Chapter Text
He’s still dirty.
There’s dirt under his fingernails, probably some blood too. The tunic hanging off of his body was probably clean when he pulled it out of the bag Master Qui-Gon gave him before he went in the fresher. It’s the cleanest thing he’s worn in months, and he’s dirtied it in two seconds. The sonic shower had shaken loose some of the filth, but not enough. It might never be enough.
“You’re thinking very loudly, Padawan.”
He looks over to Master Qui-Gon. His master is just outside of the open doorway, and Obi-Wan appreciates not being crowded. He woke last night from a nightmare of blood, dirt, and the silence echoing through the sewers. The emaciated tiny bodies stacked three deep in the coldest part of the tunnels. Hoping and praying to the Force that tonight would be the night that he could carry them up to the surface one by one and give them a proper burial. Hoping that the cold would keep them from smelling too badly. They were just so small and none of it was fair. He woke fitfully with the bulkhead so close above him and the smell of the sewers still in his mouth and down his throat.
And his Master, Force love him, had thought it was the same as before; just another nightmare that younglings had. He’d rushed up from his own bunk across the room and reached around Obi-Wan with his long, long arms. Arms that definitely weren’t Cerasi’s or Nield’s. Weren’t short enough to be one of the freezing younglings clinging to him for warmth. The only people with arms that long and that big were adults.
Obi-Wan had reacted badly.
He adjusts the tunic over his body, it doesn’t sit right with all of the weight he’s lost, and scans over his master’s bruised eye quickly before looking anywhere else and taking one large shaky breath.
“I’m sorry Master. I’ll try to strengthen my shields. It’s been so long and I just forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll meditate-“
”No, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon interrupts and Obi-Wan thinks that maybe there’s a flicker of something in the Force around the man, but he can’t parse it. It’s been too long since he’s had anyone project any emotions but of fear and desperation. Or bloodlust.
Master Jinn takes a fraction of a step forward. The only thing that keeps it from being a lean is the movement of his feet.
“I don’t mean to say that you can’t or shouldn’t - I think that it’s best that we put this whole thing behind us, but that doesn’t mean that you have to do it right away. And I’m going to be here the entire time, until you’re better.”
He wonders when his Master wants him to be past this memory. If he’s still having nightmares next week, will that be met with another hug or disdain? What will happen the next time they spar and his mind can’t remember that he’s not fighting for his life?
There’s a bacta patch, small and unassuming, under Master Jinn’s eye. He must have broken the skin last night.
He swallows and talks to the wall beside Master Jinn’s head, “They told us, in the Crèche, about the different paths we could take as Jedi. When they told us about the Knight Corps I was so sure that I was being called by the Force for this service.”
If he didn’t feel so numb, he might cry. Instead, his throat seems to close as he tries to continue, “But I don’t know anymore.”
“Oh, Padawan.” Master Jinn is there beside him now, towering over him. He didn’t see the older man move and flinches instinctively.
”I’m so sorry,” Jinn says as he kneels down next to Obi-Wan. He reaches out but stops just before touching Obi-Wan. “I wish I were a better master for you, or that I knew what to say to make you better.”
Waves of emotions pour off of Master Jinn. It’s the closest he’s ever felt to the other man. There’s nothing between their Force signatures. For the first time, he finally understands his Master as a man.
It’s all so awful. The last year, the last few months, this moment. It’s all too much and he can’t deal with the grief and suffering. He can’t handle the sudden understanding of the humanity of the man in front of him.
And even though there’s nothing to do about the past, he can help his Master now.
He rests a hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder and swallows the voice in the back of his mind that screams at him that this is an adult, that he’s not safe, to run.
“It’s okay Master. I’ll be okay.” Qui-Gon puts a hand on Obi-Wan’s and it makes him want to vomit, to scream, to cry.
“But I don’t think I can fight anymore. I don’t want to.”
Qui-Gon nods like he has all of the answers, ”I know. I promise we’ll take a break from missions. You can focus on your studies and we’ll get over this together.”
But it’s not enough. It won’t be enough for him to feel safe again. He knows now, outside of the war zone and the slave collar, that he’s not meant to be a Padawan.
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When they get back to the Temple on Coruscant, Obi-Wan still feels numb. On the darkest nights on Melidaan, when there were no more plans to be made and he was fighting sleep to maintain watch, he used to think about coming back to the temple. He always imagined it differently though he can’t say how; warmer, softer maybe.
He hasn’t told Master Jinn his decision yet. He likes the schedule they’ve fallen into and isn’t ready to give that up. For now, he’s just getting through each day. He goes to his classes, spends time with his age mates, and meditates with Master Jinn. Then he wakes up and does it all over again.
At night, when he finally gives up on sleep, he wanders the temple. More often than not he finds that his feet take him to the same spot each night no matter what route he takes.
The crèche is quiet at night. Most of the temple is, but the Force is comforting in its quiet here. He doesn’t mean to, but he starts falling asleep in random places around the Crèche halls. He manages not to get noticed, but the early mornings and late nights start to take their toll and he gets sloppy.
The first morning, a group of initiates, maybe six or seven, find him slumped in the doorway of the solarium. They’re all giggles and shy-happy energy; most of them haven’t fully given up on expressing it physically and some of them try to hide behind their hands. It’s a wonderful way to wake up, but approaching steps tell him that a CrecheMaster is not far away. He rubs the crumbs of sleep from his eyes and holds a finger over his mouth to ask for their silence as he sneaks away. When he looks back, they’re all waving goodbye to him.
The second time he wakes up in the crèche, Master Tyvokka is there. The wookie is running one large paw over his hair and down his back. It’s the first time an adult has touched him in weeks and the first time in a long time that he doesn’t jerk himself into awareness. He dozes for a few minutes before making an awkward exit.
It’s the third time, when he wakes up in the quiet corner of a classroom to see Master Yoda waiting for him, that he knows these visits are coming to an end.
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Yoda takes him to the refractory first where they both pick up a warm tea. They make their way to Yoda’s own quarters at the Grandmaster’s insistence. The warmth of the tea seeps through the mugs keeping him grounded despite the rising panic.
He spent a lot of time in Master Yoda’s rooms as an initiate. More often serving out some punishment than a friendly visit. He spent more time here as an initiate than he has as a member of Yoda’s lineage.
The blend of tea that the Temple uses is strong and earthy. Most Padawans and Initiates are restricted from the blend because of the caffeine content. As a Stewjoni, he’s given special access because of his genetically higher tolerance to stimulants like caffeine. He remembers feeling so superior to his crèche clan during meals when the rest of them were relegated to milk or water.
It was important to him, then, that he looked older. As if his preference for one beverage over another would show a Master that he was ready to be a Padawan. He hadn’t even really liked the taste. Even now, the taste is more familiar than good.
He settles on his knees across a short table from Master Yoda and puts all of his attention on the earthy tea. He’s sure he’s in trouble; maybe if he hadn’t been so stupid and gotten caught he wouldn’t be here.
Master Yoda is watching him with a placid expression, but his Force signature rubs up against Obi-Wan’s with concern.
”Many stories, have I heard, of your nighttime visits to the crèche.”
His stomach drops and he can feel his lip begin to quiver with anxiety. He’s never heard of a Padawan or an Initiate being caught sleeping outside of their rooms before. Quinlan used to wake him up to drag him out of their dorm in the crèche all the time to pull pranks or sneak around the temple halls early in the quiet hours, but they never stayed out the entire night.
“I’m sorry Master Yoda.”
A tug on his padawan braid makes him look up. Master Yoda smiles at him across the table.
“Sorry, you are. What for?”
”For - I was out of my room all night.”
”Hmmm. Against the rules, that is?”
The question brings Obi-Wan out of his spiral. Of course, being out of his room all night is against the rules. Isn’t it?
”Given to you, these rules were? Or made them up for yourself did you?”
“They were-“-
He stops himself before he says something incorrect in front of Master Yoda. There are rules. Or atleast, there were rules when he was still an Initiate. He remembers being assigned to help Master Nu in the archives for being in the training salles by himself. But that was when he was still in the Crèche.
Now that he’s a Padawan, Master Qui-Gon is responsible for his discipline and rules that he has to follow. Atleast, that’s what he assumes. That’s what all of his other friend’s Masters do. Master Qui-Gon hasn’t. Truthfully, they’ve barely talked about anything besides his training and how much he has to do to catch up.
So, it’s not actually a rule. Master Jinn hadn’t ever explicitly given him a curfew. But, now that he’s a Padawan, it’s only right for him to hold himself to a higher standard than he was held as an initiate. Doesn’t he have to be better to earn his place here?
“It doesn’t matter, Master. I should know better than to disturb the initiates and Masters of the crèche. It won’t happen again.” He takes a sip of the rapidly cooling tea to hide the disappointment that he knows is obvious on his face, another thing for him to feel insecure about.
Jedi aren’t unfeeling. He knows that every member of the order has emotions; can feel them in the force, but they don’t show it. There’s no reason to look anything other than serene when everyone around you can understand you through the Force better than they would otherwise.
It’s something that he’s always struggled with. Most of the initiates he grew up with had the same issue, but even those that came to the temple late eventually shucked off the habit of visually expressing their emotions.
“Matter it does. Not feeling safe with your Master anymore, hmm?”
He sits up and leans forward, ready to defend Master Jinn, before he recognizes the bubble of humor in the force and falls back on his heels.
“That’s not a funny joke Grandmaster. Of course I do. It’s just-“ he bites his tongue against what he wants to say. He doesn’t know why; he’s known Master Yoda his entire life. There are holos of him following the green man around before he was old enough to be taken into the crèche, when the temple bound Masters would take turns caring for him. He’s never had an issue talking to him.
“I don't know what I want to do, Master. I spent so long trying to become a Padawan just for my first two missions off planet to be awful.”
Yoda nods and asks, “Hrrmmm. Expecting something different, were you?”
“Not different, Master. Just, not this. All of the stories they told us in the Crèche made it seem like the universe was better. Less scary.” It’s humbling to prostrate himself like this, but it’s all he knows to do. If he can voice his problems, he knows that Master Yoda can fix it somehow.
”Expectations, to disappointment, often lead.” It’s said with a push of comfort, understanding. But beneath that there’s a sharper emotion. Something that feels like disapproval or reprimand.
They’re not unfamiliar emotions, not with his history, but they’ve never felt so soft. It’s like there’s a sad, embarrassed, ashamed dulling the other emotions. And they’re not toward him. But then who-?
”Pushed too hard, I did. Covetous of your position in my lineage, I was. Failed you and your Master, in my greed.”
This is starting to get off on a path he’s not comfortable with. He’s supposed to be getting in trouble, not getting a - Is this an apology? - from Master Yoda. What does one do when the GrandMaster of the order (apologizes?) admits he was wrong.
Yoda stands, leaning heavily on the table, and makes his way to a shelf against the far wall where there are several datapads all resting in dusty disuse. His claws hover over them one by one until he pulls one off of the shelf. He brushes some of the dust off of it before bringing it to the table and sitting down again.
“Master Quarmall, all of the council too, should we contact after done here, we are.”
The only Master Quarmall Obi-Wan knows of is the one who told him about his posting with the Agricorps. The one on the Council of Reassignment. The council that decides what happens to initiates that don’t get picked to become Padawans. Master Yoda is giving up on him.
His heart is rabbiting in his chest, but he resolves to handle this with the decorum of the Jedi Knight that he’ll never become.
“I understand Master,” he has to swallow hard around the lump in his throat. “I only hope my request not to be sent to Bandomeer will be heard by the council.”
Yoda taps the datapad with his clawed hand. “Send you away, I will not allow. Discover your next path, the two of us will do together.” He slides the datapad across the table.
Obi-Wan can’t help his curiosity, or his relief, as he picks it up. Yoda nods and sends him his approval.
The tablet has a list of files sorted alphabetically in Dai Bendu. He reads through it and slowly comes to a realization. Titles like ‘sentinel’, ‘artisan’, ‘sage’, ‘investigator’, and ‘archivist’ swim past his eyes and only cause more questions. He clicks on one that says ‘beastmaster’ and reads through the passage.
Jedi Masters who exhibit proficiency with controlling the mind of beasts are often awarded the title of BeastMaster. Traditionally, this title was awarded within the Temple to one Master who oversaw the care, upkeep, and husbandry of the Temple’s cache of animals for both leisure and performance.
The role of Hunter and the habit of keeping Akk dogs as working animals for the Order fell out of fashion and so too did the true position of a BeastMaster of the order become obsolete; though other factors, like the convenience of readily available food for purchase, also played a large part.
Obi-Wan looks away from the tablet to see “Master Yoda. Is this a - am I allowed to see this?”
Master Yoda stands and makes his way to the kitchenette. Laughter lingering behind him.
”Many things we have lost to time. Ask me any questions, you may. Many of these roles, unfilled for years have been.”
He backs out of the file and reviews the list again.
Keeper of Antiquities
Curiosity had him click the file, but he backed after the first line. “Stationed within the Jedi Academy of Archaeology on the planet Ossus…” It was definitely a failing of his to hold such a deep connection to Coruscant, but he desperately wanted to stay if he could. And if he was right, Master Yoda was giving him options. He would take advantage of this chance.
Security Force.
He skipped past that one quickly. He was still bored from his last rotation on gate duty. He knows that the Security Force monitors the security of the Temple, but they also assist the police force on Coruscant with crowd control and solving crimes. The knights who didn’t narrow their studies supplied nighttime security and slept during the day unless called upon. If he didn’t want to be nocturnal, he’d have to specialize as an Investigator or Sniper.
Hunter.
“Hunters are specialized Seekers often called to planets to track and neutralize dangerous creatures terrorizing civilizations.” No, thank you. Too gruesome. And it’s a little too soon for him to think about leaving the Temple again.
Quartermaster.
He knew one of the current quartermasters well; she was a member of another branch of Yoda’s lineage. The team supplied Wanderers, Consulars, Security Force, even younglings with everything that they needed on or off planet. He knows it’s an important role in the order. It would keep him on-planet, but there was no passion for him in maintaining stock, ships, and speeders.
Botanist
That’s a quick no. He has a serviceable aptitude for the living Force, but he will never be anything with farming again if he can help it. The classes on botany in the Academy had always been utter failures for him.
Crèche Minder and under that CrècheMaster
And that’s- Well that’s something. He has nothing but good memories with the minders in the Crèche. It’s not a flashy position; it’s hardly staffed, most Minders being Senior Padawans pressed into service between missions and classes at the Academy. It comes with little or no guidance from what he can see in the description. The purpose of the Minders is not to teach the younglings; their only purpose is to make sure that the younglings are cared for, clean, fed, and washed.
His mind conjures up memories of small dirty bodies huddled together for warmth under the one blanket that wasn’t ripped apart for bandages. The youngest of the Young, those that had been dragged away from their parents by older siblings because they couldn’t understand why they had to leave, had always tugged at his heartstrings the most. He was the one who always argued against Cerasi and Nield’s insistence that they were able to go on runs. That they would be safest if they got caught because they knew the least.
There’s a throb behind his ribs, an emotion too strong for him to hold but too difficult for him to send into the Force. He can’t help those children anymore than he already has. He can’t say that he misses MeliDaan, but he misses the children. Misses their innocence in the Force, their smiles when he brought back food, the tiny cold feet pressed against his back or legs or even his face.
Master Yoda has returned with a pot of tea during his impromptu meditation, so Obi-Wan sets down the tablet and refills his own cup. He has a decision to make. Never mind that his heart is set already. He has to make sure; he won’t get another chance like this.
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Obi-Wan bows low. His things have already been removed from Master Jinn’s apartment. This is the only thing left to do before he starts his new role.
“I-“ He clears his throat and tries again.
“Thank you for taking a chance on me Master Jinn. I’m sorry that I won’t be able to follow your teachings anymore.”
Master Jinn’s sour anger, frustration, grief is thick between them for a moment before the other man clamps down on his emotions, but he doesn’t say anything.
Obi-Wan straightens and leaves.
The walk to the Crèche is lonely.
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The group waiting for him in the Crèche is full of joy, acceptance, happiness, hope. There are twelve permanent residents of the Crèche. Twelve Knights and Masters from whom he will spend the next few years learning all he can.
He had expected a certain level of tolerance or acceptance at most. It was too much to hope that he would actually be welcomed.
They take turns introducing themselves. Obi-Wan really tries to remember their names, but the buzzing in his ears and the distance he feels from this moment don’t make it easy.
Paval, who introduced herself as Knight Minnau - “But call me Paval, please. No one else will” - shows him the room where they’ve put his things and waits by the door when he sits heavily on the bed.
“I know it’s probably smaller than what you’re used to,” hesitance floats through the Force between them so Obi-Wan smiles to show his gratitude even if he can’t make himself push any emotions right now.
The room is small. A single bed, a two drawer nightstand, and a clothes rack are the only pieces of furniture. Someone has already hung his robes for him.
“We have a shared common area and kitchen. Though none of us really use the kitchen much; not with the refractory down the hall. It’s mostly stocked with tea and easy snacks. The QuarterMasters make sure we’re well stocked, so if you have any favorites just let me, or anyone really, know and it’ll be in the pantry. They even manage to get Blackfruit from Tatooine.”
Obi-Wan nods and takes off his slippers to pull his feet under him, not really listening, but letting the other’s voice soothe the rough edges of the day.
”Every now and then, Master Courte will make dinner from her homeworld. We eat a little later than you’re probably used to since we have to get the younglings down to bed before, but that’s where the snacks come in!”
He can feel himself drifting; not really meditating, but not sleeping either.
“We’ll have to get you some more robes, too. We’ve got a lot more options as permanent Crèche Minders; tan is nice, but not when there’s stains making it look closer to -“
Paval’s hand on his shoulder jerks him out of his drifting state. He looks up at the older man, some fear draining from him at the other’s soft expression.
”It’s been a long day, hasn’t it? Why don’t you lay down and we can talk more when you’re rested.”
Shaking his head, Obi-Wan lets the man guide him into laying down on his new (very soft) bed.
“I have to do… something.” He can’t remember now what it was he was supposed to be doing, but it’s the middle of the day. He can’t sleep in the middle of the day. Paval’s gentle calm, reassurance don’t help with his resolve to get out of bed.
”We have a lot to do. When you’re rested. You’re not alone Obi-Wan; we’re here to take care of you.”
Obi-Wan closes his eyes, if only to hide the tears gathering. Paval takes that as acceptance and pulls away. Obi-Wan grabs for his hand blindly, feeling with the Force. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, too embarrassed at his irrational emotional
Paval holds Obi-Wan’s hands in both of his, “Don’t worry, I’m just getting your blanket. I won’t leave you.”
“-don’t have a-“ Obi-Wan starts to warn but is stopped when a soft, heavy quilt is played on top of him.
Paval starts to tuck the quilt around Obi-Wan and quietly say, “This one is actually a hand-me-down. It was mine and before that it was actually passed around the CrècheMasters for a long time.”
Wiggling one hand free of the quilt, Obi-Wan runs his fingers over the stitching so worn with age they blend into the fabric. Paval is sad grief heartache when he reaches up to run a hand over Obi-Wan’s hair.
“Thank you, Paval.”
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“Alright class, we’ve got a few minutes left until the end of class, so I’m going to do something nice. I’m going to let you go early. Next time, we’ll review the ethics of the decisions made by the Supreme Chancellor and the Jedi High Council during the Great Hyperspace Disaster in the year 3045 LY.” Master Rancisis says to the gathered students. The Thisspiasian closed the hologram projection he’d been using to lecture. At his stature, he was dwarfed by most of his students, so in the clamor of students leaving the room he nearly had to shout to be heard.
”Pada- Kenobi. Stay after for a few minutes.“
Obi-Wan does his best not to look too embarrassed at the request when the Padawans leaving stop in their tracks to look back at him. He ducks his head and makes his way up to the front of the classroom and bows to the short Master.
”Master Rancisis. Is there something wrong?”
Master Rancisis sends peace or reassurance in the Force (those two have always been harder to distinguish between).
“Not wrong, I wanted you to walk with me to the High Council chambers for our meeting.”
Obi-Wan hides his hands in his sleeves so as to not be seen fidgeting.
”I’m afraid that I have a prior appointment with Master Drallig today, Master. We’re starting on the basics of Form II.”
The Master’s laughter in the Force is rumbling and warm, unique in the same way an actual laugh would be. He starts walking in the direction of the High Council chambers, Obi-Wan sighs and follows after him.
”Drallig has you on Form II already? You must be learning quickly.”
Obi-Wan shortens his steps to match the Master’s, “Not at all, Master. I’ve been practicing Form I since I was five years old; I think ten years of training in one Form might make me the slowest learner in the Order.”
That does startle a laugh out of Master Rancisis. Passing Jedi turn their gazes toward the pair, but no strong emotions reach Obi-Wan.
”I won’t keep you long, Obi-Wan,” the man says after regaining his composure, “I know how brutal Master Drallig can be when faced with tardiness. It’s time for you to be done with my class.”
Obi-Wan stops short. Tears well up in his eyes. Master Rancisis notices and turns to face him.
“I don’t understand Master. I’m trying. I - I know that it's a Senior Padawan course, but I thought I was keeping up with the material.”
Master Rancisis sets a warm hand on his arm to guide him into an alcove.
“You are more than keeping up with the material. I’m afraid that I am the problem here, not you. You’ve surpassed what I can teach you in a classroom.”
Wiping at his eyes, Obi-Wan coughs out a quiet, “What?”
”If you stay in my class you will fail to reach your potential. I’d like to start seeing you privately once a week for one on one lessons.”
That’s funny. Not funny, but it makes him want to laugh anyway. What potential? He’s going to be a CrècheMaster. There’s no urgent need for a great philosopher who’s in charge of making sure a group of younglings bathes themselves adequately.
“I’ll think about it, Master. Thank you for your consideration and care that you’ve shown my education.” He bows and turns to leave before the tears can fall in earnest.
Before he leaves the alcove, Master Rancisis calls out to him, “I’ll talk to you about it before the Council meeting tomorrow.”
That makes Obi-Wan pause his urgent attempt to flee.
“You are still coming aren’t you? Your name is still listed as the minute-taker in the agenda.”
There’s a moment of silence and he has to clear his throat before he asks, “I figured that was a one time thing.”
”Apparently not,” Rancisis says as he makes his way past Obi-Wan. “Think about my offer tonight. You will always have a place in my class, but I think you would be doing yourself a great disservice.”
And then the Master and all of his support, warmth, is gone. Obi-Wan’s comm chirps and he curses remembering the time. Even if he runs, he won’t make it in time to avoid the extra reps Master Drallig will make him do for being late.
He runs anyway and considers it a win that he doesn’t manage to knock anyone over.
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Master Dralllig did not go easy on him.
Their training sessions were a part of an unbroken routine for Obi-Wan; every day, twice a day, he spends an hour in the training salles learning, training or planning.
On days where he’s being punished, like today, he spends the first twenty minutes doing pushups and planks until his arms are like jelly.
“For most Jedi,” Master Drallig starts. Obi-Wan groans at the familiar phrase and joins the man as he finishes, “-it is acceptable to master only one form of lightsaber combat.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t groan when Master Drallig squats down next to his head. Sometimes, when Obi-Wan is having trouble, Master Drallig looks enough like Qui-Gon to startle him. It’s laughable considering how different the two actually are.
Master Drallig watches the sweat beading on his forehead and says, “If you’re still able to joke around I must be going too easy on you.”
“Not possible, Master,” Obi-Wan grunts as he lowers himself out of his plank and starts into a push up.
“It must have been the Force that I was hearing then. Too bad. If I had proof that you were memorizing my teachings, I could move on to our next steps.”
The two of them sit in loaded silence. Obi-Wan doesn’t stop the steady pace of his pushups or acknowledge the attempt to back him into a corner. Listening to the same monologue he’s heard a hundred times is better than whatever alternative Master Drallig would come up with.
“No? I’ll start again then,” He stands and starts to circle Obi-Wan.
”For most Jedi, it is acceptable to master only one form of lightsaber combat. You are not most Jedi. The path you are on has put expectations on you that you must rise to meet.”
Obi-Wan stops the pushups and holds a plank. It’s been fifteen minutes and his arms shake with exhaustion.
“You are the last line of defense. You are the last hope for those of us that are the most vulnerable. Because of that, you cannot just know all seven forms enough to train the younglings; you must master all seven to protect them.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t register when his arms give out, just that he’s faceplanted on the soft mat. A cold canteen of water presses against his neck. Master Drallig smiles down at him.
“You have mastered your first form. Today we start your second. Up you get, Kenobi.”
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There are four younglings all looking up at him with Tooka eyes. Which is strange, because they weren’t there a second ago. What’s even stranger is that he’s in the library, the actual library, Master Nu’s library and all but one of these younglings is too young to have unsupervised access.
He looks around the space and just manages to catch the retreating flap of a robe. The barest sense of mischief, humor linger behind. It’s Master Draxen’s signature to be sure. He’s always been something of a soft touch around the younglings. These four, in particular, have been like little turtle-ducks recently; following him around when he helps out with their crèche, sneaking out during naps to rest by him, and (according to the other CrècheMasters) crying for him when he wasn’t there.
Cress’ red eyes and Xreda’s snot tell him that those two are the reason he has company during his study session.
He puts down his datapad and gestures the four of them forward. Xreda is the first that breaks and runs into him, small face hiding in his side and rubbing his snot on Obi-Wan’s robes.
“Hello there.”
They’re too old to still have this strong of an attachment to him. He shouldn't keep encouraging it. Then again, this time is really Master Draxen’s fault. He brought them here.
“Okay, now. What are we doing here, huh?” He asks the group softly.
Trayl, the oldest and the only one who doesn’t show any signs of recently crying, scoffs and crosses her arms.
“The babies didn’t want to listen during class and got us in trouble.”
Anaisis, the youngest, mumbles something behind his thumb. Obi-Wan smiles at him and gently pulls his thumb away from his mouth.
“What did you say, darling?”
He puffs his cheeks out and says loudly, “I’m not a baby!”
Obi-Wan shushes him and quickly looks around.
“I know, ba- darling. That wasn’t a very nice thing for Trayl to say, was it?”
Anaisis shakes his head and turns back to Trayl, “It was not very nice Trayl, so you have to say you’re sorry.”
Cress nods and chimes in, “You were the one that wanted to come see Obi-Wan, Trayl. Don’t blame us.”
Trayl uncrosses her arms but turns around so that she’s not looking at any of them. Obi-Wan can feel her overwhelmed, angry, sad and knows that she turned so he wouldn’t see her face.
“Focus, dear. Feel the force and release your emotions to it’s will.” He reaches out to her in the Force and helps her through the motions. It won’t help her if she has problems with her emotions.
He’s running his hands over montrolls, hair, backs, and little heads while they all wait for Trayl to breathe through the next few minutes.
“I’m sorry I called you babies,” she turns around, face placid and not showing any of the remorse, sorry, sad that she’s feeling.
Obi-Wan smiles brightly at her and nudges the other three.
“What do we say?”
”Thank you” “Apology accepted” “It’s okay”
Still smiling, he looks at all of them and asks, “And what am I going to do with all of you now? I don’t think you want to help me study, do you?”
The three younger laugh and even though there’s a missing voice in their quartet, Trayl’s humor silly laughter is still there.
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“In order, congratulations are.”
Obi-Wan’s smile widens impossibly and he quickly turns to Master Yoda behind him. He bows low, letting his braid fall over his shoulder, and crouches to let the short Master climb onto his shoulder.
“I couldn’t have done it without your help, Master.”
With some anxiety, he tugs on his braid. It’s become a source of comfort for him and for some of the younglings as well. He can’t believe he’s getting rid of it today.
The knighting ceremony, traditionally done by a Padawan’s Master in front of the High Council, looks a little different today. Master Starseeker and Master Draxen, two of the CrècheMasters, fought the others to be here with him since the Crèche couldn’t spare all of the Masters. They’re both standing on the other side of the room with their heads together. There’s an argument brewing in the Force.
He tilts his head toward the pair. “Should we interrupt their discussion?”
”Know their argument, you do. Feel it, in the force.”
There’s broad strokes, but he can’t seem to narrow it down past the fact that it’s about to get ugly. He’s seen the two of them fight before, over the last joganberry tart, if he doesn’t interrupt it won’t be nice. He starts towards them when it finally brushes up against him.
”They’re arguing about me.”
Yoda hums and says, “About your braid, they are arguing. To cut it, which of them will?”
It’s a question he doesn’t know the answer to either. Master Starseeker had helped the most with his transition into his new life; had stayed up late with him and comforted him when he’d started to doubt the path he’d chosen. Master Draxen, on the other hand, had actually been his crèche minder just a few short years ago. The older man is the only reason he’s been as successful as he has been; the only reason he’s being knighted at nineteen when the average age is twenty-five.
He owes them both immensely. Is he supposed to decide?
A sharp rap against his ear silences his mind better than any meditation ever has. Master Yoda laughs at his flinch and does it again.
“Both know that there is only one who has the honor.” It’s said with a smug brush of affection,pride and Obi-Wan laughs in agreement as he rubs his ear.
“You’re absolutely right, Master.” He holds up the small ceremonial knife to the troll on his shoulder. “Would you please do me the honor of cutting my Pad- my braid?”
Yoda takes the knife from him.
”Needed, your attention is,” Yoda says loudly into the room. Masters Starseeker and Draxen stop their argument and purse their lips and Obi-Wan smiles at them apologetically.
The cold metal of the knife is against his scalp when the council door opens abruptly. It’s loud enough that he jumps and Yoda’s hold on the knife slips, cutting through the thin braid. He grabs at it before it can fall to the floor.
In the doorway, Master Drallig is breathing heavily and panic, frenzied, desperation rolls off of the man’s Force signature.
He looks around the room, sees that the two CrècheMasters are across the room from Obi-Wan and squares his shoulders. “I’d like to ask to be considered to sever CrecheMinder Kenobi’s braid.”
The entire room stares at him in shocked silence.
The BattleMaster, his chest still heaving, looks around the room and asks, ”Did I miss it? Is he already Knighted?”
Obi-Wan can’t help but laugh, giddy in the feedback loop of happy happy happy that sluices through the room.
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There haven’t been very many opportunities in the last ten years for him to have the breakdown he’s currently having. Long overdue and delayed, the tears stream down his face endlessly.
Master Tashori is holding him, patting his back and trying to soothe him with comforting words. The Klatooinian finally pulls his face to their chest and starts to rock them both.
The two look up when the door to the shared kitchenette opens and admits another of the CrècheMasters, Master Sindex. A pair of blinders cover her eyes, a necessary aide considering her Arkanian heritage, but she has no problem finding them in the room.
“Still having trouble, I see.” Obi-Wan must look pretty awful for her to pull out a joke that bad.
He buries his face back into Master Tashori’s chest to hide. It’s not a permanent solution, but it feels good and he knows that they’ll let him grieve for as long as he needs to today.
The Crèche Minders have several traditions. The most familiar to the entire Temple is The Gathering, when initiates travel to Ilum to gather their first Kyber crystals, but some are just for their small family.
The Last Flight was his graduation from Minder/Knight to Master. Having successfully sent the last younglings from his first clan off to their next role within the Order, he has now earned the title of CrècheMaster.
Master Sindex busies herself preparing tea for the three of them. From smell alone he can tell that it’s not Temple blend; it’s the blend that cost forty credits from the specialty shop on the second floor of the building at the crest of the Old Galactic Market. He listens as she prepares a pot of the tea and reflects on the difficult conversations he’s had over tea, how nice it is to have someone run their hand over his hair, and how truly he’s come to love his fellow Crèche Minders and Masters.
The Jedi have always been his family, but he doesn’t know if he truly believed that until he gave up on his own ambitions and understood that weaknesses in one capacity were assets in another.
Liraen adjusts their hold and brings Obi-Wan away from their chest to sit up at the table. Their hands gently wipe away the tear tracks from Obi-Wan’s face before both hands come to rest on either side of his face and squeeze gently in sympathy. Master Sindex sets a cup of tea in his hands and joins them at the table.
“I know I shouldn’t cry,” he starts.
”-No, you definitely should. I’d be worried if you were any less of a mess.” Master Sindex interrupts. Obi-Wan laughs wetly at the glare that Liraen gives the other CrècheMaster.
”What she means,” Liraen says through gritted teeth, “is that we were all emotional during our Last Flight.”
Master Sindex sighs and lightly rests a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
“Be proud of the work you’ve done.” She says. Obi-Wan smiles to show that he’s heard her, but it’s shallow and quivering. “You are grieving a loss, but you must also remember to celebrate the new lives that you have launched.”
Liraen smiles at him and gently jostles him, making him rock wildly in his chair. It draws a reluctant smile out of him.
“I’m going to miss them all so dearly.” He sniffles out over the warm mug of tea.
“You’ve prepared them well. They’ll be able to do a lot of good because of you.” He knows that Liraen means well and he knows that they’re right. Twenty new Padawans means twenty new Knights helping to keep peace in the universe. It doesn’t change the worry in his heart. The universe is so vast and terrifying. And he’s sent his children out into it.
”Don’t do that.” Master Sindex says harsh, but not unkind, “It doesn’t help anyone for you to spiral on what could happen. You’ve done everything you possibly can to ensure their safety and success. I think you’re the only CrècheMaster who has ever run away from a prospective Master.”
Obi-Wan’s cheeks flush even as he cringes at the memory.
”Knight Kaltorin-“ he starts, but is interrupted by the other two laughing at the familiar defensive tone.
”We know.” Liraen says. “And as much as we like to laugh, you know any of us would have had the same reaction.”
Master Sindex, under her breath, says, “Maybe not the exact same reaction.”
Obi-Wan laughs at the annoyed feeling that Liraen directs at Master Sindex. He thinks about the twenty tiny faces scattered through the temple that he’s seen every day. It would be impossible for him to feel less than he does.
But, it’s impossible for him to do less than he can. And for each of the twenty younglings that he raised into successful Padawans, there are eight here in the crèche that need his attention. Today will be the only day that he does not have any obligations.
Liraen rubs his back absently and Master Sindex uses a small bit of the Force to warm her tea. It’s a trick that they use for the youngest in the crèche, to keep both their little bodies and their bottles warm.
He wipes his eyes one last time and tells himself he can have another breakdown when the first of his kids gets knighted.
“Okay,” the two Masters look at him surprise, curious floating around the room.
“What do I do now?” And Force, he’s just proud that his voice doesn’t catch.
Liraen sighs and looks at Master Sindex. Neither of their expressions change from the placid look that all (most, not him, he still struggles with things that younglings have mastered) have, but they pass something like pity or hesitance between them. It’s just enough to raise the anxiety that never seems to stop simmering in his gut.
Master Sindex takes a sip from her tea, and then with finality, dooms him, “Now you have to go talk to the Council.”
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Obi-Wan hesitates outside of the large door in front of him. The Senior Padawan at the desk is watching with sympathy and understanding. He remembers her from the crèche, though she was in a Clan much older than his.
He smiles at her with his lips pressed tightly together and nods before stepping back. He puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head back to exhale roughly.
Humor, laughter, and nostalgia reached out to him.
”Kyrella,” he calls out to her without looking away from the ceiling. “Please tell me that other beings are just as anxious to talk to the Council.”
”I saw an Initiate wet themselves once,” it’s not said unkindly, and if he’s reading her Force signature correctly, it’s also a lie she’s telling him to ease his nerves.
He laughs and shakes his head, letting go of the pose to smile over at her. “I promise that it will not come to that today.”
She laughs at him in the Force, her expression perfectly serene as she goes back to her computer. His smile falls and he turns back to the door, waiting to be called in. His hands start to creep back up to his hips.
”You always used to do that when we were in trouble, you know.”
Kyrella is still typing at her computer, but she glances over pointedly at his hands. He drops them again, and then crosses his arms so that he can discreetly tuck them under his armpits.
His eyebrows lift and a teasing smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “I remember you being quite the troublemaker.”
Embarrassment blooms from the teen, but before she can defend herself the door opens and Master Che beckons him into the room.
”Wish me luck,” he whispers at Kyrella before pulling a face of exaggerated terror that makes the embarrassment melt into humor again.
The council room that the Council of Reassignment uses is much smaller than the one occupied by the High Council. The five members sit together around a low table covered with mugs, cups, flimsi, and the remnants of their lunch. It’s altogether a much less austere environment.
He comes to stand behind one of the empty chairs at the table and tucks his hands behind his back to hide his fidgeting.
Master Elara, a Chiss Archivist, gestures for him to sit at an open chair. He smiles his thanks and sits while the five council members shuffle through flimsi or their datapad, utterly at ease.
”We’re just waiting on -“ Master Usta is interrupted by the door to the foyer opening and Master Windu letting himself in.
He bows at the council and nods at Obi-Wan when he catches his eye. “I apologize for my tardiness.” He takes the chair next to Obi-Wan and accepts the packet handed to him by Master Che.
Master Windu keeps talking, explaining that his Padawan is the reason he’s late, but Obi-Wan can’t focus.
Master Windu is on the High Council.
Is there supposed to be a member of the High Council here today, or is it just because of him?
Is this more than a review of his performance and official ascendancy to CrècheMaster? Is Master Windu here because he’s going to be restructured? He reviews every mistake he’s made the last year, then extends it to the last five.
His fear must be clear on his face, because he feels a rush of peace and calm from the Wookiee Master across from him. Master Ulmuu is the oldest CrècheMaster currently in the order. Her presence alone is usually enough to remind him of warm naps in the crèche, afternoons in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and late nights taking his turn with the babies.
The last thing she would let happen is a restructuring, not without warning him. She’s been his biggest advocate.
Master Usta interrupts his spiral into the worst case scenario, “Now that Master Windu is here as a representative of the High Council we can continue.” They all turn to him, and a bead of sweat runs behind his ear. He’s thankful that his hair is long enough to hide it, but he knows he’s not fooling any of them.
Peace, patience, anticipation threaten to smother him. And for once, he can’t tell if the last emotion is his own or someone else’s.
“You have chosen to walk a path not often picked. The journey from Minder to CrècheMaster is one few of us on this council have seen more than once in our lifetimes, but we all agree that you have done fine work.”
Master Che is nodding as she picks up where Master Usta left off. “Your accomplishments with your first Clan are beyond any expectations this council could have had.” She picks up her datapad to review specifics, “Twenty younglings all beyond the standards set by their training Masters, all receiving glowing reviews during their Initiate trials, and twenty successful Master-Padawan pairings.”
Master Elara interjects, “And double the amount of disappointed hopeful Knights and Masters.”
Master Che pauses just long enough for the humor to simmer in everyone’s memory. Then continues earnestly, “As much as we laugh at the ferocity with which you vetted the hopeful Knights and Masters, it truly saved this council as many headaches as it has caused.”
He knows about the complaints against his methods. None of the CrècheMasters have ever outright rejected proposals for their Initiates the way that he did. It ruffled a few feathers and, because the temple is full of gossips, it got around quickly that he was difficult.
”To that end,” Master Ulmuu roars, “We are happy to bestow upon you the rank of CrècheMaster and hope you have equal success with your future initiates.”
Obi-Wan lets himself smile and some of the tension leaves his body. Maybe it is common for a High Council member to be present.
”Congratulations,” the last member of the council, the Gamorrean Master Jossar, speaks up, “As you know firsthand, our numbers are… waning. We receive fewer younglings into the Crèche each year; your Clan might be the one of the last that sees a full twenty younglings. And fewer of the Initiates we see each year are passing their trials.”
Master Windu speaks up for the first time since he sat down, “And even those that do pass their trials aren’t always chosen to become Padawans.” Regret seeps into the air around all of the council members.
Master Usta, the current Master in charge of the AgriCorps nods and with a small amount of frustration and pride bleeding off of him says, “And instead they go on to help feed the galaxy. No small feat, I’d say.”
Obi-Wan smiles at the small breath of air that Master Che and Master Master Elara let out. For the two of them, that’s as good as an exasperated sigh.
Feeling the lull in the conversation, and looking around at the people he considers as the ultimate expert in their respective fields, he opens his mouth to speak. The anticipation of the council members is better hidden in some than in others. The pressure of speaking without being prompted nearly silences him before the first noise leaves him. Nevertheless, he cannot let incorrect information spread when he has the knowledge and wherewithal to correct it.
”No one is contesting the good that you and the other members of the AgriCorps do in the galaxy, Master. What I would contest, however, is your doomsaying of the current state of the Order’s membership.” He pauses, and knows that he must be showing his hesitation to continue, because Master Ulmuu gives him a subtle nod to continue.
”Many species that come to the Temple have their lifespans lengthened by their connection to the Force and their connection to other Jedi. A majority of our numbers are stationed as members of the AgriCorps or in other roles. I can’t speak to the number of casualties among the Knights, but I can tell you that I have attended more welcomings in the Crèche than I have remembrances.”
His attention, which had rotated between all of the Masters; partially to ensure that Master Usta did not feel targeted and partially as a habit he had adopted during storytime to make sure that everyone was engaging with the story, now stops on Master Windu. He has to turn his body in his chair to make contact with the other man, but he’s glad for the strain when he sees something that is increasingly rare outside of the Initiates and very new Padawans.
Master Windu is smiling at him. It’s small, almost imperceptible in contrast to the serene smile that all Jedi (except for him because he can’t do anything right) keep.
He smiles back (wider and freer than anyone else would attempt) instinctually as he turns back to the larger group.
”I understand this is a concerning matter for all. Our numbers are smaller than ever recorded, but I don’t think that we should be raising any alarms just yet.” He lets the silence sit for a moment before adding, “And I don’t believe in teaching initiates that a calling to the AgriCorps, or any other branch, is lesser than that of a Knight.”
The Masters all nod in agreement and Master Usta gives a small “of course it isn’t,” that they all politely ignore.
“Thank you for your meaningful insight, Master Kenobi,” Jossar says, “Twenty new Padawans- twenty new Jedi- is such an important accomplishment to recognize. We thank you for your diligence in your role.” The rest of the council nods in agreement. And then Master Che starts to shuffle her flimsi to prepare for the next topic on their agenda and Master Windu is pulling him out of his chair and past the reception waiting area.
And that’s it? That’s the end of the ceremony! One of the Council Members has called him Master Kenobi (even after his outburst and disgusting emotional presentation) so now he’s a Master.
If he knew it was going to be that simple he wouldn’t have worked himself up into such a state beforehand.
He breathes deeply, and when he exhales he feels the weight of the last twenty-nine years lift from his shoulders. He’s finally done it. He’s finally proven that he deserves to be here.
Master Windu is patiently waiting for him to process what just happened. Pride is hiding behind amusement, but there’s something else there. Just a sliver of something he can’t place.
”Thank you for being there Master Windu. I wasn’t aware that there was going to be a High Council member present today.”
The amusement and the other thing he can’t identify grow and Master Windu gestures for Obi-Wan to follow him as he turns to leave.
”Normally,” the older man starts, “there wouldn’t have been. I don’t think you’re unaware that you’re something of a special case.”
Obi-Wan can feel his face heat up at the words. Embarrassingly, another Master crosses their paths and nods at Master Windu before their three pairs of eyes all find him. The other’s confusion is pointed and gives more weight to what Master Windu has implied.
He ducks his head to hide from the prying eyes of the strange Master and he takes a deep breath to steady himself.
”I am, Master. And I am grateful for the Council’s leniency towards my deficiencies. I know that I have much room for improvement.”
Master Windu lets the silence grow as they walk.
“That isn’t quite what I mean, Master Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan risks a glance over at the other man, not expecting to see anything, more from surprise.
”You have been a closely guarded favorite of many of the Council members for many years. And not just because you are the first CrècheMaster in the last thirty years.”
There’s a cross breeze that rustles the outer layer of their robes as they cross an open-air atrium. Several layers below, a loud group of Padawans or Initiates are causing havoc of some sort. If he reaches out with the Force he can just feel the excitement, fear, delight from the group.
As they leave behind the echoing laughter and shouting, Master Windu says, “Truly, all in the Crèche are cherished and beloved by every member of the Order. The way that you hide behind your children, you might not have noticed that that extends to the Masters of the Crèche.”
There’s no underlying judgement in the statement. Obi-Wan has to double-check, but the only feeling between them is fondness. He still can’t hide his embarrassment that Master Windu, and by extension the High Council, know the extent to which he has broken his vows against attachment.
”I would not have been where I am today without the Council’s support. I owe all that I am to the Order and only wish that I could do more to show my gratitude.”
Obi-Wan’s brow furrows as he notices the path they’re walking. They’re nearly at the High Council chambers.
A bitter emotion colors the air around him, pungent and sorrowful. It’s a mix he hasn’t experienced before; something like grief but not as sad, fondness without the depth of love, disappointment but softened.
”The Council also believes that there is more that you have to offer. Which is why we're calling you for a new service.”
They both stop at the twin doors that lead to the High Council room. The Senior Padawan that usually staffs the reception is pointedly not watching them, but their raised ears are turned toward the two of them.
Master Windu’s emotions have been reigned in tightly as he turns to Obi-Wan. He braces himself for the worst. If the High Council members have all agreed that he would be of better service in another role then he will meet their edict with all of the grace befitting his role as a Jedi Master.
It’s the least he can do.
“Come,” Master Windu opens a door and gestures for him to walk in first, “We have much to discuss.”
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The seat he’s given is not as large as some in the room or as small as others. Though it’s designed as the others, it seems each is designed with a specific species or size of species in mind.
He debates sitting on his hands to keep from fidgeting, decides that that would be too childish, and folds them into the sleeves of his robe.
“Get started, we should,” Master Yoda says. “Much to discuss, now that we are all here.”
“Welcome to the party, Master Kenobi,” the Master to his left leans over to say. “I know you’ll be a welcome addition to the Council.”