. “Based on his previous communications, I believe he’s in on the plot, and turned you against Kyr’tsad when they became a bigger problem for him than an asset. Ruus’alor: while Tyvokka interviews the Governor again, would you and your squad be able to slice into his comms to look for anything between him and Kyr’tsad?”

“‘Lek, ‘Alor —”

[I do not recommend that,] Tyvokka interrupted. [Should the evidence clearing your people come from your people, it would be suspect. I will have to make enough time for both tasks. While I do that, perhaps your squad would be better served observing the Death Watch in their camp? Any information we can gather before the strike force arrives will be a boon.]

“Gar serim —you’re right,” Jaster conceded. “That is a better division of resources. I’ll dispatch a team immediately, and tell them to hold until we have confirmation.”

[Thank you,] Tyvokka said with another deep nod. [I will pass along my commcode through Sergeant Vau, so that the team you send may contact us both directly upon their arrival.]

“Jate —good,” Jaster agreed. “Thank you, Master Tyvokka. I’ll send along the initial confirmation as soon as our team is dispatched.”

[Excellent. I will await your signal, then, and pay the Governor another visit in the meantime,] Tyvokka said. Jaster nodded, and the Wookie looked to Obi-Wan and Fay again. [When this matter has been dealt with, I would very much like to speak with you, Obi-Wan, Master Fay. I have a great many questions that need to be answered.]

“The Council knows about the… situation already, Master,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m sure they’ll be able to brief you, once there’s time for that. But I would welcome speaking to you again.”

[And I you, cub,] Tyvokka returned. [You have been missed. But I must go now; may the Force be with you.] He bowed again to them along with what Jaster knew was a traditional Jedi phrase.

“And also with you,” both Obi-Wan and Master Fay chorused, returning the bow. With that, Walon leaned forward and cut the feed, and their little group was left in silence for the moment.

Jaster took just a second to absorb all of that and take a breath, and then he turned to Myles. “Message the squads on ready alert rotations,” he said, and Myles nodded, pulling out his ‘pad. “We’ll have to move quickly to be there in time to help—assuming they’re able to move when they get there.”

“I’ll go,” Jango immediately volunteered—unsurprisingly, of course. Jaster knew his ad would take any chance at Kyr’tsad he could get.

“Alright,” he agreed, knowing it was unlikely he would be able to stop Jango from going. Ka’ra, he wanted to go himself, but he simply had too many other duties to see to here to be able to leave now. “But do not move without confirmation that you’re clear to proceed.”

“Elek, ‘Alor,” Jango agreed, voice flat and eyes stormy.

“There is something else at work here,” Fay murmured, gaze distant, brow lightly furrowed. “Something… Dark.”

“I feel it, too,” Obi-Wan agreed. “Be careful, Jango.”

“I’m always careful,” he brazenly lied, and Jaster huffed. Jango shot him a crooked grin, still too angry to manage a real smile. “I’ll go prep the squads, then.”

“I’ll come see you off before you head out,” Jaster promised.

With one last nod, Jango turned and left. Jaster watched him go, a heavy weight in his stomach. He didn’t need the ka’ra to tell him that the situation was precarious: even if the Jedi were convinced of their innocence, if the Senate wasn’t… They could quickly find themselves back at war again—a war they would certainly lose.

Chapter Text

“Ke’pare, ner dral’kad’ika,” Ba’ji said. “Take a breath, and center yourself.”

“I can’t, Ba’ji,” Obi-Wan murmured back, and he didn’t pause. Ba’ji sighed, trying to soothe over the back of his mind as he always did, but it wasn’t quite enough to dull that anxiety, this time. Obi-Wan reached the end of the hallway and turned on his heel, stalking back the other way.

“He’s right, Obi-Wan,” Fay said without moving from where she knelt at the end of the hall, eyes closed and expression serene, the Force flowing around her so easily, so effortlessly. Some distant part of himself that wasn’t busy worrying was still in awe of the way the Force felt around Master Fay’s… expansive presence. The Force flowed from and through all living things, of course, but with Master Fay, it almost seemed… difficult to tell where she ended and where the Force itself began, the two melding together so easily and so naturally. “There is nothing for you to do at the moment.”

“But I—that bad feeling has only been getting worse,” he said. “And given what’s happening now, where the others are, and what I know they’re about to walk into…”

“There is nothing to be done at the moment,” Fay repeated. “Let go of what you cannot control. What will be, will be. Easier said than done, I know, but try. And, as always, trust in the Force.”

“Whatever may happen, we can only wait for it to come to pass,” Ba’ji said, “and trust that the Force will show us a path through it, as it always has before.”

Obi-Wan huffed and didn’t stop pacing. He knew they were right, though that didn’t do anything to ease that uncomfortable feeling humming and buzzing away under his skin, down to his bones. Something was going to happen, and as Obi-Wan had said—and Master Fay had agreed —whatever it was… It wasn’t going to be anything good.

Jaster had taken one look at him and, apparently, he’d been able to read Obi-Wan’s anxiety at a glance. He’d quickly kicked him out of the command center, for now, with an instruction to “go do something, anything, else to take your mind off of things for even just a little while.” Master Fay had gone with him, and after a brief attempt at meditation, Obi-Wan had given it up and made his way right back to the hallway outside the command center, waiting to be allowed back in, as Jaster promised he would be the instant they had any news, as soon as they heard that the fighting was about to begin.

He’d done the math already, calculating how long it would take both the Jedi and the Haat’ade to reach Galidraan, and they would both be landing any minute, now. It was nearly time, and Obi-Wan intended to be there to hear what was happening the instant operations on Galidraan truly began—

The door finally opened again, and Obi-Wan paused, turning back to look. Jaster stood there in the doorway, looking at Fay with his eyebrows slightly raised, no doubt finding it a little odd that she was kneeling on nothing but air a few inches above the floor, and then he shook his head, turning to Obi-Wan.

“We just got word from Master Tyvokka,” Jaster said. “The Haat’ade are cleared to proceed; they’ve already found enough evidence to clear us, and once Tyvokka confronted the Governor with it, he admitted to the rest of it. The Je-di—” Jaster, again, stumbled a bit over the word, though he still managed to stick to Basic, and that brought the faintest hint of a smile to Obi-Wan’s face. Even now, when he had far more important things to worry about, Jaster was trying so hard to be considerate. It was… sweet, for all that that felt like an odd adjective to apply to the Mand’alor. “—are set to arrive at just about the same time our squads are. They’re all heading for the rendezvous coordinates for a final briefing before they move. ETA to enemy contact is about half an hour.”

Obi-Wan nodded, and Jaster nodded back, gaze lingering on Obi-Wan for a moment, assessing, measuring. Finally, Jaster added, “I’m not going to be able to keep you from wearing a hole in the floor unless I let you in now or give you something else to do, am I?”

“I doubt it,” Obi-Wan admitted. “I am trying, I just…”

“You have a bad feeling,” Jaster finished—unsurprisingly, given how many times he’d heard Obi-Wan say it by now. He just nodded again, and Jaster sighed softly, reaching up to tug a still-gloved hand through his hair. “Alright, then. Perhaps you’d go with Myles to find Adonai and bring him back for me? And we’ll need to see his ad’e back to their rooms, for now.”

Obi-Wan hesitated. “You said half an hour?”

“‘Lek.”

“Alright, then,” Obi-Wan agreed, grateful enough for some, any, task to take his mind off of that uncomfortable, prickly sensation in the Force, the one so consistently, so constantly, whispering danger-danger-danger.

Jaster smiled and nodded again. “They’ll be alright, Ob’ika,” he said. “The Haat’ade sent to Galidraan all have experience fighting against Kyr’tsad, and they’re being joined by just over three dozen fully-grown Jedi. That’s an impressive strike force, and I’m sure they’ll be able to handle it.” Obi-Wan nodded silently, but Jaster seemed to be able to tell that he wasn’t fully convinced, given how he sighed again softly and shook his head before turning to Fay. “And, ah… Is there… anything we can do to make you… more comfortable, Master Fay?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I will be fine right where I am until it is time.”

“As you say,” Jaster agreed, and he took another moment to eye her where she was still hovering just above the floor before shaking his head and turning back to smile at Obi-Wan again. “I’ll send Myles out in a moment. Try not to worry too much, Ob’ika.”

“I’m afraid I can’t promise anything,” Obi-Wan returned. “But I’ll try.”

Jaster nodded once more and ducked back into the command center, and Obi-Wan forced himself to pause, not to immediately resume his pacing. Instead, he closed his eyes, taking a few deep, deliberate breaths, and tried to focus on Ba’ji, still trying to blanket him in as much warmth-peace-calm-Light as he could, and Master Fay, her vast-bright-disciplined presence so reassuringly close to him.

“What will be, will be,” Ba’ji echoed Master Fay. “There is nothing to be done but face whatever challenge is presented to you when it comes, Ob’ika. Keep your focus on the here and now, elek?”

“‘Lek, Ba’ji,” Obi-Wan murmured back, and reopened his eyes as the door opened once more, trying for a smile as he saw Myles standing there.

“Ready?” Myles asked, and he nodded. “Then let’s go.”

As usual, the waiting was the hardest part of the campaign. The atmosphere throughout the ship, amongst the verd’e, was tense, all of them as angry as they usually were when Kyr’tsad was involved—and probably even more furious than usual, given the way the hut’uun’e had tried to frame the Haat’ade for their own demagolkyc crimes.

Much of the time, even when they knew that they were en route to their next battlefield, there was laughter and joking and oftentimes singing throughout the ship, all of them working to keep each other’s spirits up—but not this time. Now, there was a heavy, uncomfortable silence, everyone’s collective agitation weighty enough that it was nearly palpable, just another aspect of all of this that had Jango on edge.

It was, thankfully, a relatively short trip to Galidraan from Manda’yaim —and the wait once they actually arrived was blessedly short, to the point of nonexistence. The instant they came out of hyperspace on their final approach to Galidraan, the ship’s comms blared to life.

“It’s Ruus’alor Vau,” Liika said. “Putting it through.”

“Ruus’alor,” Jango said as soon as he heard the click signaling the call had connected, though there wasn’t a holo displayed. “Me’vaar ti gar?”

“Al’verde,” Walon answered. “Good news first: your team is cleared to proceed. The Jetii was able to find recordings of messages and conversations with Tor Vizsla himself in the palace’s comms systems, and the Governor himself folded like wet flimsi once he was confronted with almost two and a half meters of angry, magic Wookie.”

Despite himself, that drew a snort out of Jango, and laughter out of most of the bridge crew. “Ori’jate. Now, what’s the bad news?”

“Two small ships were able to escape the mountain compound Kyr’tsad has been occupying just after we got off the line with you before your deployment. We weren’t able to do anything to stop them without alerting the rest of the Kyr’tsadiise here, and we certainly weren’t ready to take them on with just the five of us,” Walon said, sounding grim. “Both of those ships are rated for no more than four occupants, so the bulk of the forces they brought are still here, but if I had to guess who was on one of those ships…”

“Tor Vizsla,” Jango growled. “That hut’uunla shabuir got away again.”

“For now,” Walon said. “But only for now. From the sounds of it, the Jetii is making noise about escalating this in the Senate and trying to wrangle an official mandate out of them to help hunt him down, if the Mand’alor will allow the Jetiise on-world.”

Jango huffed. “At this rate, it feels like we’re starting a collection,” he said. “Send the rendezvous coordinates over, and while we’re en route, I’ll relay that to Jaster. The other Jetii, Fay, is still with him in the Alori’ya, and there are two more of their Councilors already on their way. Though this has nothing to do with what they were initially coming for, they’ll be qualified to discuss the issue with him.”

“‘Lek, Alor,” Walon agreed. “As you say. I’ll ping you with the coordinates for the meet. Don’t be alarmed by the other three ships you’ll see coming in to land, too.”

“More Jetiise?” Jango asked.

“More Jetiise,” Walon agreed, and Jango huffed softly.

“Suvari. K’oyacyi, vod.”

“Bal gar,” Walon returned, and then he cut the channel. Liika needed no further instruction from him, already tapping away at the console to open a line with Jaster back in Keldabe to relay the update and start streaming their HUD footage while their pilots started to bank, heading for the meeting point.

While Jango waited for the comm to connect and Jaster to answer, he took a few deep, deliberate breaths, trying to wrestle down his anger. Tor Vizsla was a slippery bastard—and he always had been. That he’d managed to escape wasn’t exactly surprising, for all that Jango had hoped they would finally be able to end him, this time.

But even so… If they won this battle, they would be striking a major blow against Kyr’tsad, taking out a not insignificant number of their verd’e. And with Jetiise, for once, fighting beside them rather than against them… He felt a toothy, probably bloodthirsty, grin spreading across his face, thankfully hidden by his buy’ce.

Jango liked those odds.

Though Walon was grateful to be back in his beskar’gam, feeling far more secure in it than the trader’s clothes he’d been wearing before, and thankful for his thermoregulating kute, he did admit that it was… less than ideal in this situation. In almost any other application, black was the best option for stealth—but not on snowy Galidraan.

Thankfully, there was at least plenty of cover to be found, even as high up in the mountains as they’d had to get to reach a solid vantage point on the camp. Between the tall trees—evergreens of some kind, which, thankfully, meant that their plentiful branches were full even now, in the depths of Galidraan’s lengthy winter cycle—and the rocky landscape of the mountain itself, there were enough shadows for Walon and the rest of his squad to successfully hide themselves, and Walon was currently looking down on the camp of Kyr’tsadiise from his perch high up in one of those very trees.

Between the squad spreading out and recording using their mounted buy’ce cameras, the remotes they’d deployed, and the other cameras they’d set in the trees overlooking that camp, by the time Walon received word from the Jetii that the Haat’ade were cleared to proceed when they arrived, they had plenty of intel to go on to flush out this base. And between the sixty-seven total Haat’ade about to be on-world and the forty-odd Jetiise joining them, Walon had little doubt that they could take on the hundred-and-thirty or so Kyr’tsadiise here.

If only they’d been able to stop Tor Vizsla from escaping, he thought to himself. But they hadn’t had any heavy guns with them, just meant to be doing simple recce ahead of the main attack: any attempt to ground those ships would have failed, and only would have served to tip off the others left behind that they were here, scattering them as well.

But Walon would take any chance to strike a blow at Kyr’tsad he could get—though, still, he made a mental note for next time to remember that it just might be worth lugging one of the e-webs, or at least a rocket launcher or two, up with them whether or not they thought they might use it. More kit was always better, anyway, and if it had come down to it… Walon, personally, would choose to take out Tor Vizsla and let the rest of the hut’uun’e skitter away. Cutting the head off of that snake would be a major victory in itself.

The comms inside Walon’s buy’ce clicked to life again, though as soon as the person on the other end started talking, he directed his attention to the translation popping up on his HUD instead. He was passable when it came to Shyriiwook, enough so that the first meeting their squad had had with Tyvokka hadn’t ended in disaster, but he was far from fluent.

[All ships have landed,] Tyvokka reported. [I am assembling the others for a final briefing on the situation. Do you have any other information to transmit before we finalize a plan of attack?]

“Nothing new,” Walon answered, thankful that his buy’ce was fully soundproofed unless he wanted to be heard and turned on his external speaker. Even right above the camp, he could be as loud as he wanted to. “It’s a hack job up here. Sloppy. Guard rotations have been the same for the last four hours, so we’ve already pinned down the holes in their security. ETA?”

[Five minutes to summarize the situation for them. They landed far enough away that we should be out of range of their scanners, for now, so I believe we have at least that long—if not much more than that. They will notice our presence soon enough, and we cannot afford to lose the element of surprise,] Tyvokka said, and Walon grunted his agreement. [Wait three minutes and then begin phase one. We will arrive in ten at most.]

“Acknowledged,” Walon said.

Simultaneously, Veld let out a whoop! “It’s about time we got this party started.”

There was a reprimand on Walon’s tongue, ready to be let loose, but he was interrupted by the Wookie Jetii making a sort of… chuffing sound—laughing, he realized after a moment. The Jetii was laughing.

…huh.

[Your enthusiasm serves as a good omen to the level of effort you will apply,] the Jetii said. [Three minutes. Begin the timer—] Walon held his finger over the control on his kom’rk, ready to press it and activate the countdown on the Jetii’s signal. [—now.]

“Acknowledged,” Walon repeated, pressing down on the timer control, and hesitated only a moment before adding: “Oya, Jetii! Good hunting.”

[May the Force be with you,] Tyvokka returned, and then the comm cut again.

“Almost time, then,” Walon said to the rest of the squad over their own channel. “When we’re down to a hundred seconds, everyone drop and hit the ground fast and quiet. Suvari?”

“‘Lek, Ruus’alor!” they called back promptly, and Walon smiled, what he could feel was a twisted, nasty sort of expression.

But that was fine. These were twisted, nasty people they were hunting—and fully deserving of the wrath of the combined forces of the Haat’ade and Jetiise about to come down on them.

Shaking his head to clear it, pushing those thoughts away and letting himself fall into the more distant-yet-intently-focused mindset that would serve him well in battle, Walon turned his attention to the countdown.

It was nearly time to move.

“Have you ever done this before?” Liika called, having to shout to be heard over the noise around them, with the dropship’s doors already depressurized, just waiting to be flung open to let them out.

“I’ve been part of three other strike forces deployed by the Senate,” the Jetii shouted back. “Though those were aimed at organized crime rings, pirates, and slaver cells.” They were relatively young, maybe just a little older than Jango himself, a human with a long, dark tail of hair who’d introduced themself as Knight Erdus Valso.

They had been one of the few Jango had even had a chance to meet personally before they were on the move, with no time to be wasted before they pounced on what was left of Kyr’tsad. Every moment they delayed after landing here in force was time they risked giving Kyr’tsad a chance to realize they were coming for them, and scattering. Though, if Walon and his squad had done their jobs properly, scattering as Kyr’tsad so dearly loved to was going to be difficult, this time.

And Walon Vau was good. Jango didn’t doubt that he’d done what they needed him to.

Liika laughed. “Nayc —no,” she shouted back. “I meant this, a high-speed jump at altitude.”

“Oh,” Jango barely heard Valso say. “Well, not quite, but I’ve been able to catch myself after falling from a Coruscanti atmoscraper, so that should be similar enough, shouldn’t it?”

Liika laughed again. “Y’know, Jetii, I think that might be even higher than what we’re about to hit,” she said. “You’ll do alright.”

“Thanks,” Valso called back, sounding more than a little bewildered. Jango did his best to ignore both of them—he knew very well how manic Liika tended to get right before an engagement, and he knew by now to tune her out and let others engage with her.

“Coming up on the drop point,” the pilot, another Jetii, announced over the ship’s intercom. “ETA thirty seconds. First line, prepare to jump. Second line, fall in and wait for the next pass.”

Jango shifted forward a bit, though he made sure to keep a tight grip on the handhold above him, for now. Liika and Silas had teamed up to try to argue for pushing him to the second pass, as a “high-value target to Kyr’tsad,” but he’d shot them down hard. Like Hel was he letting anyone else lead this charge.

This was personal. It always was, when it came to Kyr’tsad, but given how they’d tried to frame the Haat’ade and bring the might of the entire Republic to bear against them…

Well, Jango had yet another score to settle with them, now—and he fully intended to.

“Twenty seconds.”

The terrain rushing by underneath them began to come into focus as the ship slowed enough to let them out more accurately over the target zone, turning the view from a blur of white snow punctuated here and there by flashes of grey and green to a more accurate view of the mountainside. They were nearly there, just a bit farther, and Jango shifted a bit more towards the door, waiting for it to open for them, and got his sen’tra controls ready.

“Ten seconds.”

A hush fell over the dropship’s occupants, the chattering between the Haat’ade and the Jetiise gathered together in the ship trying to take those few minutes to get to know those they’d be fighting beside coming to a sudden stop as they all tensed, preparing themselves to jump. The door opened, and Jango shifted forward again, letting the toe of one boot hang out over the edge of the ship.

“May the Force be with you,” the Jetii pilot said, “and jump… now!”

Jango didn’t need telling twice, and he didn’t hesitate. He let go of the handhold, letting himself fall more than jumping. They were, as promised, right over the target, the camp a speck from here, for now, though it was rapidly coming into view—

And, right on time, a series of explosions went off in the camp beneath them. Jango grinned to himself as he watched the fireballs grow, the chain of blasts potentiating each other, and he heard several of the Haat’ade cheering and calling out jaunty oya’s over the squad channel. He’d been confident that Walon and his squad would get the job done, and that was the proof: every single transport in that Kyr’tsad camp had been rigged to blow—not with enough explosives to destroy the camp wholesale, since that might have done damage to the mountain and caused an avalanche or rockslide, and there were villages around the foot of it, but more than enough to wreck those ships, especially since the charges had been set near the hyperdrives.

Kyr’tsad loved to flee and scatter as soon as the tide turned against them, like the hut’uun’e they were. But there would be no scattering, no fleeing, this time. They would have no choice but to stand and fight.

Jango finally hit his sen’tra controls and drew his Westars when he came near enough, dodging the worst of the smoke to maintain his own visibility as best he could, already assessing the situation on the ground. The Kyr’tsadiise —helpfully distinguishable to the Jetiise helping them with their blue-and-grey uniforms and the shared aliik of House Vizsla and Kyr’tsad on them, large and bold—were already rushing for cover, and already trying to fight back, shooting up at them. Jango dodged one bolt headed for him and beside him, a flash of green distracted him for a split second—that was Valso drawing his kadau, blocking a bolt rather than dodging even as he continued falling. (And Jango admitted, if only to himself, that it took a second to stamp out that now-ingrained instinct to catch when he saw the Jetiise falling without sen’tra’se, having to consciously remind himself that they didn’t need them—at least not for this.)

All around, as they kept plunging down, the Jetiise were calling out demands for surrender. Their demands were met exactly as Jango had expected: with a hail of blasterfire. He’d known that Kyr’tsad, when it came down to it, and they couldn’t retreat, would still never surrender—and especially not to Jetiise, but they’d insisted on going in this way regardless, and giving them a chance.

Thankfully, none of the Jetiise seemed to be hesitating, now that their calls for surrender had been so obviously refused, and many of them were using their kadause to catch and deflect the bolts, sending them right back at those who’d fired them.

The Jetiise around them were the first to hit the ground, dropping like stones down towards the Kyr’tsadiise, slowing themselves just enough right before they landed. Jango killed his sen’tra when he was close enough to the ground, letting himself drop, boots crunching as they hit the packed snow; Liika was right beside him, and Silas just behind her.

“Walon,” Jango said over the comms, “call it out.”

After their little pyrotechnics display, Walon and his squad had gotten back up in the tall trees surrounding the clearing the camp had been settled in, down in a small valley between two much taller peaks in this mountain range. They were their snipers as well as their spotters.

“Group of ten to your four o’clock, behind that fighter’s wing,” Walon said. “Can’t get a shot with that cover, but I clocked them.”

“Copy,” Jango said, already turning towards it, Liika and Silas just behind him, and Valso falling in with them. The one downside of those explosions was that, for now, the heat of those blazes was going to confuse their infrared viewers, making it more difficult to pick out targets hidden behind the still-smoldering remains of those ships. But Jango trusted Walon’s assessment, and readily turned towards that group, heading straight for them.

He dodged one bolt, and then another, before he came close enough to make out the figures peering up over the wing to shoot at them. He took one shot, hitting one in the shoulder, and they quickly ducked back down; he took another shot, hitting one far more satisfyingly in the neck, and they dropped instantly. And then—

Valso paused in their approach, taking one hand off of their kadau and lifting it into the air, and then jerking it to the side, and—

What had been the wing of a fighter, now just warped, smoking metal, flew off to the side, slamming into the trees—and, from the sounds of the cry and the metallic crash Jango heard, hitting at least one or two of the Kyr’tsadiise square on in the process—and their targets were revealed.

“Oooh, helpful!” Liika called out cheerfully, her mania still in full force. “Ori’vor’e, burc’ya!”

The Kyr’tsadiise tried to scatter, of course, but a quick barrage of bolts from Jango, Liika, Silas, and, from somewhere behind and above them, Walon or one of his squadmates, brought them down quickly, Valso catching a few of the bolts they sent back on their kadau, sending them towards the ground, sizzling in the snow, charring it black and sending steam rising up into the air from the snow that vaporized with the heat of the bolts, adding to the smoke and fog still hanging around the camp from the explosions—though fading quickly enough that visibility was already improving. They didn’t linger once that group was down, just looked long enough to make sure the Kyr’tsadiise were dead, and then immediately swung around to look for their next targets.

Overhead, Jango heard the sounds of more jetpacks, though he wasn’t worried, knowing—both because this was the plan and because he heard the confirmation over their comms channels—that it was just the second wave joining the fight. His mind automatically cataloging it as not a threat, he filtered that out and kept an eye on his surroundings. Through the smoke, now starting to clear as the flames started to truly die down and carried away from them by the high winds, Jango saw the bright lights of blaster bolts flying this way and that and the many beacons of light that were the Jetii’kad’e, and even through his buy’ce filters, he could taste that particular tang of ozone, caused by all the blaster fire so close to him.

Things seemed to be going well.

…a little too well. It set off all kinds of alarm bells in the back of Jango’s mind, but he forced his attention back to the fight—

Just as another Kyr’tsadii darted out from behind a piece of a ship’s hull and activated their flamethrower. Jango threw himself to the side as he shot, hitting them in the leg with the awkward firing angle. But he needn’t have bothered dodging, because they weren’t aiming for him. The flames hit Valso as the Jetii spun around and Jango swore—these dini’la Jetiise weren’t even wearing any armor at all, just those ridiculous robes and cloaks—

But it was just the cloak, it seemed, that had caught fire, and Valso easily shrugged out of it and sprang forward almost faster than Jango could follow. With one swipe of the Jetii’kad, the Kyr’tsadii toppled over, their head sliding away from their body and rolling a few feet away.

“Osik, I’m glad they’re on our side this time!” Silas said, and Liika laughed.

“Another group of seven is rallying and forming up at your eight o’clock, maybe nine meters out,” Walon said, and their little group turned towards them. “But Jetiise, approach with caution: we were right, and they were expecting you. Some of them have slugthrowers.”

“Someone back at base check on our signals,” Derron barked over the squad channels. “We’ve lost connection with Keldabe.”

Jango frowned, but didn’t let himself focus on that for now, keeping his attention on the next group they were approaching, darting in and out of their own cover behind rocks and debris as they zig-zagged across the field towards them. They were nearly there when Miira reported back.

“Our transmitters are fine. Signal strength should be good,” she said. “The problem must be on their end.”

Jango didn’t stumble, didn’t hesitate as he started firing at the next group, covering Valso until he could surge forward like a whirlwind again, getting in close enough to swipe the barrel off of one slugthrower, melting it half to slag, and cutting off the arm of the other Kyr’tsadii wielding one, but… Jango’s stomach twisted sharply, one of Obi-Wan’s bad feelings settling over him, because—

Because he’d thought this was going too well. He’d thought this was too easy. And, ‘lek, this was a lot of verd’e to lose in a sacrifice play, but it was Tor Vizsla they were talking about. If it gave him an opening…

“Shab,” Jango hissed. “Shab!”

“Me’bana, ‘Alor?” Walon asked.

“If this was a diversion, even if it didn’t start out that way, then— Half of the active-duty Haat’ade are still on kriffing Melidaan, on the other side of the galaxy, and the Governor knew that, we kriffing told him when we declined the job the second time around. If he told Vizsla… Haar’chak, and most of the rest of us are here,” Jango said. And the citizens of Keldabe were Mando’ade, just as fierce as any others, and they could and would defend themselves if it came to it, but more urgently… “We left the Alori’ya—and Jaster—without sufficient defense— Haar’chak, I knew this was too easy—”

“Alor,” Walon cut in, “even if you’re right—and that’s a big if, because there are a thousand reasons the transmission could have failed—this is a lot of verd’e to lose. We’re striking a blow to Kyr’tsad here and now, and that is what we have to focus on. Again, if you’re right, there’s nothing we can do for them now. We’ll have to trust them to take care of themselves and we have to finish this battle before we can do anything for them.”

Jango took a deep breath, shot again, and then— He lost his patience. Holstering his Westars, he barreled forward to close the gap between him and the remaining Kyr’tsadiise in the group they were staring down, rushing them. Catching the first in a headlock, he twisted, both feeling and hearing their neck snap, and then continued holding the body up to use as cover while their remaining squadmates fired at him, drawing one of his own blasters back out, immediately returning fire.

“Miira, try to raise Keldabe again,” Jango said—even though he already had a sick, horrible, sinking feeling about the results of this next attempt. “If you can’t, try Sundari. If that fails, try the Protectors on Concord Dawn. If it’s a faulty relay between here and Manda’lase, then that’s one thing. But if it’s not…”

“Either way, we need to finish this fast,” Silas said, sounding more than a little grim. He thought the worst, then, too.

“Oya,” Jango agreed, and what was meant to be a triumphant or encouraging rallying cry sounded just as grim even to his own ears.

Maybe they were right, and he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe everyone was fine, and it was just a faulty relay somewhere, either in the capital itself or in the lines of buoys between here and Manda’lase.

But even so… Jango had such a bad feeling about this.

At least, Obi-Wan thought, he wasn’t the only one who was tense, now. The walk from the ancillary Archives level the Kryzes had been in up to their rooms was quiet—even bubbly, outgoing, incredibly outspoken Bo-Katan seemed to feel that unease hanging around them all. Not that Obi-Wan was surprised by that, not really—children, even and especially young children, were far more perceptive than most adults gave them credit for.

Obi-Wan knew that Adonai Kryze was worrying about the larger picture, the significance of what they might find on Galidraan, the proof that Tor Vizsla was still alive—from what Obi-Wan knew and understood, that would be enough to reignite the civil war here in earnest; Myles was worried about Jango, who he viewed as something like a vod’ika (“I’ve known that kid since Jaster first brought him back at eight years old, and I trained him as much as Jaster did,” Myles had explained. “He’s good, and I know exactly how good he is, but I still worry. I always will.”); Satine and Bo-Katan, however, had no idea what was happening, and they were only worried because it was obvious the adults around them were—and so was Obi-Wan.

And it certainly wasn’t helping that that feeling in the Force, that pulse of warning-danger-warning- danger, seemed to be cresting instead of easing. Obi-Wan glanced at the chrono on the commlink he’d been given more than a few times, watching the countdown, making sure they would be back at the command center in time to watch it all from the beginning—though Ba’ji had helpfully offered to remain with Master Fay, who was still just outside, and come back to tell Obi-Wan to get a move on if he missed the beginning of the action. But they were making good time, and the Kryzes’ quarters were coming up quickly.

When they reached them, though… Bo-Katan proved more obedient than Obi-Wan had honestly assumed she would be, given the sort of behavior he’d seen from her so far, frowning up at her buir briefly before ducking inside with Asteille, one of the Cabur’e be Kryze they had brought, but when Vhonte gestured for Satine to follow…

She turned to Obi-Wan, something like guilt fluttering around her presence in the Force. Taking a deep breath as if steeling herself, Satine looked him in the eye and said, “Could you spare a moment? There was… something I wanted to speak to you about.”

Obi-Wan had a feeling what it was she wanted to talk about, and he honestly wasn’t in the mood to discuss it. He knew this was almost certainly about their… discussion of Melida/Daan, and the war he’d fought, and her pacifist views, and he was already on-edge, but—

So was she, he realized, suddenly feeling silly for not having seen it sooner. Her tension wasn’t all a reaction to the tension around her—it was partly because of him. And that… made him feel guilty in turn.

With one more subtle, quick glance at the chrono on his commlink—fifteen more minutes until the strike force was set to engage—Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “Alright,” he agreed, and then glanced at Myles and Adonai. “I’ll find my way to you, but… It would help if you could send me directions.”

Myles laughed, and Adonai quirked a smile. “‘Lek, Obi-Wan,” Myles agreed easily. “Ping me or Jaster when you’re outside and we’ll let you in.”

“‘Lek, Myles,” Obi-Wan answered with a nod, and Myles nodded back, tapping at his commlink for a moment, and then Obi-Wan’s own buzzed with the promised directions. With that, Myles turned to leave, to take Adonai down ahead of them, though he lingered for a moment, shooting a warning sort of look at Satine, who immediately lowered her eyes, a perfect show of contrition. What that was about, he had no idea, but he didn’t think it was his place to ask, either.

Vhonte Tervho was still loitering nearby, though keeping several feet between them, giving them an illusion of privacy, at least. Satine looked up as Adonai and Myles left, watching their retreating backs for a moment before turning back to Obi-Wan again.

“Would you walk with me for a moment?” she asked, and Obi-Wan shrugged.

“So long as we don’t go too far,” he agreed, and she nodded, trying for a smile, though it wasn’t very convincing.

They moved down the hall with that same heavy silence still pressing down on them and Vhonte always just a few feet behind, keeping an eye on them, just in case. As promised, Satine didn’t wander too far, just over to one of the windows in this hallway, turning to look out at Keldabe around them.

“I… wanted to talk to you about our… first conversation,” Satine said haltingly, and Obi-Wan winced. He had guessed as much, but this was still going to be… uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at once, and Satine startled, turning to look at him again, brows drawing together in a physical show of the utter confusion radiating from her in the Force.

“What are you apologizing for?” Satine asked, and Obi-Wan swallowed hard and looked away, back out at the bustling city around them.

“That was… a lot that I threw at you,” he said. “And it wasn’t deserved.”

“It was,” Satine said. “I was… ignorant.”

“Not ignorant,” Obi-Wan disagreed. “Just… sheltered. That isn’t a bad thing, you know. It means those caring for you did well and protected you from the things you shouldn’t have had to face yet.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t deny that I have been ‘sheltered,’” Satine said, slowly turning back towards the window as well. “But when I refused to acknowledge that others have not been, I… The… situation you described, the things you’ve seen and lived through… It all sounded so… unfathomable to me. I should never have assumed that everyone has… as much choice as I do in whether or not to fight.”

“‘There is no ignorance, there is knowledge,’” Obi-Wan said, and both felt Satine’s gaze slide back over to him as well as seeing it in the reflection in the transparisteel, though he didn’t turn to look directly at her. “That’s part of the Jedi Code I grew up with. It’s both a description of what the Force itself is—omniscient—and an… instruction of sorts. You don’t know what you don’t know until you encounter it, and then it is an opportunity to turn that ignorance to knowledge. I was taught that… So long as we’re willing to learn, to expand our views and form new conclusions as we grow and learn more about the galaxy, then it is not ignorance.”

Satine hummed, her presence roiling slightly in thought, absorbing that, and Obi-Wan was grateful for the brief silence it gave him just as Ba’ji tugged at him, the signal that Master Fay had just been called into the command center.

I think I’m going to be a bit late, Obi-Wan projected to him, perhaps a bit ruefully.

“Me’vaar ti gar?” Ba’ji said, presence solidifying, coming back to him more fully again.

Just an… awkward but necessary conversation with Satine, he sent back.

“Ah,” Ba’ji sighed. “Suvari. I will return to Master Fay so that I may summarize what you miss for you.”

Vor’e, Ba’ji.

He faded away, going still-quiet-distant in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind,  just in time for Satine to sigh and shake her head. “You’re much wiser than I am,” she said, and that startled a laugh from him.

“I don’t know about wiser,” he said. “Just… more experienced, I suppose.”

“It… does make more sense, now,” Satine said. “What my buir has always said, I mean. I never understood why he would continue to support the True Mandalorians and other more traditionalist Clans as a pacifist. He always said that while we have the luxury of being able to choose whether or not to fight, others do not, and we must support those who fight for them even if we do not fight for them ourselves. Only by working together can we take care of all of those who need help.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “That’s very wise of him,” he said—and, though he didn’t say so, it was also very Jedi of him. Satine smiled back, though it faded quickly.

“He had always used slavery as his primary example of what he meant by that, before,” she said, “but that seems so… foreign, so remote.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t quite help his reaction to that: he winced faintly and, on reflex, feeling the now-fading scars encircling his neck from the collar itching, almost burning, again—though they had healed enough by now that he knew it was all in his head—he reached up to rub at it. Satine looked at him a bit queerly, eyes narrowed.

“Are you alright?” she asked slowly, and he mustered a smile for her.

“‘Lek,” he said. “Just… A conversation for another time, I think.”

Satine stared at him for a beat and then nodded, turning fully to him and sticking out her right arm. “Cin vhetin?”

Obi-Wan smiled, turning back to her as well, and reached out to clasp her forearm in the traditional way as she did the same to him. “Cin vhetin.”

It was then, of course, that things went wrong. The Force all but shrieked in warning and then—

The building shook so violently that only Obi-Wan’s hold on Satine kept her upright as she stumbled with the force of it. That was quickly followed by hard, fast footsteps—Vhonte coming down the hall towards them—and a certain kind of stillness that felt almost… too still, like the feeling on Melida/Daan between the opening salvo and the beginning of the actual battle, the Force quivering, and—

“This region… isn’t prone to groundquakes, is it?” Obi-Wan asked slowly, and he couldn’t tell if it was his own dread or more warnings from the Force curdling in his stomach.

“No,” Satine said, going even paler than she normally was. “Not— Not that I’ve heard of.”

“My comms are out,” Vhonte said, skidding to a stop just beside them. “I can’t connect to anyone here or anyone in Sundari. So either whatever that was damaged the short and long-range comms arrays, or… we’re being jammed.”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, steadying himself, starting to fall back into that intently-focused-yet-distant mindset that had served him so well for the past year on Melida/Daan, and then he muttered, “I knew I had a bad feeling.”