Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Feemor learned when he got back to the Temple after his six month mission was that his lineage brother had Fallen and his former-Master had renounced them both. He really wished he could say he was surprised. Except everyone had warned Qui-Gon about Xanatos’ temper and pride. But kriff, the kid was only 16. So what if he was an obnoxious little shit? They couldn’t just abandon a kid—no matter how unpleasant the kid was—except they were and maybe it was because he was annoyed at how easily Qui-Gon renounced him too, but Feemor didn’t even unpack, just took a ship and headed straight for Telos.

Feemor wasn't as talented in listening to the Living Force as his former Master had been, but he also liked to think he had a bit more common sense than the man—and he had yet to be proven wrong. So instead of just landing on Telos with no plan, he nudged the ship into a wide orbit and picked up his comm. Obviously he couldn't ask Qui-Gon for help, and no one on the Council, and none of his friends because they just wouldn't be prepared to be able to help. Which left... a less-than ideal option potentially, but not terrible one either, if Feemor was being fair. He sighed, typed in the frequency, and waited for it to connect.  "Grandmaster? I need your help with something."

The planet was a wreck. Feemor understood that Qui-Gon had been under considerable stress when he left, but he found it hard to believe that his former Master had just left. There was so much work for the Jedi here, and he couldn’t do it because somewhere in this burning wreck of a city there was a certain irritating padawan he had to find. 

Xanatos still had his lightsaber. Feemor probably should have expected that. But the kid was tired and hurt and a little slower than he normally was and for all his skill he was just smaller than the blond Knight. It had been four days since Qui-Gon returned to the Temple without his padawan. And, it looked like, four days of living in the burned out ruin of a house. The fight ended with Xanatos back-down on the ground trying to blink away a mild concussion. 

“Right, let’s go,” Feemor said, hauled the boy back up to his feet, and slung him over his shoulder.

“Wh-what’re you doing?” Xanatos spluttered.

“Uh, taking you for some lineage bonding time?” Feemor said. It was pretty much true.

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it. How’re you feeling, dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Kriff you,” Xanatos mumbled.

“I’ll check you for injuries when we’re back safe on the ship-” he jostled the kid slightly “-you still awake?”

“Put me down!” Xanatos whined. Feemor thought he probably didn’t intend for it to be as much of a whine as it was.

“As soon as we get to the ship,” Feemor promised.

The combination of shock, concussion, and exhaustion made Xanatos surprisingly pliant, and quiet for once. By the time they got to Feemor’s ship he’d mostly stopped complaining, aside from the occasional curse. And when he shrugged the kid onto the bunk he just blinked up at Feemor dazedly. Feemor checked his pupils to make sure he hadn’t done more damage than he thought, then patched up the saber burn on his thigh—swapping out the somewhat messy bacta patch for a new one—and the blistering circular burns on his cheek and palm. He didn’t ask how he’d gotten them or why the kid hadn't put bacta on them too, not yet.

Feemor towed the boy into the cockpit and planted him in the copilot seat. “Don’t touch anything,” he ordered as he started the take-off sequence.

“Where’re we going?” Xanatos asked, only a little sulkily.

“Serenno. Master Yan’s going to meet us there.”

Xanatos stiffened. “Why?” Master Yan had… opinions on things, and he was not shy about those opinions. Xanatos was fully aware that their Grandmaster thought him to be “a prideful brat.”

“Well, I didn’t really know what to do so I commed him on my way to Telos,” Feemor admitted. “There wasn’t really a ton of planning involved.” The only plan he’d had was to find Xanatos. At least he’d had the foresight to comm for help.

“And what are the two of you going to do with me?” Xanatos asked. He didn’t quite manage to keep the fear out of voice.

“Help you,” Feemor answered immediately. “We’re going to help you, okay?” He kept his voice gentle, because even if they’d never really liked each other, right now he was a much needed familiar face. He could give the kid that much comfort at least. And kriff he really was just a kid.

Xanatos crossed his arms. “I don’t want your help, farmer.”

Feemor rubbed his face wearily. “Listen kid,” he said, “I know I might not be your favourite person, you’re certainly not mine, but you are my little brother. So scream and kick all you want but I’m not going anywhere.” So maybe it wasn’t the best-pep talk, but Feemor was tired and it’s not like he’d had time to pick up parenting books on the way. Not that there would be any parenting books for “adopting your kind-of-brother who turned evil.”

Xanatos glared at him and there was such anger in his fiery eyes. But the kid was shaking. Which—kriff he looked so young. It was making him feel old and he hadn’t even hit 30 yet. What the kriff had Qui-Gon been thinking, sending him off to his trials? No amount of saber skills could change the fact that he was still a kid.

“You will eventually, and then I’ll kill Qui-Gon and you and Dooku,” Xanatos hissed.

Feemor really thought Xanatos and Dooku should get along better than they did considering that they shared a taste for dramatics. “You’re not gonna kill anyone kid.” Honestly Xanatos kind of reminded him of a feral tooka kit, his black hair puffed up as he hissed and spat and bared his teeth.

“I’m not a kid!”

Feemor grinned. “Yeah you are.”

“I’m not!” The flashing of glowing flames in his eyes gave his tantrum an edge of danger, but it was still just a tantrum, and Xanatos was still just a boy who was angry and prideful and spiteful and a little bit cruel.

“Sure kid,” Feemor replied, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Xanatos yelped in surprise and ducked away from him, then glared—no doubt plotting his revenge. Or trying to, at least, the kid's eyes were starting to droop shut one blink at a time. “When’s the last time you slept?” Feemor asked.

Xanatos shrugged, still glaring.

Feemor stood. “Come one then, I’m not leaving you in the cockpit alone.” Xanatos stood reluctantly and Feemor’s eyes went instantly to his leg. “How’s the burn?” he asked. It hadn't looked infected but he was no medic.

“It’s fine,” Xanatos snapped back, giving Feemor a wide berth as he walked out of the room.

Feemor pointed to the bunk. “Get some sleep,” he ordered.

“I don’t have to do what you say,” Xanatos muttered, but he climbed into the bunk and curled up with his back against the wall. His eyes glowed like coals in the dim night-cycle lighting, fixed unwaveringly on Feemor as he sat on the only chair with a datapad. 

Feemor started typing up his mission report. This may not be a mission but the Council was still going to want to see a report. He was a little impressed at how long Xanatos held out. The kid looked like bantha shit but he still managed to keep himself awake for 10 minutes. Feemor waited another 5 before pulling the blankets that Xanatos had fallen asleep on top of over the boy carefully.

Master Yan was waiting for them outside the doors to his sister’s house. Feemor had forgotten that it was a literal castle. 

“I see you managed to recover the boy,” was the first thing he said to them, looking disdainfully at Xanatos, who bristled. 

Feemor held in a sigh. He really wished he knew what he’d done to offend the Force so much that it decided to stick him with his disaster of a lineage. At least the Master had agreed to help him readily when he commed. “Hullo Grandmaster,” he said, with a bow.

Master Yan’s expression softened slightly. “Feemor,” he said with a nod and a hint of a smile. Then he turned back to Xanatos, who was, of course, still trying to kill the older Jedi with spite and a glare. “We really did a number on you, hm?” he said quietly.

Feemor stopped any budding intentions the kid might have had about attacking their Grandmaster by placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Xanatos tried to twist away but Feemor held him in place calmly, ignoring the kick to his shins. Master Yan politely pretended not to notice their scuffle. “Jenza is setting up tea, did you get any sleep on your flight?” he asked as he turned back to the house.

“Xanatos napped. It was a pretty short trip,” Feemor said, steering Xanatos after Master Yan, trying to avoid his brother’s attempts to trip him.

Feemor deposited Xanatos on the couch and sat next to him with a pointed look. He’d have to check the kid for knives later, or anything else he might manage to grab from the table—he didn't doubt that the kid wouldn't make good on his threats if given half a chance. Feemor was very sure he hadn’t given Qui-Gon this much trouble when he was his padawan. 

Jenza carried a tray into the room and set it on the table carefully before turning to examine her guests. “You two look rough,” she said, brows pinched with concern. Master Yan’s inability to tread lightly on a subject was genetic.

Feemor glanced at Xanatos—stiff posture, drooping eyes—and wished he could just send the kid to bed. But he was worried about the burns, especially the ones on his cheek and hand. “Um, actually Master Yan, do you think a medic could be called?” Feemor asked. His Grandmaster raised an eyebrow at the request but nodded.

Jenza already had her comm out. Feemor had only met her twice before but both times she’d been kind, blunt, and scarily efficient—probably the best kind of person to be ruling a planet honestly. 

“Some of those burns might need more than bacta,” Feemor explained, noticing that Xanatos had stiffened even more and eyed them all warily. He redirected the boy’s attention to the food in front of him. “Come on, have something to eat while we’re waiting.” Xanatos’ face was too thin, his cheek-bones a little more pronounced than they had been a few months ago. 

"You can't tell me what to do," Xanatos snapped.

Jenza looked at the boys with pinched lips as they started bickering—it was eerily similar to the look Master Yan was giving them—then ended the argument by pushing the tray of cookies closer the Xanatos. "Eat," she said sternly. "It's rude to refuse food from a host."

Feemor was pretty sure Serenno didn't have any customs about that, but Xanatos had never met Jenza before—and in a strange situation after a traumatic event, facing an unknown and intimidating woman, Feemor knew what he'd choose. Xanatos apparently thought similarly because he took a cookie.

Feemor hadn't thought his good luck would keep going, when Xanatos let the medic check out the saber burn and redo the bandage, but he'd hoped it would. He shared a glance with his Grandmaster when the rodian started explaining what they would have to do to deal with the infected burns. He still didn't know what the burns were even from, but the kid had bandaged his saber burn and hadn't touched the other two at all.

“I’m not doing it!” Xanatos screamed, kicking at the medic and anyone else who got too close.

“Xanatos! Xanatos stop it!” Feemor ordered, getting close enough to nudge the medic away. He got kicked in the shin twice for his efforts, that bruise was going to hurt later. “Kriff!” he muttered, “take it easy kid. They’re trying to help, I know the burn hurts, but if we don’t get them fixed up now it’s going to hurt a whole lot worse pretty soon.”

“Don’t touch me!”

Feemor rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The burns have to be treated, and there are two ways we can do that. We can numb the area while the dead skin’s taken off, or we can give you a sedative and do it while you’re out. Either way you’re not going to feel it, okay? I promise. So which way do you want?” He tried to project calm and soothing feelings in the Force, trying to block out out as much of their surroundings without disregarding the kid's space.

“You’re not knocking me out,” Xanatos hissed, but his voice and presence in the Force held more fear than anger.

“Okay. We won’t.” Xanatos continued to glance around the room like a cornered nexu, panic leaking past his shields. “Do you want to take a few minutes to calm down?” Feemor asked.

“I’m not a kid!” Xanatos snapped, chest heaving too fast to get enough air.

“Xanatos, just breathe, yeah? Come on, sit down.” Feemor gestured to the couch they’d been sitting on. Xanatos crumpled onto it and burst into tears, curling in on himself. Feemor bit down the urge to panic, he’d spent plenty of time helping out in the creche, he knew how to deal with a youngling having a meltdown—and this one was well-deserved—but he didn’t know how to deal with it being Xanatos , and he didn’t know how to deal with a Fallen Jedi. 

The medic pulled Master Yan to the side and spoke to him quietly in worried tones.

Feemor hoped to the Force that he wouldn’t make things worse and slowly sat beside the kid. When he didn’t get bitten or clawed at, Feemor placed a steadying hand on his back—lightly at first, then more solidly when the kid listed towards him. “Okay, that’s okay. You’re safe here, we’re just trying to help. Just focus on breathing for now, okay?” He projected as much warmth as he could at the kid, and Xanatos sucked it up like he was starved of it. He clung desperately to Feemor in the Force. And that was fine, Feemor could deal with that, at least the kid was responding to him in some way. He let his world narrow down to the sobbing boy he managed to tug into his lap and filled the Force around them with a sense of warmth-safe-care. Xanatos slumped against him, breathing shakily between sobs that became hiccups that trailed off slowly with the occasional sniffle. Kriff but Feemor wished he could carry the kid to bed and let him rest. He looked at his Grandmaster pleadingly.

Master Yan sighed and sat next to them for a moment. “Oh padawan,” he said quietly, shaking his head at Xanatos.

“‘M not a padawan,” Xanatos whined. Feemor ran his fingers gently through the boy’s tangled hair, and smiled when Xanatos leaned into the touch.

“Semantics,” Master Yan replied disapprovingly, “padawan or not, your burns require treatment and there will be no more assaulting the medic.”

Feemor didn't think he meant to look so imposing, but Master Yan’s glares could make crechelings cry—it was the main reason no one complained about his refusal to teach saber classes to anyone younger than a senior padawan. Xanatos pressed back against him, and Feemor found himself rubbing the boy’s arm soothingly. “It really won’t be so bad, and the sooner you let us treat you, the sooner it’ll be over,” Feemor said.

Sensing that Xanatos was more or less done arguing, Master Yan stood and stepped back to give the medic more room without crowding the boy. The medic approached carefully, stopping an arm’s length from the couch. “Okay Xanatos,” the rodian said, “first I’m going to put a freezing spray on your hand. Once that’s done I’m going to clean up the burn a little, you shouldn’t feel anything. Some people prefer to close their eyes for this bit, but it’s up to you.” 

Xanatos kept his eyes open and fixed on what the medic was doing. When the dead skin had been removed and the wound wrapped in bacta, the medic reached for the spray again. “I’m going to need you to sit up for this part Xanatos,” they said. 

Feemor nudged Xanatos when he didn’t move. The kid grumbled at him and jammed an elbow into his ribs. Feemor winced and maneuvered the kid so he was sitting upright but still in Feemor’s lap. This part went slower, Xanatos flinched so much that the medic had to reapply the freezing spray part way through. The boy was a trembling mess by the time they were done, he felt brittle in the Force, raw like an exposed wire. Feemor took a moment to double down on the warmth-safe-care he had wrapped around the kid and went back to finger-combing his hair. By the time Feemor had worked all of the knots out, Xanatos’ breaths had mostly evened out. 

When Feemor made to carry Xanatos to his guest room the boy squirmed out of his hold, apparently determined to walk even though he was swaying on his feet. At least he didn’t shrug off the hand that Feemor placed between his shoulder blades to keep him steady while Master Yan guided them through the marble hallways.

Feemor leaned against the doorframe to keep Xanatos from slamming the door on them. He waited until he had the kid’s full attention before saying “we’re not locking you in, okay? But we’ll know if you leave and all the staff know that you’re not supposed to leave the property so try to stay where you’re supposed to.”

“Fine,” Xanatos snapped.

“And don’t mess with the bandages,” Feemor added as he stepped back, allowing Xanatos to slam the door as his reply.

Master Yan smacked Xanatos’ hand away from his face with a scowl. “Stop picking at that,” he ordered. Xanatos curled back like a loth-cat getting ready to pounce.

“Xanatos,” Feemor said warningly.

“It’s itchy,” the boy complained.

“I know, but it can’t heal if you don’t leave it alone,” Feemor replied.

Xanatos’ molten gold eyes flashed at him. Feemor met his gaze. Well, at least they'd made it to breakfast without any arguments, possibly because they were all in different rooms, and asleep. Feemor let Xanatos win whatever staring contest they were apparently having so he could pour himself a cup of coffee. 

“How did you even get those burns?" Jenza asked, "What kind of a weapon does that?" It was probably not the best time to mention the bantha in the room, but even so Feemor wasn’t at all prepared for what came next. Not for Xanatos to become a dark hole in the Force, sucking up all the air and his presence was wrong in a way so fundamental that Feemor had to suppress a wave of nausea. Feemor’s knees buckled and he grunted as they slammed into the ground. Beside him, Master Yan gripped the table tightly, barely keeping on his feet. It didn't hit Jenza as hard, she couldn't feel the twisted mess of anger-fear-hatred bleeding out of Xanatos in the Force.

It didn’t last long. Xanatos’ eyes flickered and the power around him blinked out of existence. He crumpled, hitting the floor as hard as Feemor had. Which probably wasn’t great for his concussion.   

Master Yan had explained what he knew about the Darkside from his research on the Sith. And what Master Yan had made clear was that Xanatos didn’t know anything about the Darkside. Why would he? It’s not like they taught that sort of thing at the Temple. Xanatos didn’t really know how to use the Darkside of the Force, and it was different. You couldn’t use the Force in the same way, in the way they had been taught. The kid had access to a terrifying well of power, but he had no idea how to use it. He was still a kid, a little lost, but not so far that Feemor and their Grandmaster couldn’t pull him back. 

Feemor was already on his feet and halfway across the room when he realized the kid was still conscious. Xanatos blinked up at Feemor blearily. Feemor held out a hand. "How many fingers kid?"

"'M not a kid," Xanatos grumbled.

"Fingers, how many?" Feemor wiggled his three fingers.

Xanatos blinked again. "Three." He lifted his head and started to sit up, then collapsed back down and screwed his eyes shut tightly, hands clenched into fists. Feemor waited for the kid to open his eyes again quietly, he remembered well enough that sometimes it was hard to tell with Xanatos, when he was lying, when something was fake. The kid had always been good at acting, good at manipulating and twisting people's words to get what he wanted. But the kid lying in front of him, Force shivering around him, didn't even seem to know what he wanted.

"Well, now that the nexu's out of the hat—" Feemor started.

"What does that even mean? No one says stupid stuff like that," Xanatos muttered.

Feemor decided to ignore the kid. "Now that the nexu's out of the hat, we might as well finish the conversation. We all already know what Qui-Gon told the Council, but he obviously didn't tell them everything that happened. If you tell us what happened, it'll make it a lot easier for us to help."

"I don't want your help."

"Too bad, you're stuck with it," Feemor replied.

“Qui-Gon killed my father,” Xanatos said after a moment. “He killed him!” His voice twisted into more of a snarl, but it was unconvincing from a kid who was still too dizzy to sit up.

“Why?” Master Yan asked.

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Of course it does.” Master Yan’s tone left no room for argument. “My former-padawan may be a reckless idiot, but he does not go about murdering people on whims.”

Xanatos pushed himself up to his elbows so he could glare at him, golden eyes burning. "He didn't listen! He didn't trust me or care about me!" And hate was pouring out of him again, thick enough to choke on.

Jenza cleared her throat. "Maybe this is a conversation to have after breakfast? When one of you isn't lying on the floor?"

“You were the one to broach the topic,” Master Yan said dryly.

Jenza raised her hands in surrender. “Yes, and I shouldn’t have brought it up,” she admitted easily.

Feemor glanced at Xanatos, his collarbones a bit too pronounced and still with dark bags under his glowing eyes. "You're right," he said with a sigh. Feemor leaned down and offered Xanatos a hand up. "It's not fair for us to have this conversation when you aren't ready for it. I know you're angry with the Jedi, including us, and... I think that's fair. When you want to talk about it, we can." The kid glared at his hand for a minute before pulling himself to his feet without taking the offered hand.

Feemor, Master Yan, and Jenza spent the next two days being very thankful that Xanatos was young enough—but not too young—to be able to more or less sleep off the trauma to his body. The Force exhaustion dragging at him would lesson, then disappear entirely. And his mind was still young, he needed more time to process things—so much to him was still new—and learn and heal. His brain was still growing. So he slept. The kid barely spent six hours awake in a day. And that was a kind of relief in itself, because there were so many things that needed to be dealt with in Xanatos, so many things that needed to be said to him, and the three adults weren't entirely sure how to do it. Master Yan had the most experience, the only experience really. Spending a few shifts in the creche didn't exactly prepare Feemor for raising a teenager, especially not a traumatised Fallen one, and most especially not Xanatos—who, for the last six years, had been one of the most annoying people in Feemor's life.

Feemor spent a lot of time meditating over those two days. Xanatos was officially the most annoying person in Feemor's life. The kid was relentlessly unpleasant, he did his best to be difficult and cause problems—rude, hostile, violent. Everytime Feemor felt himself wanting to just walk away from the kid or scream back at him, he made himself remember Xanatos clinging to him in the Force, pale hands clutching his robes. He made himself remember that yes, Xanatos was a self-absorbed brat, but that didn't make him any less of a child who needed help. He made himself remember to breathe, and let go of his anger. And once his mind was clear, he would reach for the spidersilk-thin bond that connected him to the kid—that had since the first night—and tried to strengthen it just a little bit. Xanatos would have to let the bond grow for it to work, but Feemor was going to keep reaching out.

Bacta was a miracle. Three days and the burn on Xanatos’ thigh was a healing scar. The burns on his face and hand, however, were different. The medic had made it clear that the kid was lucky he didn’t need surgery and skin grafts. The burns would continue to heal, but the scarring would be extensive. All this also meant that Xanatos was back on his feet again, full of power he didn’t understand, and bored. So started an official schedule of “lessons,” educational modules in the morning and lightsaber practice in the afternoon.

Xanatos may have been the more talented dueler of the two, but Feemor was the more experienced, and—as Xanatos needed to learn—experience outranks everything. So Feemor won the first sparr, and the second, then he let Master Yan take over and knock the kid around the room until his breathing came in short gasps and his muscles trembled, then Feemor dragged him through cooldown exercises despite Xanatos’ whining. By the time they sat down for dinner after showering and changing, the kid looked ready to fall asleep at the table.

They did the same thing the next day. Feemor didn’t comment when the kid collapsed into bed after dinner, and let him sleep a full twelve hours before dragging him to breakfast and lessons (this time of the book sort). 

On the third day Xanatos got frustrated during a spar with Master Yan and flung a training bench across the room. Feemor considered intervening when the Master had the kid running laps until his legs gave out, but he trusted his Grandmaster to stop short of cruel. It had been his idea, after all, to turn the intensity so low on the training sabers that they barely hummed after the first time Feemor had scored a hit and Xanatos flinched back so hard he almost dropped his saber.

Xanatos crossed his arms. “I don’t want to,” he complained, on the fourth day.

Master Yan simply raised an eyebrow at the kid and projected a strong sense of what makes you think I care? with looks alone. It was highly effective means of communication.

“I’m not doing any more of your stupid lessons,” Xanatos said, “you can’t make me.” Which was technically true, none of them were willing to cut the kid off from the Force, but Feemor had faith in his Grandmaster.

“What do you want to do then?” Feemor asked, then added quickly; “it can’t involve anything more violent than a practice sparr.”

Xanatos’ answer was a string of suggestions much more violent than a practice sparr, and several curse words. He ended up running more laps. There was only so long any youngling (or Knight, or most Masters really) could ignore a command from Master Yan.

By the fifth day, Xanatos’ muscles were sore enough to slow him down when they sparred. He wasn’t used to such a strenuous routine, he’d gone on stressful missions, had trained hard, but he’d never forced himself to such thorough exhaustion and then kept going, not day after day like this. Even with at least ten hours of sleep every night Xanatos was struggling to keep up. He was tired. 

Feemor watched Xanatos pick at his breakfast unenthusiastically on the sixth day and decided it was time for a break, well, sort of. “Guess what kid?” He stopped the knife that flew towards his head with the Force and lowered it gently onto the table. 

“I’m not a kid,” Xanatos growled.

“We’re changing things up today,” Feemor continued, unconcerned.

Master Yan looked up from his data pad. “Ah, meditation?” he asked.

Feemor nodded. “Meditation.” It had been the most recent topic of their many late night strategy sessions. They hadn’t been sure how to approach it with the kid, but Feemor had listened to his former-Master complain at length about some of the meditation exercises he’d had to do during his training.

The meditations they practiced that morning weren’t the Temple standards, possibly because they didn't technically include any instructing of meditation. Master Yan had many inventive drills from his own training with Master Yoda, drills designed to practice and strengthen skills for meditation. Feemor was glad he’d never had one-on-one lessons with the ancient Master because some of them were weird, never mind kriffing difficult. 

It was hard to talk back when busy lifting rocks telekinetically while standing upside-down one one hand while keeping prepared for any unexpected projectiles. Xanatos did try—and honestly Feemor was pretty impressed by the attempts—but it always ended up making him lose his focus and then everything came tumbling down. Feemor called it a day when a rock almost dropped on the kid as he fell over, too tired to redirect the heavy rocks around him, he’d stopped snarking an hour or so ago. 

Feemor settled the rocks around them before rolling out of his own handstand. He groaned and rolled his neck. “That little troll is crazy,” he muttered. His eyes widened when he heard a tired snort of agreement from behind him. Feemor spun around to face the kid. “You just agreed with me,” he said wonderingly.

Xanatos sat up. “No.”

“Yes you did! It happened,” Feemor insisted.

“I did not,” Xanatos said.

Feemor let himself collapse onto the grass beside Xanatos. “You did. You definitely did.”

Xanatos growled at him and flopped back down. “You’re so annoying,” he grumbled.

Master Yan sighed. “You are both incredibly irritating, congratulations. Now stop complaining and get up.”

“I’m not moving,” Xanatos said. He radiated exhaustion into the Force, but the good kind, the kind of tired that came after an afternoon playing hide-and-tag with your crechemates, ribs sore from laughing too hard as you ran. There was less of the confused fear that sparked so quickly into anger.

“Well I’m not carrying you,” Feemor said, “I did all the same drills you did.”

Master Yan looked at them both reproachfully. Feemor grinned up at him with absolutely no remorse. Xanatos had laughed at something he said and hadn’t even tried to kill him! 

After a moment their Grandmaster settled himself on the grass next to them. “At least you didn’t have to do the drills while avoiding Yoda's stick,” he said.

Xanatos fell asleep right there in the grass. After a minute Master Yan pulled out his data pad and began to read. Feemor smiled and let himself sink into a light meditation.

Feemor let himself drift weightlessly in the careful stillness of the Force—sunbeams underwater, the gentle tug of slow currents. Xanatos' presence was inflamed, twisted.

Jenza found them a few hours later. She looked at her brother curiously, who simply shrugged. “None of you had lunch,” she said accusingly. 

Feemor blinked up at her, still a little hazy from his meditation. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Dinner time.”

“Ah, then we’d best head inside,” Master Yan said. Jenza rolled her eyes.

Feemor reached out in the Force to wake Xanatos. The kid’s face scrunched up and he made an annoyed noise at Feemor’s prodding. “Time to go,” Feemor said, giving him another mental poke.

Xanatos opened his eyes with an irritated whine. Feemor stood and brushed off his robes. “Come on kid, dinner time,” he said.

Feemor woke up in the middle of the night with a feeling of unease. It took his sleep-heavy brain a minute to figure out that it was the still-new bond that linked him to Xanatos. He grimaced and rolled out of bed, he had an idea of what the problem might be. He and Master Yan had been hoping that tiring the kid out with saber practice would keep him from having nightmares—and so far they’d been right—but now that he was adjusted more to the schedule and mostly recovered from Telos, it seemed the nightmares had finally found him. 

Feemor knocked on the door to the spare room Xanatos had been staying in. He didn’t really expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. He let himself in, closing the door softly behind himself.

Xanatos didn’t show much indication of anything being wrong, but Feemor could feel the fear seeping down the faint bond. He sat on the edge of the kid’s bed and shook his shoulder gently, projecting safe-calm-peace. Xanatos’ eyes flew open, but his mind took a few moments to catch up. “What?” he mumbled in confusion, before his dreams caught up to him and the boy went still in the Force.

Feemor kept his hand on the kid’s shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze—he’d noticed, over the past two weeks, how much Xanatos seemed to seek physical contact—and sure enough, Xanatos relaxed slightly. “Do you want to talk about it?” Feemor asked carefully.

“No,” Xanatos said quickly.

“Okay,” Feemor said. He didn’t move.

“Are you leaving?” Xanatos asked after a minute.

Feemor considered the fear that had only just stopped trickling through the bond. "No, I don’t think so.” There was a little flare of irritation in the Force, but it was mostly drowned out by the pure relief. Yep, no way Feemor was going anywhere now. There was enough room in the bed for Feemor to sit against the headboard, so he did. The kid pressed against him immediately in a way that could be accidental, deniable. Feemor carefully soothed his presence in the Force.

It had been working surprisingly well, actually, their odd combination of temperaments. Master Yan’s cold demeanor and sharp words allowed Xanatos to bleed off some of his anger with someone who would meet him word for word and knock him around the training room when shouting wasn’t enough. Jenza wove in and out of their days, reminding them to be human as well as Jedi. Feemor tried to make himself everything the kid needed, and he so relieved that most of it could fit under the role of an older sibling. He could deal with having a brat of a little brother. He even possibly didn't dislike the kid so much anymore, maybe. More surprisingly, the sentiment seemed to be returned.

Feemor took a moment to stare at the screen of his comm and be annoyed, then, he released the emotion into the Force. He was not dealing with this. He was so not dealing with this. This was not his problem. Nope.

Feemor searched for his Grandmaster's Force signature and found him and Xanatos in the living room. He grinned, and let satisfaction chase away the last remnants of his frustration. Because he wasn't going to be the one dealing with this, but oh kriff was he going to enjoy watching.

Master Yan looked at the comm, then back up at Feemor, eyebrows raised. "It's for you," Feemor said innocently. He waited while his Grandmaster read the Council's message about their "concerns." Xanatos looked up from his data pad curiously at the ice-cold blade of anger that cut through the Force.

"I see," Master Yan said idly, as if he hadn't just thrown the room into an early winter. It had been a full week since the first message, simply notifying Feemor that a few Knights had been sent to Telos as per the request in his report. That was it, nothing about Xanatos, or what the kriff Qui-Gon had to say about everything. And now...this. Master Yan pocketed the comm. "If you would excuse me," he said, already halfway out the door. The Council was about to get a hell of a complaint.

"What's going on?" Xanatos asked suspiciously.

"Don't worry about it," Feemor said, "what module are you on?"

"History. What's going on?" Feemor sat next to Xanatos on the couch and grabbed the data-pad. "Hey!" Xanatos shoved at him.

"Jedi stuff," Feemor said, and batted him away. "Huh, I don't remember learning about that in history," he muttered.

"What kind of Jedi stuff?" Xanatos asked, annoyance seeping into his voice. "It's about me, isn't it?"

Feemor looked at Xanatos from behind the data-pad. "Actually it's about me. And possibly a little bit about you. I don't exactly have a mission right now, at least not a Council sanctioned one, so they need me to account for my actions. They're also being a bit over the top about it because of my request to them but I'm pretty sure Master Yan's got it under control." A mild way to explain that Council was considering censuring him for his unauthorized trip.

"What did they say about me?"

"Um, mostly that they're undecided on what to do. Master Yan's going to sort that out too." Mostly undecided on whether a Fall can be reversed in theory, never mind in reality. But right now they were faced with the reality of a Fall, and nothing got things moving like sudden time-sensitive disasters.

Xanatos crossed his arms. "And what did you request?"

Feemor grimaced. "I know you’re not super keen on the Jedi right now—” Xanatos sneered, Feemor sighed “—but I was hoping, that maybe, in a bit of time, you’d be willing to give the Order another chance, because I was kinda hoping you’d be my padawan, for a couple of years anyway,” Feemor finished, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“What?” Xanatos asked in a startled squawk. 

“I know the Order failed you, and so did I, I probably should’ve been around more, made more of an effort but… you shouldn’t have to be the one who loses out and even if you’re angry with us, the Jedi are still your family. But I understand if you don’t want to, and that’s fine too, Jenza says we can stay as long as we like, and if you want to go somewhere else we can figure that out—” Feemor’s rambling ran to a stop as he looked at his lineage-brother. Xanatos was staring at him with eyes flickering gold and wide as a tooka’s. The kid was trembling. Feemor stepped closer so he could rest his hand on Xanatos’ shoulder, who tensed, then leaned into the touch. “It’s your choice either way, I just wanted to make sure there wasn't anything to sort out with the Council before asking you,” he said.

“You want me to be your padawan?”  Xanatos asked.

“Well, yeah.”

“Why?” The desperation in the kid’s eyes made him seem even younger, it made Feemor want to wrap the kid in a blanket and give him a hug.

“You’re family,” Feemor said with a slight shrug. “And everything that happened, you made a bad choice—but everyone does, that's how you learn. I still think you’ll make a pretty decent Knight in a few years.” Xanatos’ shields had gotten stronger, but he couldn’t keep Feemor from feeling the way he practically glowed in the Force for a split second. Feemor wrapped his Force signature around the boy, projecting fond-proud-warmth down their bond.

"I don't want to be in the Temple yet," Xanatos said hesitantly.

"Okay, then we won't."

"Can I still be your padawan if we aren't at the Temple?" Xanatos asked, voice uncertain.

Feemor grinned. "If you want to be."

Two months later, Xanatos kept half a step behind Feemor as they stepped off the ramp of their ship, sticking close to the Knight. His eyes flickered with gold as he inched a little closer to Feemor, letting him act as a shield against the imposing gaze of the Councilmembers waiting for them in the hangar. Feemor was just relieved they'd only sent Masters Yoda, Windu, and Tyvokka and not the whole Council. There was still some grumbling over the kid's burning eyes and slowly-waning temper, but there hadn't been nearly as much complaining after his Grandmaster had “spoken” with them. Master Yan had looked entirely too pleased after that comm call for it to have been anything near civil.

When Yoda asked Xanatos to explain what happened on Telos with Qui-Gon, he just glared at the Master. Feemor raised his eyebrows and gave the kid a look before sighing. Niceties were still a work in progress. “Maybe we can come back to that another time? I’d like to get my padawan settled in our new quarters,” he said, placing a hand on Xanatos’ shoulder. A little bit of warmth spread through his chest when Xanatos didn’t shrug him away.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan looked at the kid curled up on the bench and sighed. It wasn’t the kid’s fault. It wasn’t, it really wasn’t. But it was still hard. 

“Ani.” Obi-Wan shook the boy’s shoulder gently. Anakin blinked up at him sleepily. “You should sleep in a proper bed,” Obi-Wan said, and opened his arms. Understanding what he meant, Anakin sat up and wrapped his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck, letting him scoop him up and carry him to his own bunk. It was a bit of a squish for the two of them, but Anakin was from a desert planet and space was cold.

Obi-Wan woke up to a weight on his chest. Anakin had managed to worm his way out of the blankets to sprawl across Obi-Wan’s chest, his head tucked in the crook of his neck, little puffs of air brushing his skin. He shifted and Anakin made a quiet displeased noise and smushed his face into Obi-Wan’s neck. Obi-Wan sighed, it seems his Master’s latest stray was clingier than Quin.

“Don’t you want breakfast?” Obi-Wan asked.

Anakin poked his head up. “We get more food?” he asked, eyes wide and hair adorably stuck up.

Obi-Wan kept his expression pleasant even as he inwardly cringed. Tatooine was…not a nice planet, he didn’t know the boy’s exact origins but obviously food had been in short supply. “Yes Ani. We’ll have three meals each day, and there are snacks for if you get hungry,” he said. He knew the effects of undernutrition on children well, and many of them were lasting. They would have to get Anakin on a steady diet, make sure he was getting all the nutrients he needed. 

“Wizard!” The boy sat up, already bouncing in place with energy and excitement. 

Obi-Wan smiled, a bit flimsily, as he realized his mistake. He was still thinking like he was Master Qui-Gon’s padawan, still planning how to take care of the pathetic lifeforms his Master managed to pick up everywhere . But they weren’t a they anymore, Master Qui-Gon had made that quite clear. 

Obi-Wan sat up, hands automatically going to smooth down his tousled hair—the padawan haircut really was impractical—but Anakin grabbed his hand and half-dragged him to the door.

Anakin watched Obi-Wan pick at his food. He didn’t eat like a slave, but he called Qui-Gon “Master” so he had to be, he must be a really good master if Obi-Wan wasn’t worried about food. He seemed nice, he treated him and his mom like people instead of slaves, but Anakin had only known him for a few days, and he was a master.

“Uh, Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked nervously. “Is Qui-Gon a good master?”

Obi-Wan paled and looked at his lap. “I’m sure you’ll find him to be a great teacher. He has great faith in your abilities.”

Anakin hated it when people tried to keep the truth away from him. He knew that tone of voice and it always meant an adult was going to lie. He was a kid, but he wasn’t that little anymore, and innocence didn’t last long on Tatooine. Why wouldn’t Obi-Wan just tell him? “But he hasn’t told me what I’m gonna have to do yet!” he said.

“You don’t have to do anything yet, for now you’re just traveling with us. Qui-Gon will work things out with the Council later.”

“Is he selling me to the Council?” Anakin asked. He had been hoping Qui-Gon would be his master, at least he knew Qui-Gon a little bit. He didn’t know the other Jedi at all.

“What?” Obi-Wan whispered. He’d gone very still. If Anakin closed his eyes he wouldn’t know Obi-Wan was there at all, he was just gone . “Selling? You—you’re not being sold. Wait, have you been sold? You’ve been a slave?”

“Mister Qui-Gon didn’t buy me, he made a bet with Watto and he said I was free but I still have the chip and my mom said I should never believe I’m free unless I have the chip out and the detonator in my hand.”

Obi-Wan wrapped his fingers around his cup of tea carefully, staring at the steaming liquid for a moment. “Did Qui-Gon tell the Council you were a slave?”

“Um, I don’t think so?” Anakin squirmed in his seat. “The masters were really serious and I don’t think they liked me,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to call them that,” Obi-Wan said quickly, almost tripping over the words. “You are free, and I promise you’ll get your chip out as soon as we help Naboo. It’s okay if you don’t believe me but, the Jedi don’t keep slaves, so you really are free.”

Anakin was pretty sure Obi-Wan meant it. “So you aren’t a slave either?” he asked.

Obi-Wan flinched, but shook his head. “No.”

“But you call Mr. Qui-Gon ‘Master.’”

“It doesn’t mean the same thing for Jedi. I call him ‘Master’ as a sign of respect, it’s a title he earned through years of serving as a Jedi Knight and training new students,” Obi-Wan explained.

Anakin frowned and squirmed in his seat a little. He didn’t want to call anyone ‘Master’ ever again. Obi-Wan’s eyes were sad. “You’re Free, Ani. You don’t have to call anyone ‘Master,’” he said. And then he held out his hand—palm up, fingers flat—Anakin reached out automatically placing his fingers over Obi-Wan’s, their hands curling into a single fist. It was the way Anakin had grown up making promises, it was how he knew which things were serious. Slave bargains were only used for the most important promises. 

“You were a slave too?” Anakin asked.

“It was a long time ago, and it wasn’t for long,” Obi-Wan replied quietly, “I won’t pretend to know what your life has been like, but I understand a little bit. And I promise you’re Free now.” 

Anakin nodded solemnly and scooted a bit closer to Obi-Wan. For the first time since leaving home, Anakin felt a little bit less alone. And then the air around him felt warm, it was like being hugged by his mom—safe—but no one was there, and his mom was still a slave on Tatooine. He looked at Obi-Wan with wide eyes. “Did you do that?” he asked.

Obi-Wan smiled and nodded. It was more of a real smile than Anakin had seen from him before. “I reached out to you in the Force, it’s something Jedi do often with younglings to comfort them and even just get them used to feeling things through the Force,” he explained.

“Wizard,” he whispered, awed. “It felt like getting a hug!”

Obi-Wan’s smile grew slightly. “Yes, it is a bit like getting a hug.”

Anakin tried to copy what he’d felt Obi-Wan do. They weren’t slaves anymore—but they could still stick together. Slaves and the Freed had to look after eachother, they were all kin—like how Mother Jira didn’t have any kids, but was Mother to all slaves. 

Obi-Wan’s smile faltered in surprise, then brightened again, when he realized what Anakin was doing. “Well done, that was an excellent first try,” he said. Anakin beamed at him. Obi-Wan was really nice.

Obi-Wan and Ani were huddled on the bench with a datapad when Padme came into the commissary in her handmaiden clothes. Obi-Wan helped Ani sound out words in Basic patiently. Apparently the Jedi apprentice had taken him under his wing—or cloak, she supposed, hiding a grin at the way Ani was tucked under the cloak. She hadn’t expected it from the older boy, he seemed a bit stiff to her, but maybe she had misjudged him.

“Padme!” Ani jumped up and bounded over to her.

“Hello Ani,” she replied warmly, “Padawan Kenobi,” she added with a shallow curtsey. 

Obi-Wan stood and bowed. “May I help you, Handmaiden?” he asked politely.

“I just wanted to check up on Ani,” she replied.

“Obi-Wan’s teaching me how to read Basic!” Ani told her.

Padme smiled. “That’s very kind of you,” she said to Obi-Wan. He bowed again, but before he could say anything Ani spoke up again.

“Obi-Wan’s super nice!” Ani said. “He let me sleep in his bed last night, which is good because space is so cold! And this morning he showed me how to hug with the Force!”

Obi-Wan, much to Padme’s delight, blushed slightly. Then his expression went blank with alarming quickness. Ani jolted and turned to look at him, then to the doorway where Master Jinn stood. The boy looked confused and maybe a little bit scared. Padme put a hand on Ani’s shoulder, drawing him close to her. 

“Ah, hello,” Master Jinn said with a smile, “there you are Ani. I was wondering where you’d gotten off to.”

“I was with Obi-Wan,” Ani said.

“I’m glad to see you’re getting along,” Master Jinn turned to Obi-Wan, “we’ll be dropping out of hyperspace soon. Ready for another visit to Naboo, padawan?” he asked.

Obi-Wan bowed. “Of course, Master.” His words felt cold to Padme, there was no trace of the young man who let a scared child huddle under his cloak in Obi-Wan’s empty expression. She wasn’t the only one who noticed a change. Ani pressed closer against her and Master Jinn regarded his student for a moment before nodding and leaving for the cockpit. 

The second the Jedi was out of sight, Ani slipped away from her and ran up to Obi-Wan. “Where did you go?” he asked, sounding terrified. 

Obi-Wan’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Ani reached out and poked Obi-Wan’s stomach hesitantly. “You were just gone! ‘Nd I couldn’t feel you anymore even though you were right there and the only time people disappear like that is when they’re dead, like Qa’da when Gardula got bored of his dancing and Adha when she ran away even though she still had her chip in—” Padme was too horrified to interrupt Ani’s ramble, but Obi-Wan was not.

“I’m sorry Ani. I didn’t realize—” Obi-Wan’s posture slumped slightly. “I was just shielding, you’ve probably never encountered anyone who knew how to do it.”

“What’s shielding?” Ani asked.

“Shielding lets a person hide their thoughts and emotions in the Force, it keeps other Force sensitives from getting into their mind. Most Jedi always keep themselves somewhat shielded,” Obi-Wan explained.

“So you’re really okay?” Ani asked skeptically.

Obi-Wan nodded. “I promise,” he said. 

Obi-Wan was angry. He was furious. And he knew his Mast—and he knew Qui-Gon could feel it, because he kept shooting him these worried and hurt glances but they didn’t have time to talk about it now. As they made their way through the palace halls Obi-Wan felt his anger build with every look Qui-Gon gave him—did he still not trust him? No, of course not—because Qui-Gon hadn’t told him. He hadn’t told him that Anakin was a slave. They’d been in space twice since Tatooine! Qui-Gon had had time, but he hadn’t said anything, and now he was worried because Obi-Wan was angry. He was always worried that Obi-Wan was angry. That, Obi-Wan thought, wasn’t quite fair, but he wasn’t in the mood to be fair.

Obi-Wan deflected a blaster bolt back at one of the droids, then stumbled slightly. Something was wrong in the Force. It was a churning mess of anger-hate-fear . 

The Sith was back. Qui-Gon glanced at the Zabrak, then back to Obi-Wan. “Maybe you should wait here—”

“No,” Obi-Wan said. “No.” And they didn’t have time for any arguing because the Sith was attacking and he was so, so strong. The Force was twisted and cold around the Zabrak and it tugged at Obi-Wan—slipping into his lungs with every breath, clinging to his skin, prodding his shields, circling his anger hungrily. Obi-Wan shoved back at the Darkness. He didn’t have time for this. There was a boy who needed surgery and someone to hold his hand through it, and someone would have to talk to the Council too, smooth over the feathers Qui-Gon had ruffled, and Obi-Wan was already tired and hurt and he didn’t want to be the one who had to deal with everything for once. So he did not have the time for this stupid Sith and his stupid saber-staff. He did not have the time for the Darkside and Qui-Gon’s doubt.

“Angry little Jedi?” the Sith asked with a cruel grin.

“Kriff. Off,” Obi-Wan replied as he kicked at the Sith’s feet, knocking him back a step and giving Qui-Gon a chance to leap in. It was an exhausting fight. By the time they reached the ray-shields Obi-Wan was almost glad for the chance to catch his breath. Apparently Qui-Gon felt the same because he hung back a step, letting the Sith get ahead while Obi-Wan and him ended up in the same section as the shields slammed up. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

Obi-Wan nodded. “You?”

“Fine. Listen padawan, you must not let your anger lead your actions.”

Obi-Wan pulled his anger tighter inside himself even as it grew. “I know Master,” he replied quietly. Qui-Gon still worried about Obi-Wan Falling, worried that one day Obi-Wan would raise his saber in anger, in hatred—become a monster like the pacing Zabrak in front of them. But Qui-Gon had not been there when he was dumped in a mine with a bomb collar and cut off from the Force—when he learned true despair and pain and anger—and Qui-Gon had not been there on Melida/Daan when Obi-Wan killed when he was feeling angry, sad, tired, hateful, scared, when he was feeling nothing at all. 

What Qui-Gon didn’t understand was that Obi-Wan already knew the Darkside. He had seen it in his Master’s eyes as he stood over Tahl’s killer. He had seen it in Xanatos as the man smiled and jumped to his death. Did Qui-Gon not remember his promise—made swaying with exhaustion and hands that shook but eyes that meant it when he said he would never Fall? Did it even matter when Qui-Gon obviously saw Obi-Wan as something so unimportant that he could be set aside when someone better came along? 

The shields opened. Qui-Gon struck at the Sith. Obi-Wan waited for an opening. Obi-Wan pushed back against the Dark side, The Dark side would not be taking Obi-Wan today. He was busy. There was Anakin to look after, because he didn’t really trust Qui-Gon to do it, and he had to free the boy’s mother. Quin would help, he’d felt the kiffar’s present as soon as they broke through Tatooine’s atmosphere. And maybe after that he could have a nap. Because he was already tired and there were so many things left to do. 

Obi-Wan pushed back against the Dark side, pushed Sith as Qui-Gon faltered, lurching backwards as blood streamed down his face. The Sith’s saber slashed across Obi-Wan’s back and he bit back a scream as his skin burned. Qui-Gon jumped back into the fight but they were both tiring now and the Sith knew it. With a single swipe the Sith took Qui-Gon’s arm just above the elbow, and waved Obi-Wan forward in a dare. 

The Sith was grinning—they hadn’t slowed down at all, showed no sign of tiring despite the strikes Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had been able to land. One of the Zabrak’s horns had been cut off, and Obi-Wan knew he’d broken bones when he managed to slam his saber hilt into the Sith’s wrist. Somehow the Sith didn’t even seem to notice the injuries.

Qui-Gon lay in a crumpled heap between them, defenseless, his saber deactivated on the floor. Obi-Wan raised his saber and leapt at the Sith. He slipped past the Sith’s defense and into their space. It was a risk, but the Sith had not been expecting it. They had not expected it because it was practically suicidal. One end of the saber-staff cut deep into Obi-Wan’s shoulder and that was all the distraction he needed. Obi-Wan held out his hand and the saber flew into it. He was hurt. He was hurt and tired, and a little bit afraid. He was angry. He was all these things as he activated Qui-Gon’s saber and stabbed the Sith through the heart. 

The Sith stared at him, shock and rage and pain filling the Zabrak’s tainted presence as it flickered in the Force. For the first time, Obi-Wan got a good look at his opponent, the Sith didn't look much older than him—and there was so much hatred in the Zabrak. This was what the Dark side did, it corrupted with pain and fear until there was nothing left to mourn. “I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said quietly as he disengaged the sabers and stepped back. 

Obi-Wan kept his hands hidden in the sleeves of his cloak as he entered the Council Chamber. There was more to consider about Anakin than they understood. He had to make them see that, had to make them see the boy as more than one of Qui-Gon’s messes. Obi-Wan went into that room ready to defend Anakin, so he was not expecting to be knighted.

“Killed a Sith, you have. First Jedi in a long time to do so, you are,” Yoda said gravely.

“Which is why the Council has decided to confer upon you the rank of Knight,” Master Windu continued.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said quietly.

“Congratulations, Knight Kenobi,” Master Koon said warmly.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said again. 

“I guess we’ll have to resign ourselves to reading Qui-Gon’s mission reports again,” Master Piell said, grinning crookedly. 

Obi-Wan willed himself not to cringe, he’d assumed that it had gone unnoticed when he took up writing the mission reports a few years into his apprenticeship. No one had ever said anything and it was just easier if he did it—that way Master Nu or members of the Council didn’t have to comm about filling in the blanks. Apparently he had been wrong. “Sorry?” he offered.

Master Windu snorted, amused by his unsure response. Obi-Wan tried not to look too confused. None of this was really going the way he expected. At least no one seemed too upset that he’d been forging his Master’s signature on official documents for years?

Obi-Wan decided to make the best of the Councilors’ weird moods. “Um, Masters?” he asked hesitantly. Master Galia smiled at Obi-Wan, and Master Windu waved at him to continue. “I was wondering if a decision had been made about Anakin, considering the unusual circumstances,” he said.

“The circumstances outlined in your report?” Master Billaba asked, there was a sharpness to her voice, but he could sense nothing negative directed at himself.

Obi-Wan nodded, preparing himself to argue his case. 

Several Jedi exchanged heavy looks. 

Master Yaddle shook her head sadly. “Many burdens, placed on you, we have” she said, ears drooping. Obi-Wan frowned slightly. He wasn’t quite sure what she meant. Or what that had to do with Anakin. 

“The Council has reconsidered its judgement of young Skywalker,” Master Windu said, “Knowing the boy was a slave puts his emotions in perspective, as does knowing his mother remains enslaved. Obviously we cannot return the boy to slavery.” 

Obi-Wan winced. “Um, actually Master Windu, Shmi Skywalker is Free now. Queen Amidala requested it, to thank Anakin for his role in saving Naboo.”

“That is excellent news,” Master Plo said warmly.

Master Billaba grinned at the kel dor. “Saves us having to go to Tatooine,” she said.

“I find myself considering a trip all the same. Knight Kenobi’s report makes it clear that we have been neglecting our duty in parts of the galaxy. Slavery is illegal in the Republic, and yet it flourishes in the Outer Rim,” Master Plo said, his tone was mild but danger echoed around him in the Force. 

“Will he be accepted into the Order?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Yes,” Master Windu said. “If his mother consents, she may have changed her mind no that they are no longer slaves.”

Obi-Wan breathed out a quiet sigh of relief. “She does. We spoke about it on Naboo. Will Anakin go to the creche?” Obi-Wan asked.

“We haven’t decided,” Master Plo admitted. “He will have trouble adjusting because of his age and circumstances, other children will not be able to always understand that.”

“But we have agreed that Qui-Gon will not teach him,” Master Windu added.

Obi-Wan thought about that for a minute, unsure of how he felt. He hadn’t spoken to his Mas—former Master since their conversation on Naboo when he first woke up, since Qui-Gon found out that he killed a Sith, and returned to Tatooine with Anakin to Free his mother, and wrote to the Council about Anakin without his involvement. Obi-Wan wondered if Qui-Gon would have worried about the Chosen One Falling as much as he had with Obi-Wan. “Why not?” he asked. 

Another round of heavy looks followed Obi-Wan’s question. “We have some concerns about his suitability as a teacher, especially for a youngling like Skywalker,” Master Billaba said.

“Oh.” Obi-Was starting to get embarrassed by his lack of vocabulary, he was supposed to be training to be a diplomat for Force’s sake.

“An opinion on this, you have?” Master Yoda asked.

“I think the Council is correct,” Obi-Wan said hesitantly, “Master Jinn would find Anakin’s specific needs difficult to accommodate.” That was something he was sure of, at least. They’d never really addressed Obi-Wan’s time as a slave when he was a padawan, and now that he was older, Obi-Wan could think of more than a few things that could have eased his transition back into being a Jedi. Anakin had been a slave his whole life, he would not be able to adapt to Qui-Gon’s teaching, and Qui-Gon wouldn’t have been able to adapt to Anakin’s life experiences. 

Master Plo sent a rush of fondness at Obi-Wan. “If you have any ideas…” he said.

Obi-Wan could think of so many things he wished people had said or done for him. He had so many ideas about how the Temple teachings would have to be altered for Anakin—it was how he’d distracted himself on the trip home, everytime he started to dwell on his argument with Qui-Gon, he had forced himself to come up with ways to help Anakin. Obi-Wan considered what he’d learned, then looked up to meet Master Windu’s eyes. “May I take a padawan?” he asked mildly, “I know it’s sooner than most Knights do, but I think the unique circumstances quite warrant it.”

The Council members exchanged more looks, the Force lightening the air in the room. 

Master Windu grinned. “You may.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan and Satine made it two months without Master Jinn before they ran face-first into trouble. Two months of trekking through mud and rain and forests, outrunning bounty hunters and kyr’tsad commandos with only each other to rely on. The bond told Obi-Wan that his Master was alive and well and far away, but nothing else. 

Sunlight flashed off the blue and silver armour as a kyr’tsad verd approached them. Obi-Wan and Satine watched the kyr’tsad verd warily. The verd held out their hands in a gesture of peace, Obi-Wan kept a tight grip on his blaster. 

“I’m not kyr’tsad ,” they said.

“Your armour says otherwise,” Obi-Wan snapped back. 

“They—they took me. I resisted them until I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough. But I couldn’t watch them do that to another ad !” they said in an agitated rush.

Obi-Wan cursed beskar’s shielding abilities. He hadn’t even noticed the second flare of life tucked behind the verd. A girl peaked around the verd, a little red-head with an impressive scowl for a twelve year old.

“Bo,” Satine breathed.

“They wanted to make her kyr’tsad , so we escaped,” the verd explained.

“We left half the mine on fire too,” Bo-Katan added, grinning ferociously. Obi-Wan felt Satine flinch behind him.

The verde took off their helmet —human woman, blond hair. “I’m Arla,” they said.

“What’s your clan name?” Satine asked.

“Nasaad. I lost the right to use their name when I let kyr’tsad turn me into one of their killers. My buire would never have given in, neither would my vod .”

Satine shook her head. “What was your clan name then? I need to know your aleigences.”

“Shut up, Satine!” Bo-Katan shouted with a glare. “Arla rescued me, and she’s a real Mandalorian, not like your stupid friends.”

Satine’s attention snapped to her sister. “Don’t be a child.”

“I’m not a child!”

“You’re all children,” Arla remarked flatly. Obi-Wan thought it was a bit unfair of a judgement, he was young, but he was also a Jedi padawan, and Qui-Gon had trusted him to keep Satine safe.

“Just come here,” Satine ordered her sister.

Bo-Katan shook her head. “No. I wanna stay with Arla,” she protested fiercely. 

“Sure thing, verd’ika ,” Arla replied, ruffling the girl’s hair. Bo-Katan squawked and swiped at her hand. 

Satine pinched her nose. “Bo-Katan, you can’t just run off with a random person.”

“Arla isn’t random, she saved me! And she said I can have armour.”

“Verd’ika , you don’t have to come with me to get armour. You don’t have any buire , and I might not be in the right state to adopt you, but you are a ward of my clan, you all are” Arla said.

“But I want to go with you!” Bo-Katan whined. 

At the same time, Satine protested “you don’t even have a clan.”

“Yeah she does!” Bo-Katan said, grabbing Arla’s arm. “She’s from clan Fett .”

Satine’s eyes widened. “Like Jango Fett?” she asked. The name struck Obi-Wan as vaguely familiar. 

Arla frowned. “What do you know about my vod ?”

Satine closed her eyes for a breath. “Kark ,” she muttered with feeling. Bo-Katan let out a shocked giggle. 

“Satine?” Obi-Wan asked quietly.

“You’re from Concordia Dawn?” Satine asked. Arla nodded sharply. “And your family died about two decades ago?” Another sharp nod in reply. “Your parents were killed by kyr’tsad for helping Jaster Mereel,” Satine stated the last question flatly.

“How do you know all this?”

“Your vod isn’t dead. He got away and Mereel adopted him,” Satine said tightly.

“The Mand’alor ?” Arla asked in an awed whisper. Satine nodded grimly. “Where is he now?”

Satine just shook her head. “He disappeared after Galidraan,” Bo-Katan explained. Obi-Wan frowned, he knew that name too. “He probably died with the rest of the Haat’ade .”

“No, he didn’t!” Obi-Wan said suddenly as the pieces finally came together. It wasn’t a good picture that they formed. “Galidraan was a disaster for the Jedi, when they found out about the Mandalorians’ innocence they tried to find him and free him but the Governor had already sold him somewhere. I’m sorry,” he glanced at Arla for the last part.

“He’s alive?” Arla asked breathlessly.

Obi-Wan grimaced. “He might be. Life as a slave is…” he trailed off, drooping slightly. Satine edged a little closer to him, until her shoulder pressed against his arm.

“My vod is a slave,” Arla breathed.

“So, what are you going to do?” Bo-Katan asked quietly.

Arla blinked slowly, then nodded as she came to a decision. “I’ll free him.”

“But how are you gonna find him?” 

“He’s a slave. I’ll free the slaves.” Arla nodded again. “I’ll free all the slaves, then he’ll be free and safe, and I’ll have paid my debt to the Manda.”

“I’m gonna help,” Bo-Katan declared. “And then he can be Mand’alor again and teach us to be proper Mandalorians.”

“True Mandalorians,” Arla murmured. “ Haat’ade.”

“Bo-Katan you cannot go with Arla to free slaves, first of all, what are the two of you going to be able to do alone? And Bo, you’re twelve. And we’re busy having our own disaster here, we don’t have time to run off on a rescue mission! Kyr’tsad is already after us, we don’t need to anger every slaver too,” Satine protested.

Arla hauled Bo-Katan back by the collar of her shirt as she tried to lunge at her sister. Obi-Wan automatically pulled Satine behind him, putting himself between her and any threat —already reaching for his blaster when Satine wrapped her hands around his wrist. “It’s okay Ben, it’s just my sister,” she said quietly.

Obi-Wan stared at her for a moment - face eerily blank - before nodding, his stance loosening, face returning to polite interest. “Sorry,” he murmured, cheeks flushed with shame. 

“You okay jet’ika ?” Arla asked.

“Yes, sorry. It’s been a trying couple of months,” Obi-Wan replied, looking up with a charming smile and clearing his throat. “Actually Satine, if I might advise you —on behalf of the Jedi of course? Um, if you were to decide to go with your sister I would be honour bound to go with you as your protector. And you wouldn’t have to fight, there’s so much other stuff you could help with, and since you have to be on the run anyways… and it would be good for your reputation. You know, ‘Mandalorian Duchess dedicated to peace dedicates herself to aiding recently freed slaves while on the run from terrorist group.’ It would make a good headline…” Obi-Wan trailed off with a shrug. "It also wouldn't hurt to get you off planet for a bit."

Satine looked at him searchingly. “This is important to you,” she half stated, half asked. Obi-Wan dipped his head without looking away. Satine considered him for a moment. She was worried about Obi-Wan. After Qui-Gon left them to hunt down a lead on Death Watch they couldn’t help but get closer to each other. Sure, they had already spent nearly a month being hunted by bounty hunters by then, but when it became just the two of them with only each other to depend upon, barely scraping through each day...

It was harder to argue with Obi-Wan over the morality of fighting in self-defense after she had to watch him biting back tears of pain while running a kilometre on a broken leg that wouldn’t have been broken if she’d let him kill the bounty hunter when he had the chance. After waking him up from nightmares of children trying to stop a war and being gunned down by their own parents. After listening to him awkwardly laugh off his accomplishments, justify the way he had been treated, question his ability to keep her safe when he never hesitated to throw himself into danger for her.

Satine paused before answering "What about Master Jinn?” she asked. It wasn't that she didn't want to free slaves, it was just... they were sixteen, what could they even do that would be helpful? And they were already on the run from Death Watch. 

Obi-Wan grinned and shifted his posture. “Master Jinn follows the will of the Force, it will lead him where he is needed,” he said loftily, sounding very like his Master. 

A giggle bubbled past Satine’s lips and she smiled. There had been so few things for them to laugh at lately, and Obi-Wan looked so hopeful. “Okay, Master Jedi. Let’s go free some slaves."