Archive of Our Own ^beta

Obi-Wan hit the ground hard, dust billowing up around him, making him cough and his eyes water. Still, there was no time to stop — he pushed himself to his feet, keeping low as he ran, and swore that, if he made it out of this one alive, Bail could kiss his arse.

He was done.

When Bail had come to him this time, two years after he had turned his world upside down the first time, Obi-Wan had felt his heart stop. Watching Luke risk his life flying, racing, and on more than one occasion stealing from Jabba’s goons, was harrowing enough, but—

“What happened to Leia?”

It wasn’t as if his sister was any less likely to find trouble.

Bail had paused, mid-greeting, and then smiled. “I see she has made an impression. She’s fine, Obi-Wan, I promise. Safe and sound.”

Obi-Wan had sighed, a bit lightheaded with relief. “Good,” he said, and meant it. “Then why are you here?”

Bail had taken a deep breath. “What do you know about Lothal?”

The Force screamed a warning, and Obi-Wan threw himself backwards, using his momentum to turn and ducking down a narrow alley. Seconds behind him, where his head had been, the blaster bolts shattered the stone.

“A simple retrieval,” Obi-Wan muttered, flinging himself up an emergency ladder. “A favor to a friend.” He hit the roof rolling, coming up on the balls of his feet and sprinting, leaping to the next roof and ducking behind a cistern to catch his breath. “No one else I trust.” He looked out over the city. He had to get away from the city center, and he had to do it fast, before the adept and his troopers shot the whole place all to hell. There were too many innocent people, too many potential civilian casualties for him to stay hidden here.

His eyes drifted north, and his heart sank. He knew where he had to go. He had no choice. It would be expected, they had to be watching for him, but that was the point, wasn’t it? To draw them away.

And honestly, Obi-Wan preferred his odds against the Temple.

For a few breathtaking moments, it was as if Obi-Wan was the only one on the planet — the warm winds blew back his hair, cooling the sweat on his skin. There were no blaster bolts to dodge, no deadly terrain to navigate — just him, the speeder, and the landscape.

If asked, and often offered freely, Obi-Wan would proclaim that he hated flying. Not that any who saw him fly would believe him, as if skill and enjoyment were inextricably linked. And he did, truly, hate piloting spacecraft. He always, always, was shot at.

This, however? Open-air terrestrial racing? The joy of it filled his heart near bursting.

The wave of darkness that washed over him like the sweeping crawl of a radar arm, some twenty clicks from the Temple doors, brought him crawling back to the present.

Obi-Wan leaned into the throttle. He had time. They may have sensed him, but they hadn’t found him yet. He just had to keep going.

The last time Obi-Wan had visited the Lothal Temple had been with Anakin, about three years into Anakin’s years as his padawan. After some initial remedial classwork to catch Anakin up to his peers where he had tested behind, Anakin had taken to his classes like a sponge. Anything and everything that interested him he consumed with a voracious appetite, demonstrating mastery and ease with frightening speed. However, it could be a fight to get him to focus in areas where he had little natural interest, and he had a tendency to jump ahead, skipping necessary steps to a correct answer that was unfortunately based on a shaky foundation. Ob-Wan, who had a similar tendency, tried his best to teach Anakin the way Qui-Gon had instructed him, to middling success. A new path was necessary.

Hence the trip to Lothal.

Then, however, the doors had stood open — for all that Anakin ran ahead, he and Obi-Wan had always worked well together in the Force. The door hadn’t been shut to them. There had been an air of welcome that had settled Obi-Wan’s nerves, that had assured him that he was doing just fine, that Anakin would be okay.

Well.

Now, however, the grand doors were fast-stuck deep beneath the ground, a last standing bulwark against a galaxy bathed in blood and shadow. Obi-Wan pulled his speeder to a stop before those doors, and felt his heart sink. A synchronous lock. It took two Jedi to enter the Temple; was that a horrible oversight caused by living in a time of peace and prosperity? Or brutal pragmatism from the ashes of the Sith Wars?

Either way, it mattered little to Obi-Wan at the moment. He couldn’t hide in the Temple if he couldn’t open the gate by himself.

“You are hardly by yourself.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes fluttered for a moment, leaning into the voice and the feeling of warmth with his entire being.

“Forgive my skepticism,” Obi-Wan said dryly, if fondly. “Being that you are currently incorporeal.”

Qui-Gon hummed a laugh, and despite the urgency of the situation, Obi-Wan felt warm.

“Focus on your own task, Obi-Wan. And I will focus on mine.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said, mouth twitching behind his beard. Holding out his hand, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and opened his senses in the Force.

It was impossible to express in words the way it felt to sink into the Force. Many Jedi scholars and poets have tried, and many have come close, but there was an element beyond words that escaped definition. It was sight without sight, touch without touch, sound without sound - and yet none of it was an absence. It was brilliant joy and symphonic peace and a multifaceted completeness that had one fill their body to the brim while at the same time existing beyond a physical form.

It had been over thirty years since the first time Obi-Wan reached out and felt Qui-Gon with him. It was at once overwhelming and achingly familiar, like walking an old pathway, still worn from your footprints despite the encroaching green growth. Qui-Gon had always felt like that to Obi-Wan, verdant and vibrant and wild growth, like the depths of an untouched forest rather than the well-curated growth of the temple gardens. He had said as much, once, and had the smug pleasure of surprising his master. Qui-Gon, bless, had tried to reciprocate but, for all that he was capable of great feats of diplomacy, his words failed him then. A sixteen year old Obi-Wan wasn’t quite sure what to make of Qui-Gon’s assurance that Obi-Wan felt like “A warm cup of tea,” but thinking back now, balanced on the edge of fifty, Obi-Wan understood what Qui-Gon couldn’t say.

Standing in the glen of Qui-Gon’s presence, senses filled with the joy of him, Obi-Wan felt the lock shift, opening before him with a song of welcome, like a simple melody hidden in a whirling symphony. His breath caught in his chest and he breathed deep, like coming up from deep below the surface of water. He opened his eyes to see the doors open, and to feel Qui-Gon slip away once more.

It was getting easier to let him go, now, to believe that Qui-Gon would be back, but it would never be painless, and Obi-Wan breathed through the loss until his emotions settled once more.

Obi-Wan moved before he registered the warning blaring through the Force, wartime instincts igniting his ‘saber mid-air as he twisted and landed, spinning the blade into position at eye level as he faced his opponent.

The Sith Adept.

“At last, I have found you, General Kenobi,” the adept said, and Obi-Wan fought the urge to roll his eyes. The adept was not one he had faced before, but he could feel the strength of the dark side emanating from them.

“I’m afraid I’ve retired,” Obi-Wan said, keeping his voice even. When the adept didn’t comment, he sighed. “Ventress would have laughed,” he said, and felt the adept’s rage flair like a solar wind. Strong, but not as strong as Vader. Volatile, but not as volatile as Ventress. Interesting.

“You will not distract me from my goal,” the adept said. “You end here. I will bring you before my Emperor, dead or alive makes no difference to me.”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Obi-Wan said.

The dark side surged again, and Obi-Wan braced himself against the swell, feeling not unlike a skip in a storm.

“I will defeat you!” The adept declared, and there was enough power behind the words that Obi-Wan felt a distant pang of worry.

But, well, he was no Vader.

“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Obi-Wan asked.

The Adept raged, sending a wave of dark energy crackling towards him, but Obi-Wan was already moving, feeling the rock behind him explode, debris pelting his back as he disappeared inside the temple, hitting the door mechanism with a tendril of Force as he ran past.

The Adept raged, and gave chase, slipping between the doors just before they slammed shut, trapping them both in the echoing darkness of the entrance chamber.

There had been rumors about the Lothal Temple long before Obi-Wan had been chosen as a Padawan. Obi-Wan himself had never experienced them, his padawan years being unconventional, but he had heard them all the same. In the depths of his doubts, Obi-Wan wondered if he and Qui-Gon would have survived the trials. Anakin had been far from ready for his own trials, so their visit had not included a test, but he, too, had been knighted in the field. Too late, Obi-Wan wondered if the Temple would accept his status as Master.

There was no time to worry about it now, however, as the Adept lit their own lightsaber, blade blood red and crystal screaming its pain in the Force.

Obi-Wan ducked behind a nearby pillar, keeping it between himself and the Adept. He focused on steadying his breath, on bringing his focus to the here and now. His arm lifted, palm resting on the hilt of his lightsaber. He didn’t want this fight. He never wanted this fight, but when did the Force ever care about the wants and desires of Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Beyond the pillar, on the far wall, a door opened, half in shadow, grinding off ancient gears terribly loud in the tense silence. The Adept turned, and Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide. He reached deep within and opened himself up, throwing himself across the Adept’s path and through the doorway, his only thought that he couldn’t let the Dark Side in here, too.

The floor vanished beneath his feet. He fell into darkness. He was not awake to hit the ground.

The alarm sounded softly, pulling Obi-Wan towards a reluctant awakening. His body felt heavy, deadened from deep slumber in a way that registered as extreme comfort. A tendril of Force stopped the alarm, and Obi-Wan drifted.

Wakefulness found him, however, returning piecemeal. His limbs lightened, and he was distantly aware of a lack of pain. Just as distantly, that fact registered as odd. The air wasn’t the dry, baked winds of Tatooine, nor even the dark, musky cool of the Temple (which Temple? Not home, surely. The air filtration systems were much too efficient for that sort of lack in climate control). No, the air was scrubbed clean and smelled faintly metallic, almost like ozone - distinctly recycled air. Spacer air.

There. Obi-Wan was on a ship, and a nicer one, too, to be granted a space to sleep that didn’t leave him cramped, or his back in knots. Even single-cabin commercial vessels tended towards harder, easier-to-clean model beds, not this sunken luxury.

When did Obi-Wan rate a private vessel? Where was he going?

Internally groaning, Obi-Wan rolled onto his back, stretching down from his toes, but not yet opening his eyes. Why did it matter? He needed his sleep, after so long of catching what he could when he could. And this was the best sleep he’d gotten since—

Since—

Why wasn’t he at the Lothal Temple?

Obi-Wan’s eyes shot open, and he sat up in a rush, blanket falling down to his lap as he looked about the room. It took a moment, longer than he would have liked, but he recognized the room. It had been ages, but he had been in this room before. It was the room he was given to share with Qui-Gon on Queen Amidala’s personal cruiser. They had tried to turn it down, he remembered, offering the resource to those not as used to managing privation, but the Queen had insisted, and diplomacy had won out.

At the time, Obi-Wan had been glad of it, wondering a little sourly if Qui-Gon was so quick to give up the room because he was too tall, even for this bed. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time Obi-Wan had heard Qui-Gon complain about the length of their bunk, and Qui-Gon had taken his sleep shift sitting up on more than one occasion.

The thought flashed across his mind, like neon lights along a Coruscant speedway.

If you’re here, then Qui-Gon is alive.

Obi-Wan’s breath left in a soft huff, chest aching as if with a blow. Qui-Gon was alive the last time he had been on this ship.

What a lovely dream, Obi-Wan thought. Because it had to be. Qui-Gon was dead, as was Padme, for that matter, and Obi-Wan was far older than twenty-five.

It didn’t feel like any Force illusion, and Obi-Wan felt that he should know that, having the most experience with them of any other Jedi of his cohort, perhaps excepting a Jedi Shadow or three. But, Obi-Wan had been wrong before, and being in a Temple-granted vision was much more plausible than any alternative.

Then again...the Temple was supposed to test the mettle of a prospect-Knight . Obi-Wan's friends had all come to Lothal to pass their trials. Perhaps it was simply Obi-Wan’s turn, twenty-four years too late.

A soft beep was the only warning Obi-Wan got before the door slid open and Qui-Gon slipped into the room.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Qui-Gon said softly, and Obi-Wan stared.

Oh. He had forgotten so much. The lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of smiles, the gray in his beard, much less than Obi-Wan remembered from the last time he had looked at himself in a mirror, the loose, almost casual drape of his tunics. There was a frayed edge where they crossed. Obi-Wan had a distant memory rise up as if through swampwater, of making a note to send them to the quartermaster to be replaced, behind Qui-Gon’s back if necessary.

He would go to his pyre in those clothes.

Qui-Gon stopped talking, and the silence pulled Obi-Wan’s attention. He looked up to meet concerned eyes, so very blue in the artificial light. “Are you alright, Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked, brow furrowed. “You’ve gone pale.”

“I’m alright, Master,” Obi-Wan said, the title and tone slipping out automatically, his own voice catching him off guard. Of course, he would be younger now, too. Qui-Gon was looking at him as if he didn’t believe him. “Woke up hard,” Obi-Wan offered.

The line of tension between Qui-Gon’s brows eased, but did not disappear. “Dreams, again,” he said, and finally entered the room, sitting at Obi-Wan’s feet on the bunk. “It’s not like them to plague you like this.”

Obi-Wan shrugged. It was as good an excuse as any, he supposed. He would often be unsettled by dreams in his youth, though they petered out over the years. He hadn’t had an anxiety dream in decades, at this point. He had real horrors, now. No need for his mind to imagine them.

“It has been a difficult number of days,” Obi-Wan said, and Qui-Gon huffed a small laugh.

“When hasn’t it been, recently,” he said. Obi-Wan smiled, but even he could tell it was forced. Qui-Gon cocked his head. “You know,” he said slowly. “It’s been a while since I had an authentic nerfburger. Once all of this is over, why don’t we head down and see Dex? I think you could use a treat.”

Oh, what a simple joy that would be. “I’d like that,” Obi-Wan said, and it wasn’t lying, even though he knew it would never happen. Perhaps, maybe, just this once, the dream would be different.

The dream, however, remained frighteningly familiar. Deja vu surrounded him like squeezing vines, catching his breath every time someone repeated their lines, their mark, an uncanny rerun of a long-abandoned vid.

And yet, Obi-Wan was more disturbed by the things that weren’t exact. It would have been a relief, almost, if the world continued, unimpeded by Obi-Wan’s clumsy performance. Instead, Qui-Gon watched him from the corner of his eye, concern etched into every line on his face, when before he was more concerned with Anakin.

Oh, Anakin.

It had been a shock to see him young once more, a wild and blinding presence in the Force if you knew where to look. He was subdued, now, unsure of his future, but even through his worry, he was still solely Anakin. It had been so long since Obi-Wan had seen him without a shadow, longer even than he had been— than his fall. There was no hint of that now, not that could be seen, anyway, beyond his brilliance. It hurt to see him as he was, knowing all too well what he could be.

It was even more obvious now, that Leia had his smile, and Luke his eyes.

Obi-Wan had hesitated, when he saw Anakin sitting there. He wasn’t sure what flashed across his face, or leaked into the Force, but he saw Qui-Gon startle, and Anakin looked up to smile sadly at him.

It was enough to get Obi-Wan moving. He knew what Anakin held the potential to do, to become. He had always known, on some level, but this Anakin had not made those decisions. This Anakin was still the sweet, eager child that Obi-Wan had tried so desperately to guide. This Anakin was still his brother.

Obi-Wan kneeled next to Anakin, and ignored Qui-Gon’s stare, burning into his back.

Obi-Wan had forgotten about this meeting. He was coming to terms with the fact that, for all that certain memories were crystal clear, there were still gaps due to time and, perhaps, grief. How could he have forgotten this, however, Qui-Gon’s last attempt to convince Queen Amidala - to convince Padme - to adopt a less direct course of action.

Next to the Queen, Captain Panaka was visibly restraining his frustration with the situation, and with his Queen. “The moment we land the Federation will arrest you, and force you to sign the treaty,” he said, and Obi-Wan had to look away from the look on her face. A decade later, and Padme still had the same expression when someone assumed her less capable than she knew herself to be.

The expression had bever been turned on Obi-Wan himself. Perhaps because of this very event, Obi-Wan had decided to not try and put anything past her.

Qui-Gon spoke. “I agree,” he said. “I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish by this.” It was both a caution and a request for information. It was a tone and phrasing that Obi-Wan had practiced for years before being able to seamlessly adapt. That this sort of double-speak was part of what made Obi-Wan such a formidable general was nothing short of ironic.

Queen Amidala turned her head, her upper body turning with her. Her head barely moved like this, turning only in the most necessary of circumstances. Obi-Wan wondered if that was yet another element of obfuscation for the handmaidens, like with Amidala’s falsely deep voice. It was one thing to have a talent for mimicry when it came to an individual’s quirks, and another entirely to use that talent to create a false voice, a false set of body language, that would be easier to adopt in the long, long hours of politics.

The Queen barely blinked. “I'm going to take back what's ours.” It could have come across as juvenile, the stark assuredness of her words. There was no question of attempt or ability - just the inevitability of this outcome.

Of course Padme wouldn’t be swayed. She had never willingly let another dictate her actions.
Yoda’s words, filtered through the hundred voices that have repeated his wisdom, echoed in Obi-Wan’s mind. There is no try.

Captain Panaka’s frustration was almost a separate entity at this point, trembling with the effort to keep itself contained. “There are only twelve of us, Your Highness,” he said, but even Obi-Wan knew it would be the last effort he could make. “We have no army.”

Queen Amidala said nothing as she turned back towards the Jedi.

“I cannot fight a war for you, Your Highness,” Qui-Gon said, “Only protect you.” And was it Obi-Wan’s imagination, or did Queen Amidala look at himself, then. Unbidden, Obi-Wan straightened. Padme had always been perceptive; could she tell, somehow, that Obi-Wan had seen war? Seen the very war that Sidious was trying to kick off with this hostile takeover?

Whatever she was looking for in his face, she did not find.

Their return to the planet’s surface was much gentler than their first trip, and Obi-Wan found himself walking beside Qui-Gon, lost in thought.

“You are worried,” Qui-Gon said, startling Obi-Wan back to the present moment.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan admitted, easily. It was, after all, his default emotion.

“As am I,” Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan blinked. It wasn’t that Qui-Gon had never shared his worries about a mission before, but there was something about his doing so now that sounded a distant alarm in Obi-Wan’s mind. “The Gungans will not easily be swayed, and we cannot use our power to help her.”

The memory came back all at once, and Obi-Wan stopped walking, the words tumbling from his mouth as if recalling a script forgotten mid-performance. “I'm...I'm sorry for my behavior, Master. It is not my place to disagree with you about the boy. I am grateful you think I am ready for the Trials.”

Qui-Gon stopped as well, frowning at Obi-Wan, as if that wasn’t what he expected Obi-Wan to say. After a moment, he said, “You have been a good Apprentice . You are much wiser than I am, Obi-Wan. I foresee you will become a great Jedi Knight.”

Obi-Wan’s smile was tight. “By your guidance, Master.”

The next several hours played out like a terrible dream, one in which Obi-Wan was trapped, knowing the way it would end and unable to change anything. In the back of his mind, a countdown had begun.

It was over. Maul was as dead as Obi-Wan could make him, and Qui-Gon was dying in his arms. Again.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and wept.

Anakin looked so lost. How had Obi-Wan forgotten how wide his eyes were? “What will happen to me now?

Obi-Wan crouched down. “If you wish it, you will be a Padawan now. You will become a Jedi, I promise.” Obi-Wan wasn’t a new Knight anymore, no matter what he looked like. He would not make the same mistakes this time around. He knew what, and who, to look out for. Anakin would not Fall again.

Lighting Qui-Gon’s pyre was no less harrowing this time around. Obi-Wan stared into the flames, and held Anakin closer against his side, offering whatever comfort he could. After a few moments, Padme joined them, and when, from the edge of his hearing, he heard Mace and Yoda talking, Obi-Wan left Anakin with her.

“There is no doubt,” Mace said, voice low. “The mysterious warrior was a Sith.”

When he spoke, Yoda’s voice was equally grave. “Always two there are....no more...no less. A Master and an Apprentice .

“But which one was destroyed,” Mace asked. “The Master or the Apprentice ?”

“The Apprentice,” Obi-Wan said, and he allowed himself to smile when both Masters turned to him in surprise. Obi-Wan folded his arms, the same posture Qui-Gon would use when he was about to dig his heels in before the council. “His name was Darth Maul, and he was nothing more than a sacrificed pawn.”

They give each other a concerned look.

Obi-Wan sat up with a gasp, looking around the cabin. He was back aboard the Naboo cruiser. A quick scan with his senses confirmed it - it was that morning once more. Anakin was sleeping in the lounge, Padme and her handmaidens were bustling about the Queen’s quarters, and Qui-Gon paused in the corridor on his way to wake Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon.

The phantom weight of him in his last moments filled Obi-Wan’s arms, and he was up, off the bunk before he could think about moving. Movement helped, momentum helped, and if he was going to be stuck in this day, then he had little time to accomplish much.

The door opened and Qui-Gon was there, eyes on Obi-Wan with no little concern. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Obi-Wan turned, took a deep breath, and pulled on the calm assurance that he wore for three heart-breaking years. “Never better,” he said, and when that didn’t change Qui-Gon’s expression: “Is something wrong?”

“Much,” Qui-Gon said, a little dry, and Obi-Wan let himself grimace in acknowledgement. Even knowing that the blockade would fail and that Naboo would be free for many more years, it did nothing to change the reality of the moment. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Qui-Gon pressed. “I felt you wake.” He hesitated for a moment. “Have your dreams returned?”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, thinking quickly. “They never really left,” he admitted quietly. It was true, after all. A truth, anyway. “I am — refusing to dwell,” Obi-Wan said. “Focusing on the moment.”

After a beat, Qui-Gon nodded. “Good,” he said, absently enough that Obi-Was wasn’t entirely sure that he knew what he was saying. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Obi-Wan frowned slightly. “Are you alright, Master?”

That seemed to rouse him. “Yes,” he said. “I came to get you. The Queen has requested our presence for a strategy meeting.”

Obi-Wan nodded, and reached automatically for his armor— only to pause when his hand hit fabric instead. Right. No armor here. Not yet. Even if it would be useful.

He had a sudden thought of shoving Qui-Gon into a proper set of beskar to keep him safe from Maul, but had, in the same moment, the surety that Qui-Gon would find ways to give the pieces of said armor away to those who “were in greater need, Obi-Wan.”

He picked up his cloak and settled it around his shoulders, feeling the phantom weight of plastoid pauldrons. Yesterday — last today — proved that there was nothing Padawan Kenobi could do to change the course of events. This today, he would see if fate would bow to General Kenobi.

General Kenobi attended the briefing in the Queen’s chamber with a pleasantly blank face and senses cast wide, reading the currents and eddies of the Force. He sensed Panaka’s growing frustration over a deep, hidden fear that they would fail, that he would fail, and while he was prepared to lay down his life for his queen, he was not prepared to watch his queen do the same. He sensed the conviction of the handmaidens, stationed around the rooms like sentries, the quiet of their minds more like temple guardians than what most of the galaxy would expect from ones so young.

(The Empire’s disdain for young women was well known, and an extension of Palpatine’s own views. Was this what allowed for their desperate fiction to succeed? Or was it, too, a smokescreen, to defend against one who came the closest to disrupting his plans again and again?)

Jar-Jar stood at Obi-Wan’s back, and Obi-Wan had forgotten how young Jar-Jar was. His fear was neither hidden nor tempered, and Obi-Wan found himself sending a soothing tendril over to him. Force null as he was, he wouldn’t be aware of it, but he responded to it all the same, the cloud of anxious fear receding.

Qui-Gon glanced at Obi-Wan, but didn’t comment on what was technically an overreach of Obi-Wan’s authority. It was considered beyond uncouth to manipulate another’s emotions without their knowledge except in the most dire of circumstances — a politeness that was cast aside in the early days of the war, and one that Obi-Wan doubted that he would ever be able to pick back up.

“I cannot fight a war for you, Your Highness,” Qui-Gon said.

“We already are.”

It wasn’t until Qui-Gon turned to look at him, surprised disapproval hovering at the edges of his expression that Obi-Wan realized he had spoken his bleak musing aloud.

“What do you mean?” Panaka asked, if a demand could be an ask.

Qui-Gon quirked an eyebrow, as if to second Panaka’s question-demand.

“Jedi are not soldiers, no,” Obi-Wan began, letting a wave of pained irony crash over him and recede. “But I fear that matters little to the mastermind behind this... wargame.”

He looked at Amidala, at Padme, seeing her adult self layered over the white makeup, an overlay of pained memory. “Over and over again we have heard the same: this blockade came from nowhere and makes no sense. There is no reason, beyond greed, and the Nemoidians are not a people who risk more than they stand to gain. Naboo is in good standing with the Republic, despite the lack of mobility in the senate, and so well-respected that its senator was just elected Supreme Chancellor.”

“Are you suggesting that the allegations against Chancellor Valorum were false?” Qui-Gon asked, brow furrowed.

“False or exaggerated, most likely,” Obi-Wan shot back. “But it’s the timing that’s most suspicious. The best way to keep the republic from stopping the blockade before the Queen could be forced to sign would be to keep the senate occupied by other matters, and what would be more distracting than a change in leadership? How many times have we witnessed important matters be lost when power changed hands?” Obi-Wan shook his head. "No. They had to know public opinion would be against them, just as they had to suspect that the Jedi would be asked to step in and help with negotiations. Instead, they were caught off guard”

“But they could not have suspected Palapatine’s rise to office,” Amidala countered. “Surely the worst person to replace the Chancellor would be the senator from Naboo.”

Despite the breach in protocol, Qui-Gon didn’t look away from Obi-Wan’s face. ““I’m afraid it comes down to timing. Even sympathetic, Palpatine is new to office, and it will take time before he is allowed to take action - assuming it isn’t voted to move the case to the courts anyway, to avoid the appearance of favoritism.

“Tell me, Master Jedi,” Amidala grit out, her composure slipping slightly as Padme’s anger flared. “If it cannot protect one of it’s worlds when they are under threat, then what good is the Republic!”

Obi-Wan turned to her. “And that is exactly what they hope to achieve. They want Naboo. It’s a strategic location, and rich in resources. But what they want more is a test case, a planet of martyrs to the cause, an atrocity to point at and say “see? See what happens when you fight back?” Obi-Wan sighed. “The worst part, the insult on top of the atrocity, is that this whole blockade is a precursor, an opening volley of optics that will be called an inciting incident.”

The realization was clear on Qui-Gon’s face, the dawning dread that Obi-Wan hadn’t seen on his own, had instead felt like a series of pinpricks on chilled skin exposed to desert heat, but it was Panaka who put it to words.

“You’re talking about a civil war,” he said.

“I am.”

Amidala’s face was still as stone, her eyes focused inward for a long, tense moment. “We do not appreciate our people’s suffering used for another’s gain,” she said at last, and the quiet, righteous rage in her voice was staggering. She focused on Obi-Wan, laser-sharp. “This blockade must not succeed. What do you suggest we do, Master Jedi? We welcome your council.”

Belatedly, Obi-Wan remembered to show difference to Qui-Gon, but his Master merely raised a hand from where they had crossed over his chest and gestured for Obi-Wan to continue. (It could have meant anything — trust, a test, a subtle reprimand — Obi-Wan no longer trusted his ability to fully read Qui-Gon Jinn).

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, brow furrowing as he settled back into his shoulders and began to speak.

“Immediately, our focus is on ending this blockade. You must not sign anything, Your Highness, and they must not be allowed to maintain a foothold — But this is not the war, but the first battlefield. A testing ground. Our success here will most likely cause the orchestrator to pause, to regroup before they continue their plans. It will give us a moment to breathe before our cold war begins.”

“Our?” Panaka asked, but it was quiet and overshadowed by Amidala.

“Our victory has always been our goal,” she began. “It is the method that is in question, not our goal or our conviction. Knowing an enemy does not get us closer to a standing army.”

No, the standing army comes later.

“Are you sure?” Obi-Wan asked instead, shaking his head to dispel the shadows of a past only he could remember. He turned and looked at Jar Jar Binks. The Gungan blinked back at him, uncomprehending. Then, as if a delayed processor finished buffering, Obi-Wan saw the thought circuit complete.

“Oh! Mesa know!” Jar Jar cried out, bouncing where he stood. “We Gungans have a bombad army!”

Panaka was frowning hard enough that Obi-Wan was afraid he would hurt himself. “Will they fight with us?”

Jar Jar nodded, eager, and then paused, shrugging.

“It is their world, too,” Amidala said, and a shadow of doubt crept into her voice. She considered for a moment. “We are growing weary of our decisions being forced by circumstance. We have no alternate choice. We will ask the Gungans to fight with us, and pray they will listen.”

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan bowed, recognizing a dismissal when they heard one. They left the room together, Obi-Wan the perfect half-step behind.

They were nearly to where Obi-Wan could sense Anakin, shining star in the Force that he was, when Qui-Gon spun to face him. Obi-Wan stopped, and rushed to speak.

“I am sorry, Master. I had meant to bring my concerns to you, first.”

Qui-Gon quirked an eyebrow, bemused, and a piece of Obi-Wan relaxed slightly. “I’m happy that some measure of protocol has stuck with you,” he said, and Obi-Wan ducked his head. “No, Obi-Wan, I am not mad. I am mostly concerned as to where this came from.” He paused. “It seems obvious, now that it has been said aloud, that this must be part of a larger machination, but I’m just as sure that it’s not a theory that I would have dreamed of.” He sighed. “Not until a lot more people had died, at any rate.”

“You sell yourself short, Master,” Obi-Wan began.

“On the contrary,” Qui-Gon protested calmly. “One of the joys of taking a padawan, of guiding them through the lessons and unpredictabilities of life, is a constant state of self-reflection.” Qui-Gon smiled. “Especially when a padawan challenges me as you do.”

Obi-Wan winced. “Master—”

“I mean no censure, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon continued gently, placing his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “As I have watched you grow, you have helped me grow in turn. I know you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I know myself all the better for it.” Obi-Wan looked away, thinking of Anakin, and his years as a Padawan. He would have said that he knew Anakin, too.

Qui-Gon continued, oblivious to Obi-Wan’s inner turmoil. “That doesn’t mean that I do not occasionally falter. I have been considering your trials now for long enough that you should have probably already faced them.” It was said with humor, a mild self-reproach that spoke of the degree of self-awareness that Qui-Gon claimed. It was an invitation, to share the joke, to accept Qui-Gon’s assessment of Obi-Wan’s readiness.

Obi-Wan had been knighted for a quarter century, and been a Master for most of that time. He had never truly felt ready. His hesitation must have proved too long, because the humor slowly fell from Qui-Gon’s face.

“I am serious, Obi-Wan. I foresee that you will be a great Jedi Knight .”

“I don’t need greatness,” Obi-Wan said softly.

Something eased then and Qui-Gon smiled, soft and sad. “The truly great never do. Ultimately, that is not something over which we are often given a choice.”

He was right, of course. Obi-Wan knew that, had long since known that his lot in life was to bear witness, to survive the odds no matter how many others slipped through his fingers, to always strive and succeed, but at such great cost. It was never a definition of greatness that he had sought out. He would much rather be second and keep those important to him near, safe, and living.

“You are sure, then?” Qui-Gon asked, nodding back towards the way they came.

“I am,” Obi-Wan said. “I know— I know you say not to put stock in my dreams, and I am not. Nothing I said is something that I have dreamed, but I have dreamed enough to know to look about me when the dreams happen, that a disturbance in the Force sends ripples like a shockwave, and I have had far too much disturbed sleep for there to be peace in the galaxy.”

Qui-Gon nodded, slowly. “Something like the plot to start a civil war would be enough?” he asked.

“When in conjunction with our finding of the Chosen One? WIth the emergence of that Sith on Tatooine?” Obi-Wan’s voice had a fair share of incredulity.

Qui-Gon blinked. “You think they’re connected? Young Anakin and all of this?

Obi-Wan folded his arms, placing his hands in his sleeves to hide his fists. “It’s always connected.”

In his previous travels through this horrible period of waiting, Obi-Wan had spent his time either in solo meditation, with the pilots, or, embarrassingly, sulking about the fight he had with Qui-Gon. He was surprised, this time, to have his solitude interrupted later that day by Padme herself. Divested from her royal persona, she was draped once more in sunset robes, and stood out against the softer colors of the ships hull.

It had been ages since Obi-Wan had spearheaded a campaign, a whole lifetime behind him, and he had been attempting to meditate, to gently tease out and unpick his tactical skills from the blood-sharp memories of his men. His ears were still ringing with the phantom sound of cannon fire. It wasn’t going particularly well.

Padme stopped before him, a step further away than was customary and, half in his past, he nearly greeted Padme far too warmly, teasing her about a sudden return to formality. Oddly enough, it was her hesitation — so unlike her, unlike any of the handmaidens, really — that captured his attention even as some part of his mind wondered if that same trademark decisiveness was trained into the elected monarchy, or if the handmaidens were copying Padme specifically.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, a gentle tease ready to put her at ease, but — oh — she looked so young, and yet so entirely like herself. Perhaps it was the fire living in her eyes, or maybe it was the durasteel in her spine, but he could see his dear friend so clearly echoed in her younger face. Only long years of practice allowed the correct words to leave his mouth. “How may I be of service?”

Padme studied him, and Obi-Wan wondered for a moment what, exactly, she saw. He knew that his reflection, for all that it had been his for years, no longer matched what he expected to see: there were no lines on his face, no dark spots where the sun had burned and the skin had peeled, only to burn again. His hair was still red and in the cut of tradition, rather than sun-bleached blonde in the shaggy cut of necessity. His features were still hounded by a youth that would eventually drive him to grow a beard before his body was fully able — a beard he missed dearly and would be growing back the moment he was able.

Could she see that his eyes were too old for his face?

Padme shifted, a small motion that opened her throat. It was a familiar mannerism, a way to clear one’s throat without coughing. “The Queen has tasked me to oversee the cooperation of our efforts,” she said, with the singular authority of someone who assumed their way would be taken. Obi-Wan would comment, but he knew now that all the handmaidens talked this way.

He leaned back, to face her more fully, and this time couldn’t help the tease.

“And on what does the Queen wish us to cooperate?”

Padme blinked, as if Obi-Wan were being surprisingly dense. “Battle plans.”

“What makes you assume that I have any?” Obi-Wan asked, mild. It was a tone Cody had hated, and were he present, he would already have affected the posture that Obi-Wan knew meant he was rolling his eyes hard enough that they might just roll right out of his head. The pang that followed the memory was enough to make Obi-Wan sit straight. “Very well.” He gestured at the space across from him in invitation.

“Let’s begin with what you have,” he said.

It was a blessing, he thought, that he wasn’t repeating his first trip down to the planet’s surface. Or his first time meeting the Gungans.

Some things truly only need to be experienced once.

Revealed, Padme took on the posture and poise of Amidala, and Obi-Wan felt something familiar slot back into place. This was the bearing he remembered, the assurity that stayed with her well past the end of her term as monarch. Watching her check the blaster she slung at her him was almost deja vu.

Folding his arms, Obi-Wan stroked a beard he no longer had, and the smooth skin against his fingertips was startling. It was enough to remind him that no one would be coming to him for orders, and if he were to contribute as asked, he would need to seek out the others. With a nod at Qui-Gon to join him, they moved to join Padme and Captain Panaka.

Panaka was frowning down at the map Padme had pulled up. “Your Highness, this is a battle I do not think we can win.”

“We don’t need to win,” Obi-Wan said, and froze, realizing that he had been speaking out of turn once more. Padme had invited him to participate in the strategy discussion. Her grin had been quite cheeky when she added the queen’s desire to “take advantage of his strategic brain.” It had been a good thing that he had been able to find time to meditate that morning; working with Padme again was uncanny.

“Exactly,” Padme said, agreeing. “The battle is a diversion, Panaka. We need to get back into the capital.” She looked at Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon. “What do you think, Master Jedi?”

Qui-Gon frowned. “The Viceroy will be well guarded,” he said, and Obi-Wan bit his tongue. The Viceroy was important, yes, but by the time they reached him, his guards would be the least of their worries.

The flicker of irritation surprised him, and Obi-Wan took a moment to chase the feeling back to its origin. To his surprise, he found himself thinking of the first months of the war. The Jedi were diplomats and scholars, not soldiers and strategists, and that cost them early on. The Jedi were very good at planning battles that went off the rails at engagement, and were slow to correct. Those Jedi that succeeded were the ones to lean on their men, to take their advice and their training and understanding as the expertise it was. Qui-Gon’s focus on the Viceroy was not a major error, but it was the sort of mis-focus that could get men killed. More, some part of Obi-Wan felt that Qui-Gon should have known that, somehow.

Captain Panaka seemed to take it with better grace. “The difficulty's getting into the throne room. Once we're inside, we shouldn't have a problem.”

Qui-Gon was still frowning. They had gone back to quoting now that Obi-Wan was being silent, deep in thought. He was pulled back to the present moment when Padme spoke:

‘We have a plan which should immobilize the Droid Army. We will send
what pilots we have to knock out the Droid control ship which is orbiting
the planet. If we can get past their rayshields, we can sever communication
and their droids will be helpless.

“Once the pilots take out the control ship to break the signal to the clankers, the battle is over,” Obi-Wan said, wishing that it would be that easy. “The difficulty will be getting past their shields. They’re strong, but they overlap, and there are weak points — windows just large enough for a fighter to penetrate if they catch it.” Perversely, he found himself wishing for an ion cannon. That would take care of the shields around the control ship. “It will be difficult, but it is possible.” For a Jedi anyway. For Anakin. “By then, we should have control of the Viceroy.”

Padme nodded, resolute. “We must not fail to get to the Viceroy. Everything depends on it.”

This time, Obi-Wan convinces Qui-Gon not to run ahead. When the blast door open, Qui-Gon refuses to engage. He stands in the doorway, holding Maul off as Obi-Wan races forward.

When the blast shields engage, Maul is caught with them. Qui-Gon dies. Maul dies. Obi-Wan dies.

Obi-Wan wakes in the bunk of the Queen’s cruiser, and screams into his pillow. He spends this loop barely speaking, voice a sprained rasp.

The thirteenth loop, Obi-wan borrowed a blaster from the arsenal, ignoring the looks he got from Panaka. Qui-Gon simply looked at him with a narrowing of his eyes that meant “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

When Maul appeared, Obi-Wan fired without ever reaching for his lightsaber. Maul deflected the bolt, but was thrown off enough for Obi-Wan to run him through.

In his last act, Maul hurled his saber. Qui-Gon dodged, and it should have been the end of it. It should have been the end, but as Maul died, the darkness surged, catching the severed handle, and sending it back. Qui-Gon once more fell, a saber through his core.

Obi-Wan screamed.

By the twenty-seventh loop, Obi-Wan was screaming. “What do you want?!” He bellowed at Maul through the red panes of the generator shields.

“The end of the Jedi,” Maul growled, his voice shockingly young.

The shields fell and Obi-Wan attacked. As Maul fell down the shaft, surprised to be in at least two pieces, Obi-Wan stared after him, numb.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Obi-Wan muttered, and went to tend, again, to Qui-Gon’s dying wish.

He stopped counting, after that.

One loop, after everything went spectacularly, incandescently wrong — again — he resolved to cut straight to the source. He would kill Anakin and eliminate that variable. It would land Obi-Wan in prison forever, if he were not simply executed, but Sidious’s plans would not have succeeded as they had without the Chosen One by his side.

But, even as he made his plans, he knew this down to his very marrow, there would never be a timeline where Obi-Wan Kenobi would kill Anakin Skywalker.

So, instead of striking him down where he stood, wide-eyed and young and not-yet-trusting, but not-yet-afraid, a walking shatterpoint of possibility, Obi-Wan left. He turned heel and walked into the jungles of Naboo. Behind him, he heard the battle like distant thunder, but he walked and walked until he sat down and fell asleep.

He woke on the cruiser. He lay on his bunk and stared up at the ceiling for a long, long time.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling of the Queen’s cruiser. Again. His breath hitched, caught on a shuddering inhale, and was released in a sigh that went down to his sand-weary toes.

How many loops had it been now? He tried to remember, to think back to when he could number his attempts to change events, to save Qui-Gon and break the loop. He had tried and tried and tried, and he had failed.

He had failed

“I have tried,” he said aloud to the ghost of Yoda echoing in his ears. “I cannot do. So, I must do not.”

With that, he rolled over and went back to sleep. The universe could take care of itself this time.

Time bent in that way time had when in between sleeping and waking, when seconds turned syrupy slow, only to flash by in an instant. Obi-Wan’s thoughts raced and crawled. How much time had passed in the future while he had spent days in the past? If this ever ended, would he wake in the same moment he left? Was he falling, still? Would he wake before he hit the ground? Had he landed, already? His chest ached — a phantom sensation, thrown back though time with him? It felt an awful lot like heartbreak.

Was he truly in the future? Or was this simply a vision? Was the passing of time simply a side-effect of his mind processing his life, his failures, the endless parade of “what ifs” that had haunted him, lingering behind his dreams? Would the adept find him, his body, while his mind was in the past? Had the adept also been thrown into the past?

Obi-Wa frowned, briefly. It was Maul that he was facing, again and again. He knew it. He had faced that bastard often enough to recognize his Force signature. No - it was Maul, again and again.

Would a Jedi temple even give such an obvious darksider a knighting vision? What would it mean if it did? More, what would it mean if the adept passed? Was the Lothal temple even a Jedi temple anymore?

Hours, minutes, eons later the door opened. (The door was always going to open). Qui-Gon filled the doorway. (Qui-Gon would always come for him; there was not yet a reality Obi-Wan had seen where Qui-Gon had not been tied to him, linked so inextricably). His presence filled the room, a deep ocean come to lap with gentle waves on Obi-Wan’s sandy shores.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes. He had no idea what Qui-Gon saw in them, couldn’t muster up the energy to put on the facade, couldn’t drum up the fucks to give. He was tired, and far too old for this. (He felt like an infant).

Qui-Gon’s eyes, that rich and fathomless blue, like the crystal waters of Scariff, held no understanding, but such a wealth of compassion that Obi-Wan felt the first of many long-withheld tears leak from the corner of his eye, slip silently down his temple, to soak the pillow where it met his hair.

He watched with hungry eyes as Qui-Gon entered the room, the door silently sliding closed behind him, and knelt carefully at Obi-Wan’s bedside.

As a padawan in truth, Obi-Wan would have seen his deliberation and read censure - he always was his own harshest critic - but now Obi-Wan saw the motion for what it was. He, too, had knees entering their fifth decade.

He laughed, low and rough. The sound startled Qui-Gon, but not as much as Obi-Wan himself. With a mental shrug, he let himself smile wryly and say, “that’ll be hell to pay on your knees later.”

Qui-Gon blinked at him, and then huffed a small laugh. “That is a problem for future me,” he said, and frowned when Obi-Wan flinched. “Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan laughed, a small, sad chuckle, like the poorest of desert dirt. “I have seen many futures, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan said, and clutched his chest, as if he could hold the pieces of his breaking heart together by sheer force. “And you live to see none of them.”

Frown deepening, Qui-Gon said, “The future is always in motion,” but there was an odd echo of doubt behind his words.

“Even rivers will flow around rocks,” Obi-Wan said, and covered his face with his hands. His breath was obvious against them, hot and humid and visceral in a way that should have anchored him here. Instead, he felt untethered, like a balloon about to be lost to the sky.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said, and like always he was the stone that Obi-Wan crashed against. “Tell me.”

So...he did. Really, what did he have to lose?

Obi-Wan talked for a long time, long enough for his throat to go hot and dry, to cough for need of water. Qui-Gon fetched him some without a word, and Obi-Wan propped himself up on a weary arm to drink it down. He spoke of the next few hours, days, weeks. His story stretched over time, covering years until it condensed back down again to days, weeks, months that felt like days and hours that felt like years. He spoke of Qui-Gon’s death at Maul’s hands, of Obi-Wan’s knighting ceremony that was also Anakin’s padawan choosing. He spoke of years together, learning and growing as brothers until they were as inseparable as Tatooine's suns.

He spoke of losing a planet, of finding it, and Jango Fett, and an army bred to be weapons.

“The problem with having a weapon,” Obi-Wan said quietly, “Is that it becomes so easy to use.”

He spoke more sparingly of the War, of the constant damned futility of it — of the honor and bravery of his men, and the betrayal, the violation that had them turning on the Jedi.

He could not speak of the end of the Order, but from the whiteness of Qui-Gon’s face, he knew he was understood.

Obi-Wan paused, and then spoke of Anakin, yellow-eyed and strange. He spoke of Padme, of the injury and the birth and her death that still made no sense. He spoke of the twins, of his journey to Tatooine with baby Luke, of visiting the family of Shmi to return her grandson to the sands, to grow in safety from the Emperor, even if not in safety from Tatooine itself. He spoke of his post, his remote sentinelship.

He sighed and spoke of Bail, and a trip to Lothal, and a chase by an Adept.

“You had to open the temple,” Qui-Gon said. It was the first thing he had said since his initial request. “It takes two, a Master and a padawan.”

Obi-Wan smiled, wan. “I had you, master.”

Qui-Gon reached out, weaving their fingers together. “You have me, still.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, the smile stretching further across his face. “I’m tired, Qui-Gon. Lay with me?”

Qui-Gon’s breath caught, and Obi-Wan counted his heartbeats. “Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon murmured, a desire. A warning. Yearning.

It had grown between them, this unspoken understanding, now for years. Longer still, for Obi-Wan, for all that he was the only one around to tend to this flame, flickering small but never extinguished. Every lingering look, every indulging touch. It wasn’t at the forefront even most of the time, but it was there, as sure as the Force was everywhere, in the background, waiting.

It had happened before, Masters and their Padawans turning lovers after a knighting. Usually, however, it was years after. Not like this, when Obi-Wan still wore his braid.

That the braid was a technicality of time period and not a reflection of his power, understanding, or lived experience was, of course, a new enough factor that Obi-Wan wasn’t hurt by Qui-Gon’s hesitation. But he was tired. He felt so very old, heartsick and scraped raw by his failures. He wanted a comfort he had never been able to have.

“Please,” Obi-Wan said, quiet, and held out a hand, palm up.

Qui-Gon took it, palm warm and dry.

It was a tight fit, the two of them in the bunk, but Obi-Wan wriggled around until he was lying mostly on top of Qui-Gon’s shoulder, Qui-Gon wrapped around him in return, as if it was not for their grip on each other, they would both fall from the bunk.

So secured, Obi-Wan let himself drift back to sleep. There would be time to talk when he woke.

“Master Kenobi!”

The voice was unfamiliar to him, and Obi-Wan flinched out of instinct, even as the warm presence of a light-side Knight dropped next to him. Competent hands touched his head, his heart, and he felt that presence’s Force sense run over him. It was a much less efficient method than they had developed over the war, when they had to sacrifice thoroughness for speed, and that was enough to let Obi-Wan force his eyes open. If he was unconscious, they might still be in danger—

Obi-Wan was not, as he thought, on a battlefield. He was in a room, a great room with smooth stone walls, seemingly carved out of the inside of a mountain. He lay on woven mats, not the most comfortable to be at such an angle as he lay, but better than bare, dusty stone.

Blinking, Obi-Wan focused on the presence next to him, and had to restrain himself to reacting as two ideas crashed into him simultaneously;

He was no longer on the Queen’s ship. The loop had ended.
He recognized this presence as Knight Elysar, the Temple keeper who had assisted when Anakin was fifteen and they had come to Lothal looking for answers.

For a moment, Obi-Wan was deeply afraid that he had escaped one loop only to find himself in another, but when he sat up and placed a hand to his head, Knight Elysar hovering, Obi-Wan discovered that his hair was short, as he had worn it on Tatooine, and his boots were the red leather he had favored after joining the Jedi Council.

“I’m alright,” Obi-Wan said. It came out slightly winded and a little pained, but it didn’t feel like a lie. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Knight Elysar said. “Everyone’s been looking for you — you were supposed to meet your partner at the front gates over an hour ago. You’re lucky I saw you here. These rooms aren’t often used.”

Obi-Wan gestured his intention to sit up, and Knight Elysar hovered as he did so, palm bracing the air inched behind Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades, ready to catch him if he slipped.

“If I were to hazard a guess,” Obi-Wan said, blinking away the sparkles in his vision that meant he should probably eat sooner rather than later, “I would say that the Temple had something rather urgent to tell me.” He raised a hand to his temple, pressing gently to feel the shape of the developing bruise. He had landed hard, hadn’t he? Obi-Wan met Knight Elysar’s eyes, and dredged up a rueful smile. “Message received.”

Knight Elysar bit his lip for a moment. “We should probably take a trip to the healers — you were unconscious, and we don’t know for how long.”

Obi-Wan didn’t say that he had been hit on the head before, and in worse circumstances. By the end of the war, if your eyes didn’t cross to shoot straight and you could remember your own name, you kept fighting — and right now? Obi-Wan was back in the Lothal Temple, and no matter what it currently looked like, until he could be sure the Sith Adept was no longer a threat, he had to consider himself a hunted man.

“I’m alright,” Obi-Wan said, and nodded at Knight Elysar’s hand, though he wasn’t sure which hand had been pressed to his forehead. “As I’m sure your aware. Trust your insight.”

Knight Elysar wasn’t at all happy, but even in this reality, the word of a Master could outweigh a Knight, and he relented. He did insist on helping Obi-Wan stand, which Obi-Wan allowed graciously, and on walking him out, which Obi-Wan appreciated. Wrapping his robe around himself (and oh, wasn’t it a delight to find that he was currently in possession of a robe), Obi-Wan followed the Knight at an automatic half-step, one reserved for when a lower rank assisted a higher. The protocol came surprisingly easy; even before the end, most Jedi had dropped protocol in the field. (For some, like Obi-Wan, it was a necessity to adapt, instead, to military protocol. Others, like Anakin, had thrown away protocol gladly). But here, now, it was almost as if his feet remembered before the rest of him, unbroken habit guiding him through unfamiliar circumstances.

Only, they weren’t unfamiliar. Obi-Wan recognized the Temple-as-it-is from his own padawan days. The faces weren’t exactly the same, many new, several older, but everything from the tapestries to the quality of light, to the dust that floated through the sunbeams, reminded Obi-Wan of his world-as-it-was.

With a growing suspicion, Obi-Wan took a deep breath, and reached out with his senses.

He staggered, keeping his feet only by luck of long practice.

Life. The galaxy was teeming with it, Jedi numbering in the tens of thousands — far more than were killed in the purge, than existed at their height in Obi-Wan’s lifetime. He could feel his eyes grow wet, his heart overwhelmed.

“Master Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan turned, focusing on [I need a name]’s face. “I’m alright,” he said, quietly. “Let’s move on.”

Oh, please. Whatever all-powerful entities might exist in this world, let this not be a dream.

The door was open as they approached, letting the late morning sunshine pour in, warm and thick like golden syrup. A breeze blew, cool and rich, and Obi-Wan paused to soak it in, the deep, resonating peace of this planet, like Lothal hadn’t known in decades. How had he missed this?

“Obi-Wan.”

It wasn’t a surprise, in the end, to hear Qui-Gon’s voice. In a way, Obi-Wan had been expecting it since [I need a name] had mentioned an unnamed partner. Opening his eyes, he saw Qui-Gon standing in the doorway.

He was older than when Obi-Wan had seen him last, minutes and decades ago. His hair was the most notable change, it being far more grey than it had been, though it was still thick and full on his head. His beard was now fully white, though his eyes were still as intense a blue as ever, smiling out from his weathered face.

Obi-Wan smiled back, and only then did he notice the clothing, a more modern style of Jedi robe, one adopted in the last years before the war, and the full leg brace that wrapped around his left leg from ankle to knee to hip. It looked almost organic, for all it was chrome plated, and when Qui-Gon stepped forward, it was without the hitch that usually accompanied standard-issue prosthetics. Obi-Wan blinked. He would recognize Anakin’s handiwork anywhere.

“Ah,” Qui-Gon said, the warm, amused presence coming closer and filling the space between them. It was all Obi-Wan could do to not lean into it — the state he was in, he might fall over. “I had wondered when you would remember.”

“Remember?” Obi-Wan cried, looking up in surprise. “It’s only just happened!”

“For you,” Qui-Gon said, and held out his hands. Obi-Wan took them without a thought. “For me it has been twenty-four years.”

“Twenty-four years,” Obi-Wan repeated, and now that he said it, he could almost feel them, the memories, distant and hazy and threatening one hell of a headache if he didn’t try to pace himself. He pushed them away for now. There would be time for them. “Tell me? How did I...” stop it? How did I save you?

Qui-Gon smiled. “You asked for help,” he said. “When the time came, I...waited for you. We beat him together.”

Obi-Wan glanced down at the leg again and knew that, even then, it had been close. He squeezed Qui-Gon’s fingers, and Qui-Gon gripped him back, grounding.

“Come on,” he said. “We have to leave now if we’re to make it to Naboo.”

The world titled unsteadily, and Obi-Wan dug in his heels. “And why are we heading to Naboo?”

Qui-Gon grinned. “For the twins’ birthday, of course. Padme would hunt us both down if her children’s favorite uncles weren’t present for their first decade celebration.”

“The first decade celebration is important,” Obi-Wan answered, automatic, before the words sunk in. “The twins!”

“Come on,” Qui-Gon said again, raising Obi-Wan’s hand to kiss his fingers, warm, affectionate, and practiced. “ I’ll fill you in on the way.”

Obi-Wan went.