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The first time Obi-Wan meets Satine, she’s arguing (debating, she’ll snarl, later, there’s a difference) with Master Yoda. About lightsabers. Obi-Wan walks into the salle one morning for Advanced Lightsaber Techniques to see a little girl with white-blonde hair and icy blue eyes standing only a few inches away from the small green Master and shouting at him. “Jedi are supposed to be peacekeepers,” she exclaims. “By carrying a weapon, we’re just as bad as--bounty hunters!”Obi-Wan (ten years old and rather annoyed by being compared to a common bounty hunter, as if) frowns, stepping forward. “We can’t keep the peace if we’re dead,” he says, with the air of someone imparting a great truth. “Right, Master Yoda?”“Correct, you are,” Yoda says, much to the girl’s irritation. “Important, self-defense is.”“All fighting is horrible.” The girl’s eyes flash, and she clenches her small fists. “Killing people is wrong! It doesn’t matter what excuses you make, it’s still wrong!”“But what if a hundred innocent people will die because you don’t kill an evil person?” Obi-Wan asks. Even she can’t argue back against that logic.… right?“Everyone can be reasoned with,” the girl says, sounding surprisingly mature for her age (with how small she is, Obi-Wan doesn’t think she could be any older than eight). “Maybe, if you’d tried talking instead of just killing, that one person wouldn’t have done… whatever it is he did. If you just kill him, you’ll never know!”He groans, stares helplessly at Master Yoda. “Master--”“Correct, Satine also is.”Obi-Wan’s jaw drops open. “What?”“A time for diplomacy, there is, and a time for violence, there also is. Knowing the difference, the true wisdom of a Jedi is.” The Master considers for a moment, looking between the two younglings. “Learn from each other, you can. Learn how to fight, you will, Satine. Teach Obi-Wan the value of diplomacy, you must.”And then he hobbles away, leaning on his gimer stick, leaving the two children to stare at each other with matching expressions of horror. Eight months pass by, and both Obi-Wan and Satine sprout upwards: both physically, courtesy of growth spurts, and in their skill levels, earning them places in more advanced classes. In fact, the only thing about the pair that hasn’t changed is the fact that they fight nearly every time they speak. Satine starts most of the arguments, but Obi-Wan instigates his fair share. (A few of the less conservative Masters and Padawans have a betting pool open for whether the two will murder each other or fall in love. A second betting pool tries to guess when.) Despite the constant strife, it’s undeniable that they’ve learned quite a bit in this forced partnership. Obi-Wan is revealed to have quite the silver tongue, when he puts his mind to it; likewise, when she can be made to stop protesting violence long enough to focus on her katas, Satine excels at lightsaber combat, moving with an instinctive grace and a fury so visible in even her stumbling attempts at the more advanced forms that it has attracted the eyes of many a Knight or Master thinking of taking a Padawan.Not that Satine really wants to be taken as a Padawan. She’d confided that to Obi-Wan, once, on one of those rare days when there was something like camaraderie between the two of them. “I would rather be a politician,” she’d said, randomly, startling him out of his meditation.“Why would anyone want to be a Senator?” he’d responded, politeness the last thing on his mind (they’re supposed to be meditating, Force’s sake).“Who said anything about Senators?” Satine had made a face. “The Senate is broken and corrupt. I’d like to be someone who could do real good in the galaxy: like the Queen of Naboo, or the Duke of Mandalore.” (For some reason, Obi-Wan had felt a strange resonance in the Force, when she said that last title.) “But since I can’t be a politician, I guess a Jedi is the next best thing.”“I’ve always wanted to be a Jedi,” Obi-Wan had told her: information for information, after all. An answer for an answer, even though he’d never asked (and neither had she). “I don’t want to be anything else.”It’s been a few weeks since that conversation, and for a few days he’d thought maybe there would be a change, after it, after those few moments of civility; maybe they can get along, he’d thought. Maybe she isn’t hopeless after all.But nothing had.And maybe if he could just be better at letting go of his emotions like a real Jedi, if he could just stop arguing with her when she started a fight, maybe things would improve. But he’s not and he can’t and this is just a hopeless endeavor. Why Master Yoda thought it’d be a good idea to force two people who hate each other to work together, he has no idea.(Well, he doesn’t hate her, at least; she’s small and annoying and sometimes stupid, with those ridiculous pacifist ideals he’s not sure how she obtained, but she’s smart, too, and fierce, practically blazing with life in his sense of the Force.)But he’ll try, because Master Yoda wants him to, and because he thinks maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he could make her into a friend. He’s twelve years old, less than three months from aging out of the creche and being placed in the Corps.He still doesn’t have anyone interested in taking him as a Padawan.Maybe if his lightsaber forms are better--Obi-Wan sneaks out of the creche at night, every night, now, his lightsaber clutched in his palms; it’s laughably easy to slip past the few Jedi in the halls and make it to his destination unseen. The training salle he’s chosen is dark, empty, untouched; he uses the Force to flip the switch, turning on one bank of lights, and then he turns on his ‘saber and settles into the first kata for Soresu. He moves through the kata at quarter speed, first, goes through all the katas at that pace, and then at half speed--and, finally, at full speed.Midway through the second kata, he misses a step, his toe dragging on the floor and unbalancing him.He swears, a bad habit that the crechemaster is always reprimanding him for, and starts the kata over again. It has to be perfect. Time passes; he pays no attention to the chrono on his wrist, instead pushing himself until he does the entire series of katas perfectly, without a single missed step or incorrect blade angle. He’s soaked in sweat by the time he’s done, but the success has managed to eliminate some of the crushing self-doubt. Only some of it, of course, but…Alright, there’s his defense practiced. Now time for offense.He’s been learning the Ataru katas, the jumps and aerials, but he’s still a long ways from mastering them. Maybe that’s the problem, the reason he’s not yet been chosen.He has to get better.Obi-Wan throws himself into the kata with renewed vigor; he’s nearly to the end when he attempts a spinning slash with the angle of his ‘saber just slightly off. It’s a small mistake, but because of it, his swing is wrong, and he overbalances, trips, and lands hard on one knee.And for some reason, this is the last straw. All the frustration, the anger, the pain, the fear, the shame--it all boils over and spills out, and he hurls his lightsaber across the room, as hard as he can, with a shout.The blade hisses out just before the casing smacks the wall and tumbles to the floor.Obi-Wan stays there a moment, on one knee, poised, arm still extended, and then abruptly he sags, curling into himself and starting to cry.And hating himself for it.He’s a Jedi, or he’s trying to be; he should be better than this! He should be able to control his emotions by now, and to at least make it through a simple kata without messing up! It’s no wonder no one wants to take him as a Padawan--“Um. Are you--okay?”Her voice sounds so different when she’s not trying to bait him into a fight that he almost doesn’t recognize her. Almost.(A part of him wishes he didn’t.)He doesn’t want to say anything, to answer, but he’s got to come up with something, some credible reason for why he’s lying on the floor that doesn’t involve the words I’m having a temper tantrum and that will make her go away. So he pushes himself up to a sitting position, hastily swallowing back his sobs, scrubbing the tears from his face, and turns towards her. “Satine,” he starts as he turns, and then he stops, frozen in place.Gone is the usual superior expression and familiar fire. Instead, she stands half inside the doorway, golden hair loose and curly, past her shoulders in length. She’s tired-looking, and pale, and… worried? Why would she be worried? “What’s wrong?” she asks, softly, slowly stepping the rest of the way inside the salle and coming over to sit by him.He opens his mouth to make some sort of excuse. “What do you think?” comes snapping out instead--curse his stupid mouth (that’s probably another reason why none of the Masters will chose him). “I’m almost thirteen and no one wants me and I’ll never be a Jedi Knight!”He slams his teeth together hard enough to jar him, chest heaving from his unintentional outburst. Satine didn’t need to know that. It’s not like she cares, she’s made that perfectly clear over the last couple years--“There’s got to be something we can do,” she says, staring at him with determination in her eyes and durasteel in her voice. “I promise, Obi-Wan, you won’t get sent to the Corps. I won’t let them. Do you know why you haven’t been chosen yet?”He shrugs, staring down at the floor, unable to face the faith in her eyes. (Why does she want to help him?) “I’m just not good enough,” he mumbles. “I can’t control myself, can’t even finish a kata without messing up…”“But you’re amazing,” she says earnestly. “I was watching, Obi, you’re already so much better than the others--”“If you knew anything about lightsaber combat, you’d know I’m terrible,” Obi-Wan snarls, surprising himself with the amount of venom in his voice. “Now leave me alone. And don’t follow me again!”With that, he stands, jerkily pulling his lightsaber to his hand, and storms out of the room. It’s past midnight--he needs to sleep, or he’ll be too exhausted to function tomorrow. He tries to focus on that, instead of the wounded shock on Satine’s face as he left her.(He’s not very successful.) It’s been three days since she talked to Obi-Wan in the salle. Every night since, she’s seen him sneak out to train, but she hasn’t followed him, like he’d asked; she’s not sure why she obeys his demand, when usually she does everything possible to annoy him. Maybe it’s the naked pain on his face. The anguish in his soft brown eyes sticks in her memory.She has to help, somehow. He’s too good to get sent to the Corps.Master Windu approaches as she darts through the hallway; Obi-Wan isn’t in class yet, which is really unlike him, and she’s worried. Worried enough to go check his room.Of course, that plan gets derailed the moment Master Windu shows up. “Initiate Kryze,” he says warmly, a smile spreading across his face. “Just who I was looking for.”“Master Windu,” she says, stopping and looking up at him. “What do you need?”He bends down, to be more on her level. “I have a very important question for you, Satine.” There’s a pause. “Will you be my Padawan learner?”Satine freezes, staring at him, her eyes wide. Master Windu wants to take her as his Padawan? There’s a yes hovering on the tip of her tongue, but something makes her hesitate; Obi-Wan’s wretched, tearstained face flashes in front of her eyes, and something inside her clicks. “You want to choose me, but you’ll let Obi-Wan be sent to the Corps?”He frowns, the smile vanishing in an instant. “I don’t understand--”“Obi-Wan’s the best out of all of us,” she says proudly. “He deserves to be chosen. But he’s almost aged out, and no one wants him. Did you know that he’s been going to the training salle every night and working himself to exhaustion trying to perfect his katas?”“I did not.” Master Windu frowns, but a different frown this time: a worried, thinking one. “Hmm. He’s almost too old to be a Padawan--that might be part of the problem… but he’s too important to the future to let the Corps get him. And no,” he says, before she can ask, “I don’t know why, just that he is.”“Help Obi-Wan get a Master, and I’ll be your Padawan learner,” she says, and offers her hand to shake. “Deal?”Master Windu nods solemnly, shaking her hand. “Deal.” And then his expression brightens. “Every night, you said?”She nods.“Right. Meet me outside the salle he uses at 2100 tonight. I have an idea…” Stupid, stupid, stupid, Obi-Wan chants silently, messing up again as he tries to run through the second Ataru kata at full speed. He can do it at half speed (well, mostly); why is it so hard to get it right when he speeds it up more? “No wonder nobody wants you,” he mutters to himself, adjusting his grip on his ‘saber hilt and settling back into the opening stance for the kata. “Stupid…”For a moment, he thinks he hears footsteps outside the room; he freezes, but no one comes in, and so he shrugs and starts through the kata, as smoothly and fluidly as he can.This time, he makes it almost all the way through before he messes up.“I see what you mean,” a voice says, from outside the room; Obi-Wan nearly drops his lightsaber in shock. “He’s very skilled, for an Initiate. You said none of the Masters intend to choose him?”“As far as I know, that’s correct,” someone else says; he recognizes them to be Master Windu. “I know you weren’t planning on taking another Padawan, after Xanatos, but from what I know of Obi-Wan, the two of you would be a good match.”He freezes. A good match? Another Padawan? What?“Hey, Obi-Wan!” a very familiar voice chirps. It’s Satine, of course. Of-kriffing- course. “I told you not to follow me,” Obi-Wan says through gritted teeth, not turning around. Instead, he takes up his position again, and starts the next kata.“I didn’t follow you this time,” she says with a smugness he can feel radiating through the Force. “My Master told me to come here.”Her… Master?He goes still, mid-swing, and turns to face her, eyes immediately landing on the distinctive braid hanging just behind her ear, a single bead on the end. “You’ve been chosen?” he breathes out, shock and something like horror settling heavy in his gut.She nods, smiling brilliantly. And then frowns. “Well. Kind of. Master Windu!” she adds, turning and half-yelling out into the hallway. “Can you two hurry it up? I’d like to be an official Padawan!”“You already are an official Padawan,” Master Windu points out with a little sideways smirk, entering the room and indicating her braid. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Initiate Kenobi. This is Master Qui-Gon Jinn.”The man who enters next is very tall, with long blond hair, half pulled up and back from his face in a tail. His long cloak swirls impressively around his narrow form when he walks, and his face is tired and dusty, but his blue eyes are alert. “Hello, Obi-Wan. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says.Something about his voice just seems… right. “Nice to meet you, sir,” Obi-Wan says quietly, dropping his eyes to stare at the floor, fiddling with his lightsaber hilt.“I think Master Windu is right,” Qui-Gon says decisively, after a moment of studying him (Obi-Wan can feel the Jedi’s eyes burning through him even without looking up). “Initiate Kenobi, would you do me the honor of becoming my Padawan learner?”This time, Obi-Wan does drop his lightsaber. “Satine! Watch out!”By the time Obi-Wan shouts, Satine is already moving, pulling on the Force for additional speed as she sprints across the disintegrating bridge, chased by blaster shots and the occasional wild blast from a pulse weapon. Still, she’s at least three meters from the end of the bridge when a pair of expertly-aimed blaster bolts take out the supports on Obi-Wan’s side, and the entire structure collapses.“Jump!” her closest friend and frequent mission partner shouts.Satine does.She lands on the rocky ground hard, going down to one knee, accepts Obi-Wan’s offered hand to help her up, just as the bridge slams into the rocks at the bottom of the wide canyon. Igniting her pale green lightsaber, she helps him deflect the last few stray blaster bolts coming from the far side of the chasm.And then, abruptly, the fire stops.“Well, that went better than expected,” Obi-Wan says, which is of course when the destroyers show up.“You just had to say it!” Satine yells, exasperated, as she shifts rapidly into a defensive position and starts deflecting the plasma shots. The destroyers have shield generators (of course they do), but at least with only two of them, the two Padawans can hold their own. “I really hope our Masters are almost here,” she adds, more quietly.“Don’t worry!” Obi-Wan says, almost cheerfully, as the destroyers force them slowly back towards the edge of the canyon. “Master Qui-Gon probably won’t let us fall to our deaths.”“Reassuring,” she mutters, rolling her eyes, and then there’s a sudden line of fire burning along her upper right arm. “Kriff!”“Are you alright?” he asks, immediately, his worry strong enough to radiate out into the Force.“I’m fine,” she snaps, “and you’re broadcasting again.”“Sorry,” he apologizes, looking over at her--taking his eyes off the destroyers for just a second.The bolt catches him in the shoulder, and the impact is enough to knock him over the edge.Satine freezes (no, please no, this is all her fault, she distracted him, this is why she hates fighting so much--), shock and horror and terror turning her blood to ice in her veins, and then there’s a thrumming sound she’d missed beneath the destroyers’ constant firing, and their ship lifts up from the canyon floor… with a grinning Obi-Wan perched casually on one wing.He’s practically pouring his smugness into the Force.“I told you he wouldn’t let us fall to our deaths,” he shouts over the sound of the ship’s engines, and then he winks.He winks. She’s not sure if she wants to kill him or kiss him.And then the destroyers make their presence known again by a bolt that flies just past her ear, close enough it nearly takes off her Padawan braid, and she decides that escaping with her life is probably more important than sorting out her complicated and rather contradictory feelings for one Obi-Wan Kenobi.She jumps. “Master Windu is going to kill me,” Satine says, sighing heavily and dropping into the seat next to Obi-Wan at the cafeteria table.He raises an eyebrow, glancing up from his datapad to make a face at the seventeen-year-old. “What did you do this time?” “I did nothing,” she says. When he raises his other eyebrow, disbelieving, she adds, “I swear! It was Quin!”“Say no more,” Obi-Wan immediately says, chuckling slightly. Quinlan Vos, another Padawan about the same age as the two of them, has a… reputation in the Temple for being a bit of a troublemaker. “Allow me to revise my question: what did he do this time?”“We… might’ve accidentally set one of the salles on fire,” she mumbles, rushing the words out.He blinks, impressed despite himself. “How did you manage that?” he asks, and then shakes his head. “Never mind, I’m not sure I want to know.” And then he frowns. “We?”“It was his idea, I just was dragged into it--”“Satine Kryze!” Master Windu shouts from one of the hallways, the Councillor’s voice faintly echoing into the cafeteria.“Quick, get me out of here,” she hisses, and he sighs.“I just want to say, for the record, I am not involved in this,” he says, and then he stands, tucks his datapad away in his robes. “Come on, I know the perfect place.”“Thank you, Obi,” she says fervently, and leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek.He freezes, for just a second, feels his cheeks heating up (breathes, in and out, release it to the Force--except she just kissed him and that’s way harder to give to the Force), and then leads her across the room and into another hallway.Of course, halfway to his hiding spot, they run into Quinlan, who is more than a little bit singed, smells of smoke, and has a massive, bantha shit-eating grin on his face.“I have a bad feeling about this,” Obi-Wan has time to murmur as an aside (a comment to which Satine hums instant agreement), and then the other Padawan is upon them.“Kenobi, Kryze!” Quinlan’s grin widens, if that’s even possible. “Just who I was looking for!”“What do you want, Quin?” Obi-Wan asks tiredly.“Master Tholme isn’t very happy with me right now,” Quinlan says, wincing a little, his smile dimming. “I, uh, assume you’ve heard of the accidental fire I caused?”“If I hadn’t, I certainly would know something happened by now.”Quinlan frowns, not catching on, and Satine makes a vague gesture that encompasses his whole body. “You are rather… well… a bit burnt-looking,” she says, attempting to be diplomatic about it.He looks down at himself and then grins roguishly. “Just adds to my charms, sweetheart,” he says, and winks.(Obi-Wan definitely does not want to reach out and slap the flirtatious look off his friend’s face. Nope. Because he is a Jedi, and Jedi are above such base desires. Jedi don’t get jealous, and they certainly don’t harbor illicit feelings for their best friends. After all, attachment is forbidden; the Code is quite clear on that subject.)“Anyway,” the other Padawan continues, “I had an idea.”“No,” Obi-Wan says immediately. He’d learned long ago that any time Quinlan Vos starts out a sentence with I had an idea… there will be trouble.“Aw, come on, Kenobi. You don’t even know what it is yet!”“And I quite prefer it that way.”“What’s the idea?” Satine asks, justifiably wary.And Quinlan grins.  “Why, exactly, did you think this was a good idea again?” Satine hisses, clinging to the durasteel support beam and inching her way up to the precarious maintenance platform from which one could hear every word said in the warehouse above.“Look, we’ll be fine,” Quinlan whispers back. “Imagine how grateful the Council will be for our help. We’ll get out of trouble for sure!”Obi-Wan rolls his eyes before his face goes utterly still as he concentrates on silently pulling Quinlan onto the platform. Once the teenage boy is secure, Satine quickly climbs the rest of the way, and Obi-Wan helps her up too. The three Padawans silently huddle together, listening carefully.“Look, I know Force-sensitives are worth a lot on the black market, but are they worth this much? Breaking into the Temple is paramount to suicide!” a man exclaims.“And where do you suggest we find them, if not the Temple?” a woman says archly. “Besides, I have manufactured something that will make our job much easier.”“What is that?” the man asks, curiosity clear in his voice.Satine can almost hear the woman smile. “It is a drug, effective only on Force-users. It causes extreme pain--sometimes rendering them unconscious--and makes them weaker-willed, more susceptible to manipulation. I’m working on an airborne type right now that can be released into the Temple itself.”The three teens exchange nervous looks. You didn’t mention they’re targeting Jedi, Obi-Wan mouths, making Quinlan shake his head, eyes wide. I didn’t know, he responds in the same manner. I don’t think my Master does, either-- Quinlan’s commlink chirps, the sound echoing cavernously in the wide space.There’s a second of silence, and then the trapdoor the three of them are positioned under suddenly flies open. “What do we have here?” the man asks. “Jedi kids, by the looks of them. What are you kids doing here?”“Perfect,” the woman’s voice says, “another chance to test the drug.”And then some kind of blaster fires three times.Satine has just enough time to locate the dart in her neck before the pain hits and she starts to scream. Never again, Obi-Wan thinks, staring fuzzily at the Force-inhibiting cuffs on his wrists. He is never doing anything with Quinlan ever again.This, unfortunately, is about the limit of his coherency at the moment; his thoughts are thick and slow like molasses on a cold winter morning, and even just trying to process where he is feels like running through knee-deep water: heavy and sluggish and full of resistance. Probably the cuffs, he thinks muzzily, the aftereffects of whatever drug is raging through his system combined with his inability to reach for the Force. Still, he knows he needs to shake it off, to think through it (why?), because--Lives could depend on it, right. The slavers, only they aren’t typical slavers, but slavers planning to steal from the creche, and--Force preserve him, their scheme will probably even work.“Obi?” A faint voice interrupts his muddled musings. (That’s a nice phrase, muddled musings, he should use that more often.)He tilts his head to the right, manages to make eye contact with Satine. “Are you ‘lright?” he rasps out, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice.“I’m fine,” Satine says, and then grimaces. “Or as fine as I can be, given that I’ve recently been drugged, had my lightsaber stolen, and locked away from the Force.” She lets out a soft breath. “The drug affected you worse than the rest of us, I think.”“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Quinlan says from Obi-Wan’s other side, genuine regret and fear and nerves in his voice. “I really didn’t know it was this big--”“I know,” Obi-Wan answers, but he doesn’t look away from Satine. “If I could just--”He reaches for the Force (it should be simple, all he wants is to access his training bond with Master Qui-Gon, something he’s done a thousand times if he’s done it once) only for his voice to cut off as he’s hit by a wave of sheer agony as he stretches for something that’s not there. There’s a hole in his mind where the Force should be (it’s like being blind, being lost alone in the dark, the Dark, the emptiness an endless black hole swallowing him whole), and he’s never felt pain like this before…“Obi-Wan!”Dimly, he recognizes someone’s shouting at him, shouting his name, and he struggles to bring himself back from the abyss in his head, but it’s pulling him down, dragging him under, too strong for him to resist, and he doesn’t know what will happen if he gives in but he knows it can’t be good (can you Fall if you can’t even feel the Force?). Satine, he says, or thinks he says, help me, please, Satine, but he’s not sure the words actually make it beyond his lips.“--pick the lock,” someone’s saying, “we have to get those cuffs off--”But such words are, for the moment, beyond his comprehension. The Force has always been there, in that place where mind and heart and soul meet, and to have it ripped away feels like a bloody gash torn in the very fabric of his being.And then, suddenly, the cuffs around his wrists come unlocked with a click, and the Force rushes in to fill the void like a river released from a dam.He sags forward into Satine’s arms, letting out a shuddering breath, a faintly choked noise, and for a moment he just lets himself lean into her. Her arms are steady, secure, comforting, and there’s a strange warmth blooming deep inside, related to the way she holds him close, as though she’d give him all the strength in her body without a second thought, without hesitation.(He wonders if she would--he knows he would, immediately, if he could--and the thought that maybe she would too rushes through him like a storm, leaves him fizzy and light and tingling in its wake.)(He wonders if this is what attachment feels like.)(For the moment, he decides he really doesn’t care.)And then:“Come on, lovebirds,” Quinlan says in an easy drawl, shattering the moment (they spring apart like they’ve been caught doing something entirely illicit and against the Code). “I’d appreciate getting out of these cuffs, too…”“Right,” Satine says, almost flustered, a hint of a flush on her pale cheeks (is it embarrassment from Quinlan’s words or is she just as affected by the contact as he is?). “I’m sorry, Quin.”“Sure you are,” the other Padawan says drolly, but he flashes her a brilliant grin, a sure sign of a joke. Satine hurries over to him, using the pin she’d taken from her hair to pick the lock and release him. “Thanks.”“If we could find our lightsabers, we could get out of here easily,” Obi-Wan says after a moment, struggling to put his thoughts in order, to get back some semblance of normalcy, of control. “I think…”“We need to contact the Temple and warn them,” Satine contradicts. “Obi, can you reach Master Qui-Gon?”“Why am I the one who has to contact the Temple?” he asks, only a little petulant. Only a little, because he’s a Jedi, and also he’s nineteen and far too old for whining. “None of this was my idea!”“Master Qui-Gon likes you,” Quin says. “Also, you didn’t just burn down one of the salles.”Obi-Wan hesitates, then sighs. “Touche,” he mutters, and then he takes a deep breath and centers himself. It takes a moment to get up the nerve to touch the Force (his mind still aches from the agony he’d felt the last time he tried this, and he has to suppress a shudder), to reach, to burrow into the filament connecting his mind with his Master’s, but once he does, he’s met with a warm curiosity. Uh, Master Qui-Gon? he starts, more than a little wary. What is it, my Padawan? There’s an amused feeling accompanying the words. There’s a… situation. He hesitates. None of this was my idea, by the way, I’m only here to keep Satine and Quin from getting themselves killed-- Satine and Quinlan, is it? The amusement grows stronger. What sort of trouble have the three of you gotten into now? We… kind of got captured by these slavers who are planning to break into the Temple to steal the younglings and sell them on the black market? That shouldn’t be a question. They have Force-inhibiting cuffs and some kind of drug, and he flashes the memory of the woman talking about her drug and her plan to his Master.There’s a burst of alarm, quickly muffled. Obi-Wan, this is dangerous. I will inform the Council, and Masters Windu and Tholme and I will come find you. Retrieve your ‘sabers if you can, but do not risk exposure to that drug. And then he’s gone, and Satine and Quin are staring at Obi-Wan expectantly. “Um,” he says eloquently, and swallows. “He’s going to tell the Council about what we overheard. And our Masters are going to come find us. He said to find our lightsabers if we can, but don’t get hit by the drug.”“Easy enough,” Quin says with a shrug. “Come on, let’s go.” It’s not easy. Four hours later, after the last of the slavers has been cuffed and taken away, Obi-Wan limps to the transport the three Masters had commandeered. There’s a burn on his leg where he’d been shot by a blaster before he’d managed to get his ‘saber back, and his left wrist is sprained, but… “I’m sorry, Master.”“Apology accepted,” Qui-Gon says easily. “When we return to the Temple, I’ll escort you to the healers. After you’ve been treated, I want you to meditate on what you have learned from this… escapade.”“To never trust Quinlan Vos,” Obi-Wan says, with feeling.Qui-Gon laughs. “My young Padawan, one would have thought you would’ve learned that long ago. An incident with a rancor comes to mind…?”Obi-Wan groans. “I thought we agreed never to speak of the rancor incident!”“I did no such thing.” There’s far too much of an innocent look in his Master’s eyes for Obi-Wan’s comfort. “But relax, Obi-Wan, I won’t speak of it. After all, we must take care to remain in the here-and-now, yes?”“Exactly, Master,” he agrees, nodding fervently. “The here-and-now.”Qui-Gon is still laughing when the transport’s doors slide closed. Obi-Wan is nearly twenty-five Standard years old when Chancellor Valorum calls upon the Jedi Council to send an ambassador to the Trade Federation, whose fleet is currently blockading the peaceful planet of Naboo. Mace Windu tries to get the mission for himself and Satine, but the majority of the Council doesn’t agree; instead, they decide to send Qui-Gon, and, by proxy, Obi-Wan.He has no idea how much his life is about to change.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Anakin may be a slave, and only nine years old, but he’s not stupid; he sees the old man’s laser sword (though he only catches a glimpse of it by chance) and places it immediately. The man is a

Jedi.

But everyone knows the Jedi never come this far into the Outer Rim, and they never come for the slaves. Still, Anakin can’t help but hope. His dreams have a habit of coming true.

And he’s dreamed of himself becoming a Jedi Knight and freeing the slaves since he was a little boy.

The Jedi have to leave their families, Anakin knows, and he doesn’t

want

to leave his Mom behind, but he’s dreamed of this day. He’s dreamed of this, and… something about the old man, the Jedi,

calls

to him, like there’s something in his veins that’s crying out and that same cry is echoed by the Jedi’s blood, like calling to like.

(It sounds ridiculous, but he’s a child of the desert, has been raised on stories of the desert sands rising up to shield runaway slaves, of the winds leading those slaves to shelter and water; he has been raised on tales of hope and survival, of

living,

of freedom and dreams coming to life, and curled up in his chest, like a tiny krayt dragon asleep right beside his heart, wrapped in scales to protect it from everyone else, is a dream of touching every single star in the sky.)

“Storm’s coming, Ani,” the old woman who sells pallies tells him, only confirming what he can already feel (the desert is him, and he is the desert; her sands fill the hollowness at the center of all his bones, and her wind sings through his veins with his blood), and he knows what he needs to do.

Perfect.

“Do you have somewhere to get out of the storm?” he asks, and just barely conceals his grin when they don’t.
 
Obi-Wan and his Master have only been standing on the balcony, waiting for the Council to finish testing Anakin, for a few minutes when Satine arrives. Logically, Obi-Wan is aware that it’s only been a few days since they last saw each other, but it feels like an eternity. “Satine,” he says with a warm smile, barely noticing how Qui-Gon casually shifts to the other side of the balcony to give them some privacy.

“Obi-Wan!” she exclaims, but she’s worried, not excited. “I heard the news from Master Windu. Did you really fight a Sith on Tatooine?” She looks like she’s hoping he’ll say no. That the assassin wasn’t really a Sith.

“Master Qui-Gon did,” he says instead, and her face falls.

“I thought the Sith were extinct,” she murmurs.

“So did I.” Obi-Wan sighs.

“And they’re sending you back out alone, knowing there’s a Sith after you?” At his nod, her expression shifts from worried to

angry,

and then her eyes unfocus as she taps into her training bond with Mace Windu.

(In the Council chamber, Mace abruptly winces and goes still, in the middle of the test;

my Padawan is yelling at me,

he says, after a moment, and grimaces.

Can somebody take over here so I can go deal with her?)

“Kriffing

hells,

Satine,” Master Windu says a moment later, emerging onto the balcony, rubbing his temples. “I was in the middle of something!”

“How dare you send Obi-Wan and Master Qui-Gon back to Naboo alone when you

know

there’s a Sith after them?” she cries, eyes flashing, advancing on her Master. “If they go alone, one of them will die!” And then she freezes. “I-I don’t know how I know that…”

Obi-Wan goes still, too, because that sounds like the Force to him, and he’s seen firsthand what happens when you discard the warnings the Force gives. (It’s not pleasant.) But Master Windu doesn’t seem to be all that concerned. “That is always a risk,” he says. “But we are needed

here,

Satine.”

“But, Master,” she says, more softly, “the vapaad…”

“I thought you said you would never use the vapaad.” He raises an eyebrow.

(Obi-Wan remembers that argument, if only because Satine had then come to him and ranted about it for over an hour.)

“I won’t!” And her voice is back to full-strength yelling (thanks a

lot,

Windu). “But you could--”

“The answer is no. We aren’t going.” He turns and walks away, then, leaving Satine behind, staring at his retreating back in shock and barely controlled fury.

If they go alone, one of them will die.

Her voice echoes in Obi-Wan’s head, the sureness of her words, the way the Force resonated with them.

One of them will die.

One of them--but which one? The Master, or the Apprentice?

The shiver that runs through him has nothing to do with fear.

“Don’t worry,” Satine says fiercely, her voice low, misinterpreting the motion (and why shouldn’t she--any sane person would be scared right now). “I won’t let that happen.” There’s steel in her eyes and fire in her voice. “I promise.”

And then she turns and walks away.
 
It doesn’t take much effort to find out where the Nubian ship is; Satine merely has to listen to the gossip. From there, it’s easy enough to get a shuttle to take her out to the landing platform. All she has to do is inform the pilot she’s on Jedi business, and while he’s not exactly

glad

to ferry her up to the platform for free, he does it without complaining--especially once she reminds him he can bill the Temple later.

The platform is deserted, although she knows that won’t be the case for much longer. She’ll have to hurry if she’s going to hide somewhere she won’t be found. It’d be

embarrassing

to so thoroughly disobey her Master, only to be caught and returned to the Temple before she even has a chance to get offworld. An empty compartment next to where the Queen’s and handmaidens’ wardrobes are stored presents itself; she presses the button to open the compartment, slides in--gathering her cloak tightly around her to get it out of the way--and then, with a judicious touch of the Force, closes the door behind her.

After that, there’s nothing left to do but wait.

After a while, the ship’s engines turn on, sending a vibration through the durasteel beneath her. A few more minutes tick by before there’s a shudder and a sense of movement--the ship lifting off--but Satine stays hidden in her small compartment until she feels the ship lurch, her gut twisting in time, and hears the engine frequency change.

They’re in hyperspace.

A small smile flickers across her face. She opens the compartment with the Force, slips out, arranges her cloak around her--takes a second to check the mirror to make sure her braid is and pinned in place and her Padawan braid, with its brightly colored beads, is smooth and visible--and then she follows the sound of voices to what is apparently the Queen’s chamber.

Master Qui-Gon is in the middle of speaking when Satine enters. “I cannot fight a war for you, Your Highness, only protect--” He cuts off, eyes narrowing, a suspicious frown crossing his face. “Padawan Kryze, what

are

you doing here?”

Satine feels more than sees Obi-Wan spin around to stare at her, but she ignores him for the moment, to focus on his Master. “Master Qui-Gon,” she says respectfully, with a slight bow, “Queen Amidala,” and she bows much deeper to the Queen of the Naboo before turning back to the Jedi. “I believe you’re going to need some help. There is a Sith Lord after the Queen, and that is no small threat to be ignored.”

“With all due respect, Master Jedi,” a tall man with an eyepatch, who appears to be the Captain of the Queen’s Guard, says, “I think that the army of droids occupying Theed is of a

bit

more concern than a nebulous threat from the Jedi’s long-distant past.”

She draws herself up, indignant, readying a scathing retort… only to be interrupted before she can even open her mouth by a cool, calm voice. “With all due respect,

Captain,

perhaps you should stick to your own areas of expertise and refrain from passing judgement on topics you know nothing about.” The words are calmly professional, but Obi-Wan’s tone is a shade too cold and firm to be polite--though not incendiary enough to cause a diplomatic incident--and his body is tense. He stares down the Captain, not blinking--and it is the Captain who looks away first.

“This is Satine Kryze,” Qui-Gon says into the suddenly tense atmosphere. “She is one of our most skilled Padawans.”

“We are grateful for your freely-offered aid, Master Jedi,” Queen Amidala says. “We gladly accept it. Now, I must converse with Jar Jar Binks--alone. Perhaps my Jedi would like to take this time to discuss their strategy for their area of expertise?” There’s a hint of humor in her tone; Obi-Wan flushes.

“We would appreciate it,” Qui-Gon says. “Thank you. Obi-Wan, Satine, come with me.” And he leaves the chamber.
 
The instant they’ve reached a more private alcove, Qui-Gon spins to face Satine and says, quietly but with force, “What do you think you’re doing, Padawan?”

“How did you get on board?” Obi-Wan adds curiously, watching his friend with no small amount of worry. Sure, he’s happy to see her, and it’ll be good to have another Jedi watching their backs, but Master Windu had explicitly told her not to come and, well… he doesn’t want to even

think

about how much trouble she’s going to be in when she gets back to the Temple. (If she gets back, a traitorous part of his mind whispers, and he banishes the thought quickly. They’re all going to make it back. There’s no question about that.)

“I snuck on board and hid in a compartment until you made the jump to hyperspace,” Satine explains casually, as though she’s stowed away a hundred times (for all he knows, she

has).

“As for what I’m doing, I should think that would be obvious.”

“Master Windu is going to be furious with you,” Qui-Gon warns, a sentiment which Obi-Wan fully agrees with.

She half-smiles, though it’s odd, more sad--or wistful?--than anything else. “I am aware of that. It’s still the right thing to do. The Force agrees with me,” she adds with a wry twist of her lips, “if that counts for anything.”

“The Force told me to

is an excuse that not even the crechemaster will accept.” Qui-Gon shakes his head. “I wouldn’t count on Mace accepting it, either.” He pauses. “I’m going to go speak with Captain Panaka. The two of you should get some rest. Stay out of trouble,” he adds over his shoulder, already heading back down the corridor.

As though I could get into trouble while we’re still on the ship,

Obi-Wan doesn’t say; instead, he turns back to Satine after a moment. “Come on, let’s find somewhere to sit down.”

“Master Windu is really going to kill me this time,” she says softly, following him through the ship’s corridors. He leads her to the room where Anakin had spent the trip to Coruscant--a space where they’ll be out of the way, but still easy to find in case they’re needed--and waits for both of them to sit down before he answers.

“No he won’t. He likes you too much. Besides, killing you would be a waste of a perfectly good Jedi. You’re almost a Knight, after all.”

She shakes her head, laughs. “Master Windu is never going to Knight me before Qui-Gon Knights you. I’m honestly surprised you’re not a Knight already.”

“Our own council we will keep on who is ready,” Obi-Wan quotes bitterly, in a passable imitation of Grand Master Yoda. “More to learn, he still has.” He shakes his head, sighs. “I don’t think I’m getting Knighted any time soon. At least Master thinks I’m ready for my Trials…”

“Don’t worry too much about it, Obi,” Satine says gently, reaching forward and placing a hand on his knee. “I’m certain Master Yoda didn’t mean it to be an insult.” She hesitates, then, “That’s not what’s

really

bothering you, though.”

He sighs heavily, staring down at his feet for a moment. “Do you think he regrets taking me as his Padawan?” he asks, voice little more than a whisper.

Her response is immediate and forceful. “Of course not! Force, Obi, how could you think that?”

“It’s Anakin,” he says after a moment, moving his hand to tangle their fingers together, drawing comfort from the simple contact. “The Council refused to take him to be trained, and Master--he said he would take Anakin as his Padawan learner, and that I was ready to face the Trials.” He pauses to take a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few heartbeats, then opening them and looking back up at Satine. “Master thinks he is the Chosen One who will bring balance to the Force--I, I guess it’s only natural he should want to train Anakin, who has so much potential, rather than to complete my training--”

He’s expecting Satine to get angry. To snarl some heated denial of his words, because that’s what she

does,

and then to immediately storm off to find Qui-Gon and shout some sense into him.

She does none of that.

Instead, she squeezes his hand tightly, and the sheer sorrow and

understanding

in her eyes stops him mid-sentence. “Obi…” She swallows, taking a breath of her own. “Have you considered that maybe it’s not about what he

wants,

but about the will of the Force?” His uncomprehending silence is all the answer she needs, and she continues on. “Listen to the Force for a moment. Open your mind.”

He does, hesitantly--and gasps. How had he not seen this--how had the

Council

not seen it? The Force is practically

shouting,

resonating and reverberating in ways Obi-Wan has never felt before, screaming that

Anakin

must

be trained,

and he understands: Qui-Gon could no more ignore this call than one could ignore a force of nature. “Oh,” he breathes, and hope floods his soul, a brightly warm wave of Light breaking through the thick clouds of fear and self-doubt.

“He cares for you,” she promises, sincerity thick in her voice. “Even if he’s not the best at showing it.”

Obi-Wan smiles, squeezing her hand. “Thank you, Satine.” There’s a pause, during which he watches her and ruminates on her lack of a nickname. “Do you remember when Quin and I used to call you Teeny?”

Satine’s eyes flash in a familiar surge of ire. “Do

you

remember me swearing to punch you in the face the if you ever called me by that

despicable

name again?”

He smirks. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got your hand, then,” and he squeezes her hand again, to make his point.

“I’m

right-handed,

you idiot.”

… he really should’ve remembered that. “Oh. About that,” he starts faintly, and then he’s saved by Qui-Gon’s voice echoing from the main hold.

“Obi-Wan, Satine, we’re approaching the planet!”

“We can argue this later,” Obi-Wan decides, and Satine nods.

“Indeed. We have a planet to rescue.”
 
The yellow Naboo fighters have made it out of the hangar safely, off to target the droid control ship, and the Queen and her escort are headed for the door to the rest of the palace, Qui-Gon and Satine with them. Obi-Wan starts to follow, after one last glance back at Anakin, hiding in the cockpit of the last fighter, only to freeze.

Behind the door is something utterly cold and dark and

awful.

It reminds him of the assassin on Tatooine, but… stronger, now, more focused, more

intent,

more… hungry?

And then the door hisses open to reveal the tattooed Zabrak, holding his long lightsaber hilt out in front of him; there’s a pregnant pause, a moment that seems to stretch on into infinity, laden with the sharp awareness of incredible danger, and then both ends of the hilt sprout glowing red blades.

A double-bladed ‘saber.

“We’ll handle this,” Qui-Gon says confidently, calmly, his richly glowing green lightsaber springing to life. “Padawan, with me. Satine, stay with the Queen. Protect her at all costs.” As he speaks, Qui-Gon sheds his dark brown robe; Obi-Wan follows suit, after a moment, his own blue ‘saber hissing to life in his hands.

Satine looks torn, but she nods anyway, her green lightsaber--so pale as to be almost white--wavering a little in her palms. “May the Force be with you,” she calls out, and then she follows the Queen and her retinue.

The Sith leaps forward, twirling his ‘saber. Obi-Wan brings his own blade up, using Soresu to defend, then transitioning into Makashi (designed for lightsaber-to-lightsaber combat, and he’d never expected to use it outside the salle, had even

complained

when told to learn the katas; now, he’s never been so grateful) to counter. His Master is doing--something, he can’t spare even a second of his attention to see, but whatever it is it’s enough to make the Sith disengage and back away, out of the hangar and into the generator complex. Obi-Wan glances over at his Master, receives a nod, and then rushes forward, pressing the attack.

They must keep the Sith distracted so that the Queen can capture the Viceroy. That is their task.

It’s only when the door to the hangar hisses closed behind them and the Sith ventures out onto one of the narrow bridges crossing the the gap to the main generator that Obi-Wan begins to realize the Sith isn’t retreating--he’s leading them somewhere.

But where?

It doesn’t matter where; they have no choice but to take the bait, to follow, and the Sith knows. The red-tattooed Zabrak allows the two Jedi to engage him again, halfway across the bridge. Obi-Wan ducks one end of the ‘saber, frantically snaps his own blade back up to block the other end as it swings around (a sideways glance shows his Master to be doing the same, green blade locked with the red). The stalemate holds for a second, lightsabers spitting sparks, and then--

The Sith abruptly disengages and Force-jumps to the bridge one level up, twirling his ‘saber in one hand.

Qui-Gon doesn’t hesitate, leaping after him with an Ataru flip; with no other choice (he doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to keep following this…

thing

deeper into the complex, because every instinct he has screams at him not to let the adversary set the terms of the fight, but what choice does he have?), Obi-Wan pulls on the Force to lend extra strength to his legs and

jumps.

He lands on the Sith’s other side, and instead of waiting for the Darksider to attack, to set the pace again, he shifts into the fierce strength of Djem So and launches forward. The battle begins again in earnest, the Sith eagerly pushing the attack, and the temptation to slip back into his favored Soresu is strong (he’s not incredibly familiar or comfortable with either of Form V’s variants), but he can’t, he

won’t

allow the Sith to have control back again, and--

Seeming to realize which of them is the easier target, and that the fight is too evenly-matched when it’s two-on-one, the Sith suddenly shifts his focus.

Careful, Obi-Wan!

Qui-Gon shouts through the training bond, and he barely has time to shift into a defensive Soresu stance before the Sith’s entire focus and fury and hatred and icy-cold Darkness lands fully on him. One move--two--three--and suddenly, he’s off-balance and stumbling, and then something (a booted foot?) smacks into his side with enough force (not Force, thankfully) to derail a small train, and the catwalk isn’t beneath him anymore.

Vertigo and gravity take over, and Obi-Wan has just enough time to brace himself before he slams into another catwalk several levels below where he’d fallen from.

For a moment, all he knows is

pain.

It sears through him, even as the impact knocks every shred of air from his lungs; he can feel his bones crack, and static flares across his vision as his head snaps backwards and sideways (some part of him, that bit of his mind that somehow can be snarky even in life-or-death situations, notes that he’s going to have some nasty whiplash). His teeth crash together--except his tongue is between them, and suddenly the coppery taste of blood fills his mouth, thick and hot and metallic. His ‘saber slips from his loosened fingers, rolls to the very edge of the bridge, but--thank the Force--it doesn’t fall.

For a long moment, he just lays there, dazed, until finally his diaphragm will work right and his lungs stop screaming for oxygen and the painfully-bright bursts of color stop writhing through his vision. Sense returns all at once, a realization of the duel still occurring above his head (his Master is fighting the Sith Lord

alone,

and he can’t just

lay here

and watch), and he pushes himself onto his knees (the world swims before his eyes, a wave of dizziness and nausea swamping him, and he vaguely thinks he probably has a concussion), rides out the way everything spins, grabs his lightsaber and activates the blade once again, climbs to his feet (too slowly, too slowly). He follows the sounds to a few levels above him--Qui-Gon has flipped over the Sith, probably in one of the Ataru aerials, and to the uneducated eye, the casual observer, the Jedi appears to be backing the Sith up.

Obi-Wan knows better, though. The Sith is leading his Master on, baiting him towards a small opening in the wall.

There’s no time to lose.

He takes a half-second to wipe the sweat from his forehead before it can drip into his eyes, and then he Force-jumps up to the same bridge as the two duelists as the Sith backs through the gap in the wall, Qui-Gon following. His breath coming in short gasps, Obi-Wan sprints along the bridge, lit lightsaber in hand, gritting his teeth against the stabbing pain in his ribs and the back of his skull.

He makes it to the door just as seven red ray-shields cycle into place, separating the Sith and his Master--and separating his Master from

him.

The Sith’s ‘sabers hiss off; so does Qui-Gon’s, and, true to form, the Jedi Master immediately kneels down and closes his eyes, breathing settling into a rhythm. (Obi-Wan has always envied how easily the Master can slip into meditation, even in the middle of a battle.) After a moment’s hesitation, Obi-Wan turns his own lightsaber off to conserve power, though he tenses his muscles, preparing to take off the instant the shields go down again. They’ll have to go down--it’s a cycle. They’ll cycle off, and he’ll only have a few short seconds in which to make it through all seven before they come on again.

He clenches his jaw, tries to regulate his panting breathing into something more approaching calm.

The shields cycle.

In an instant, Obi-Wan is running, running like he’s never run before; Qui-Gon leaps to his feet and lights his ‘saber blade as the last shields go down and launches, attacking the Sith with a new ferocity born from stability and immersion in the Light, but he’s tiring rapidly now and still outclassed and--

Obi-Wan is mere feet away from the circular room, from his Master, when the shields cycle on again, and he’s forced to skid to an abrupt stop to avoid hitting the last one.

And it is trapped thus that the entirety of the Sith’s strategy becomes clear to him in a single horrifying instant.

Wear them out by fighting at less than full-strength, lure the Jedi into thinking they’re winning, retreat in the direction he wants, all leading to this moment: to when he has them split up and can face them one at a time and tired, while he still possesses most of his original energy.

It’s incredibly brilliant.

Just hold on, Master,

Obi-Wan pleads desperately through the training bond, pressing himself as close to the thin barrier as he dares, adrenaline surging through him, leaving him jittery and breathless and desperate to

act,

to do

something--

He sees it coming a heartbeat too late to get out a warning, and the next minute passes by in a handful of snapshot seconds:

Qui-Gon is off-balance and moving slowly, weighed down by his exhaustion, his breathing uneven and his face soaked in sweat.

The Sith feints (and it’s a

good

feint).

Qui-Gon falls for it.

And, in a single fluid motion, the Sith reverses the motion, bashes his lightsaber hilt into Qui-Gon’s chin (the Jedi’s head snaps back and his jaw

cracks

audibly, and his already-off balance is thrown more, and his guard is down), twists his wrists, and drives one lurid red ‘saber into Qui-Gon’s chest.

(His ‘saber blades are an ugly crimson, like the ray-shields, like blasterfire, like blood, only there’s no blood on Qui-Gon’s chest, because lightsaber wounds cauterize instantly and always leave a scar, everyone knows that, and there’s a

hole

in his Master’s

sternum

and there’s no blood and that just seems

wrong.

There should be blood.)

Someone’s screaming--Obi-Wan realizes distantly that it’s him--and Qui-Gon’s falling to the ground beside the melting pit and the shields are cycling down and the training bond is in tatters, burning with white-hot agony and shock and his lightsaber

thrums

in his hands and there’s a roaring static rising within him, blocking everything else out, and his vision is tinged red.

Utter

hatred

boils through him, raw and fiery, like he’s never felt before, and with it comes a deep well of power. He lunges forward as the last shield collapses, ‘saber out and teeth bared and his off-hand outstretched, and he can already

see

the lightning crackling through the air (and his whole body, his blood, his very bones sing with the desperate

need

for revenge, as great as his hunger for air, and the strength born of pure rage fuels him), and--

No, Obi-Wan!

The sharp, horrified, forceful mental call arrests him in the middle of calling lightning, and for just a moment he wavers, torn by conflict--and a moment is all Qui-Gon needs, to fill the training bond with Light, with love.

Don’t give in, my Padawan--

His mental voice cuts out, but the hatred’s grip on Obi-Wan has been shattered, the electricity dissipating before it can be released. (It might just be his imagination, but the Sith Lord almost looks

disappointed.)

He launches forward again (there are tears in his eyes, blurring his vision, and sweat pours down into his eyes and

stings,

but he can’t take the time to wipe them away), but this time in the familiar Ataru stance, and with all the strength in his thin, whipcord arms he attacks.

But the Sith is just so much

better.

Faster, stronger, using a form he’s never seen before, and he’s on the defensive almost immediately, not even in the familiar Soresu blocks and parries, just his ‘saber moving wildly, haphazardly, the only goal to keep his blue blade between himself and the twirling, spinning red beams, just sheer desperation and terror and the body’s instinctive desire to

survive.

The duel blades keep catching him by surprise; multiple times, he gets the Sith in a blade-lock, only for the Zabrak to simply relax the pressure--unbalancing him--and twist the other blade at his unprotected gut or knees or

wherever.

There’s nothing graceful, technical,

beautiful

about this fight; he is simply racing a half-step ahead of Death’s snapping jaws, more ducking and dodging than anything else, staying as close to the Sith as possible because he has the advantage in reach and the close quarters at least make it a little harder for him to effectively wield his double-bladed ‘saber.

(The bond is nearly nothing, now; Qui-Gon’s fallen utterly silent, his life-force slipping further and further away with every second the duel lasts, and all Obi-Wan can think is that he must end this

now,

because

Qui-Gon,

if he doesn’t kill the Sith he’ll die, they’ll both die, and--)

He disengages for a brief second, backing away, buying time to try and catch his breath (he’s breathing is short, sharp, shallow gasps, near to hyperventilating, but he can’t seem to slow his breaths down, and his head is pounding and his ribs are screaming and his mouth is full of blood and there are minor burns all over him all adding to the cacophony, and there’s an awful stabbing ache in his side, and his legs and arms are starting to shake and tremble), panic and horror and terror and pain and fear and the knowledge that he is in

way

over his head all mixing together in a deadly flood, nearly paralyzing him. (And before,

Sith

was a mere word, a name assigned to a nebulous concept of evil and the Dark Side, an ancient enemy of the Jedi Order extinct for a thousand years, not really something that he could wrap his mind around, could comfortably grasp; now and forevermore,

Sith

will be synonymous with pain and terror and cold and Darkness and exhaustion and panic and desperation, and he has

never

been this incredibly

afraid

before in his life.)

He is going to die.

The realization sets in just as the Sith catches him off-guard, knocks his lightsaber away and sends him falling into the melting pit; he barely manages to catch his fingers on some kind of protruding nozzle on the pit’s side as he falls. His entire body slams

hard

into the wall, sending a shock of pain through him, and his muscles seize up for just long enough that he can do nothing more than watch as the Sith kicks his ‘saber into the pit. It goes sailing past his head and vaporizes on the shields down below.

His gaze follows it down, hesitating on the shields for the span of a few heartbeats, the beginnings of an idea Satine would most certainly yell at him about were she here forming in his mind (but she’s

not

here and she should’ve been and isn’t this why she came along in the first place,

one of them will die?);

he looks back up at the Sith standing at the edge of the pit, a gloating smile on his red-tattooed face, and it’s as though all the desperation and adrenaline drains away all at once. He’s suddenly exhausted, body, mind, and soul, twenty-five years old and staring Death in the face. It’s hopeless--he’s lost.

He thinks about the shields below him again, wondering with a sort of detached, abject curiosity what they would do to a human body. Kill him, most certainly. Perhaps…

Perhaps it would be better to simply… let go. Die on his own terms, a death of his own choosing. It would be so easy…

His arms are trembling from the strain of holding on, his fingers cramping and clammy with sweat. He won’t be able to hold on much longer.

Remember, my dear Padawan, your focus determines your reality.

He jerks at the voice--though he’s not sure if it’s his Master speaking to him or a memory, his survival instinct’s last gasp--and looks away from the Zabrak, eyes landing on his Master’s crumpled form--

And the lightsaber lying on the floor, fallen from Qui-Gon’s hand.

Your focus determines your reality.

He closes his eyes.

Hundreds of memories spring up, all with one thing in common: Qui-Gon and his green ‘saber. Lessons in the various forms, spars, moving meditation, field missions, all dancing across the backsides of his eyelids.

He breathes.

In, out.

When he reaches for the Light, it answers his call, wrapping around him, but not as a soothing warm blanket--instead, as the blazing defiance of a lightsaber, cold and hard and sharp like the ice on Ilum, like a kyber crystal.

In, out.

He opens his eyes.

And then, the Force augmenting his strength and flexibility, he flips himself up and

over

the Sith’s head, Force-pulling the lightsaber to his hand at the same time with a strength and energy born of raw, bloody desperation, a refusal to give in, to give up, and he activates the blade as he lands. The Sith is too slow, still turning, not prepared, and the green lightsaber cuts the Zabrak in half and sends him toppling into the melting pit to crash into the shields at the bottom.

The burst of energy fades away as suddenly as it had come; Obi-Wan shuts off the blade and discards the casing, dropping to his knees by his Master. There is no victory, no joy, in ending the duel, only a vague sense of relief, a bone-deep exhaustion, and an ocean of grief. Qui-Gon is still alive, but only just, and even though his heart screams at him to try and use the Force to heal his Master, to save him, he knows there’s no chance.

If he’d defeated the Sith faster, then maybe… but not now.

Still, he’s shaking, and there’s an awful desperate hope in his voice anyway as he says, “Master. Master!”

(The tears are back.)

“It is too late,” Qui-Gon whispers, his voice barely a thread of sound.

“No,” Obi-Wan whimpers, slipping his arms under the older man’s head, cradling him carefully (no, it can’t be, he doesn’t want him to die--), “No…”

Qui-Gon’s hand comes up, quivering, to rest gently against his cheek. “Obi-Wan, promise,” and he pauses to take a raspy breath, “promise me you’ll train the boy…” and part of him wants to be bitter but he remembers the almost-compulsion of the Force and understands, and anyway how could he be bitter when his Master is filling his heart and mind with

love

so deep and pure it takes his breath away?

“Yes, Master,” he promises. (He would’ve promised

anything,

at this moment.)

“He is the Chosen One,” and there’s another hissing breath, like dry leaves across pavement, “he will… bring balance…” and another last wheezing gasp in. “Train him!”

And then the air leaves his lungs with a faint whistling sound, and his chest does not rise again, and his hand goes limp and falls from Obi-Wan’s cheek; with a trembling, reverent hand, he closes his Master’s eyes, and then he screams, thick with anguish and horror and guilt and pain.

And thus passes Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Satine blames herself for Master Qui-Gon’s death, no matter that the Queen had

needed

her help; after all, she had come to save them, and she had failed. The Jedi don’t blame her, she knows (and even though she’s still in trouble for disobeying her Master and sneaking off, the punishment is subdued, given the circumstances). In fact, there’s only one other person who blames her.

And the only person he blames

more

than her is himself.
 
The entire Jedi Council, as well as about twenty others who had been close to Qui-Gon, comes to Naboo for the funeral. It is a simple, somber affair, as all Jedi funerals tend to be; the dead Master is laid out on a stone bier, dressed in a clean outfit free of all marks of the duel. No words are spoken, but everyone is given a few moments to pay their respects, and then the funeral pyre is lit. The Jedi keep a silent watch until the body is ash and then disperse to their given quarters for the night. Satine makes to follow that example, only to be beckoned over by Master Windu. He stands a short distance from the pyre, not quite out of earshot but close, and there’s something very strange in his eyes.

“Master Windu, I’m sorry--” Satine starts, but he shakes his head, cuts her off.

“No,

I’m

the one who should be sorry,” he says with a tired sigh. “If I’d listened to you, maybe we wouldn’t be standing here now. You are a strong Jedi, and almost ready for your Trials, and I would do well to remember that.” Then he smiles a bit, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “But none of that changes the fact that you directly disobeyed me, which is why I’m putting you on Archive duty for the next month.”

She groans. “Master--”

Once again, he interrupts her, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “Coincidentally, you’ll have plenty of time to keep an eye on our newest Knight, who’s probably going to be Temple-bound for a while to get his new Padawan up to speed, wouldn’t you say?”

She blinks, all her protests gone right out the window. “Obi-Wan?” she says, a bit dumbly, instinctively glancing back over her shoulder at the funeral pyre, where a lone figure wrapped tightly in a cloak stands silhouetted against the twilit sky.

“A few of the Masters are worried about how he’s going to handle this,” Windu admits. “We--they--are afraid he’s going to lay most of the blame on himself.”

Satine nods her agreement. “I’ll keep an eye on him, Master,” she promises quietly, and hopes it’ll be enough.
 
Obi-Wan stays out by the pyre long after all the others have retired for the night, staring at the way the breeze stirs the pile of ash into strange designs and trying to find the pattern to the gusts. There has to be one, even though he can’t find it--just like there must be some pattern, some great design to Master Qui-Gon’s death. The Force works in mysterious ways, and it often seems as fickle and capricious as the wind, but everything happens according to its will.

But

why

did the will of the Force have to result in his Master’s death?

His Padawan braid is clutched tightly in one fist, representing his twelve years of training--half his life summed up in a few inches of coppery-blond hair. For years, he’s imagined this day: it would happen on Coruscant, in front of the Council, and Master Qui-Gon would take a pair of shears and cut off his braid, proclaiming him to be a Jedi Knight, and then he would give the tightly woven piece of hair to his Master. Instead, Obi-Wan’s braid was cut by Mace Windu, and it was Yoda who’d given him the rank of Knight, and now he’s standing alone in front of the ashes that are all that remains of the man who’d been a father to him with the all-important braid in his hands.

Part of him wonders why he can’t seem to cry now, when he hadn’t been able to stop the tears during the duel; the greater part of him, however, remembers that

he

is the reason Qui-Gon is dead, because he had been too slow and too distracted. And so he is as much responsible for his Master’s death as the Sith Lord--Darth Maul--was, and when you kill someone, you’re not allowed to cry, so.

And, besides, he is a Jedi now, in truth, fully a Knight at last; and Jedi do not have attachments, and when they have emotions they let the Force take them. But he’s not very good at just letting go of his emotions, though Master Qui-Gon had tried as hard as he could to pound the lesson into his Padawan’s thick skull--but Obi-Wan has a Padawan of his own, now (and that’s a terrifying thought), and so he must

let go.

(After all, hadn’t he just told Anakin that, earlier in the evening?)

So he fashions a box, in the back of his mind, and he pushes everything he’s not supposed to feel inside it, and locks it as tightly as he can, and then he stares up at the stars and just breathes.
 
Anakin can’t sleep.

He’s tired, yes, but his body is still on Tatooine time, and his mind is whirling with the aftereffects of the adrenaline of the battle, and he’s, well… worried.

Padme (and he’s still shocked that the stunningly beautiful girl he’d given the japor snippet to is

Queen Amidala)

gave Obi-Wan and Anakin a suite to share for the night, and Anakin’s grateful for that, because if he

wasn’t

sharing a room with his new Master (he’s expecting the word to not sit right on his tongue, to taste bitter, but to his surprise it doesn’t), he wouldn’t know that Obi-Wan

still

hasn’t come back.

The other Jedi had sent Anakin back to their shared rooms to sleep, saying he’d be there soon, but Anakin’s been laying awake for

hours

now and he hasn’t heard Obi-Wan come back inside. So now he not only can’t sleep because his

body

is confused, now his

mind

won’t stop spinning.

He tosses and turns for a few more minutes before letting out a frustrated sigh and sitting up, flinging the covers off. It’s no use. He’s never going to be able to sleep, not while his fool Jedi is out wandering around, doing who-knows-what and getting into trouble. And, if he’s going to be awake anyway, he might as well go do stuff and get into trouble

with

his Master, right?

Luckily, Anakin’s pretty sure he knows right where Obi-Wan is.

He climbs out of the bed (which is too soft and luxurious for him to be comfortable on, anyway) and pulls on his dusty tunic and pants again before jamming his feet into his boots and heading to the door. He pokes his head out into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear before slipping out and retracing his footsteps from earlier, back outside to where the plain Jedi funeral had been held.

Sure enough, Obi-Wan is standing there, in the same exact place he’d been hours before. Anakin trots up to the older man and stands there for a minute, shifting from foot to foot, unsure of what to say--

“You should be asleep,” Obi-Wan says without turning, his voice strangely detached.

Anakin rolls his eyes. “And you shouldn’t be?”

“I am twenty-five years old,” Obi-Wan points out, “and that makes me an adult. Also, I’m a Jedi Knight. I have the right to

choose my own bedtime.”

Anakin blinks at the sarcasm. “Um. Okay,” he says, and then falls silent and joins his Master in staring at ash.

Maybe, he finds himself thinking, the sarcasm, the detachment, maybe it’s all just Obi-Wan’s way of coping. After all, his mom had told him once that everybody handles their feelings in different ways.

“I had a friend, once,” he ventures, hesitantly, darting a glance up at Obi-Wan. “Well, he wasn’t exactly a

friend,

he was…” He stops, frowns, then decides to move on with the story. “His name was Aden, and he was older--a lot closer to Mom’s age. He was a slave, too--not Watto’s, he belonged to somebody else--and he came over to our house a lot to help Mom out with stuff I’m too small to do. And if he had enough rations, he’d share with us when Watto didn’t give us any. I think he and Mom were gonna get married.” He pauses, looking up at Obi-Wan again--the Jedi hasn’t moved, but he at least looks like he’s listening? “Anyway, he did something his master didn’t like, I guess, and he got sent into the desert during a sandstorm. And he died.” Another pause, another covert look. “So I, uh, I know sorta how you feel. And, well--talking usually helps, when you’re sad.”

Obi-Wan’s face is stone when he speaks, after letting so long a silence elapse that Anakin isn’t sure he’ll answer. “You really don’t.”

Anakin blinks, confused. “Don’t what?”

“Know how I feel.” And finally,

finally

the Jedi looks away from the pyre, but his eyes are cold. “Thank you for trying, Anakin, but this is not something you can help with. Now, please, you need your sleep. I promise I’ll come inside shortly.”

“Alright, Obi--er, Master,” Anakin says quietly, and he steps back. But before he can leave, words bubble up in his throat and spill out, entirely without his permission. “Master?” he starts, and Obi-Wan looks away from the ashes again and raises one eyebrow. “Master Qui-Gon’s death--it wasn’t your fault.”

There are cracks in his blue-grey eyes. “Of course it was,” Obi-Wan says simply, his tone one of calm acceptance, steady and relaxed (but his hands are trembling where they’re knotted in his cloak). “Goodnight, Anakin.”

“Goodnight, Master,” Anakin whispers, swallowing hard against the tears in his eyes and the lump in his throat, and then he turns and leaves.
 
Obi-Wan helps Anakin with his braid the next morning, after trimming all but a small section of the new Padawan’s thick blond hair to regulation length. The familiar routine--even if the hair to be braided is so much shorter than he’s used to--is both calming and painful at the same time, soothing in its familiarity and yet an all-too-piercing reminder of the absence of his own braid and the reason for that.

Anakin seems subdued, this morning, and the fledgling training bond between them pulses with conflicting emotions, foremost among them the fact that he’s going to miss Padme. There’s a strange attraction there, an attachment that Obi-Wan really

should

be scolding the boy for, but… he’ll probably never

see

Padme again, Force willing, and they’ll be leaving for the Temple after the parade, so what’s the harm in allowing the attachment to remain just a little longer? Adjusting to Temple life and the Jedi way is going to be hard enough on the boy as it is.

Still, he’s already beginning to get tired of the ceaseless stream of thoughts-feelings through the bond. He hesitates, considering--Initiates learn shielding at a very young age, long before they ever become Padawans or leave the creche, and his memories of those early lessons are murky, the concepts so ingrained he doesn’t even think about them anymore--and then lightly nudges the bond.

Anakin’s eyes fly up to meet his in the mirror. “Huh? I mean, yes, Master?” he asks.

“I didn’t say anything,” Obi-Wan says, nearly smiling at the befuddled look on his Padawan’s face.

“But I heard…” and his voice trails off, a furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you hear, or

hear?”

Obi-Wan asks, emphasizing the second word.

Of course Anakin doesn’t understand. So he nudges the bond again, and this time adds a stern

focus

to the communication. “Search your mind,” he adds aloud. “Focus.”

It takes the nine-year-old a minute, and then his eyes go wide as dinner plates, almost comically round, and he gasps. “Wizard! What

is

it?”

“It’s a training bond,” Obi-Wan explains, helping Anakin thread the bead onto the end of the braid and tie it off. “A Force connection between a Master and their Padawan--and right now, your end is wide open.”

Your whole mind is,

he adds silently.

You need to develop shields to protect yourself from an invasion and to keep your thoughts and emotions from spilling out into the ambient Force around you.

“How do I make shields?” Anakin asks, spinning the chair around to look directly up at Obi-Wan.

“I’ll show you. Close your eyes and concentrate.” He reaches for the bond again, but this time, instead of nudging it or pushing words across, he extends the mental equivalent of an outstretched hand, inviting Anakin to cross over.

Picture yourself taking my hand and crossing the bridge between our minds,

he sends, and ‘watches’ Anakin’s fumbling attempts. He can feel it, the moment the boy understands, because suddenly he’s

there,

in Obi-Wan’s mind.

Now look.

Obi-Wan’s mind is a galaxy of stars, but not the familiar starmaps of the known regions of this galaxy; instead, his mind is modeled after the unknown regions, filled with black holes, deadly gravity fluctuations, disorienting nebulae, and above all, the cold vacuum of space. Even if you could figure out how to navigate through it, you’d have great difficulty actually finding what you’re looking for, given that his memories are hidden in only one of the myriad number of stars scattered across the blackness.

Wizard,

clearly comes from Anakin, making Obi-Wan smile; he then reveals a hyperlane that winds between all the hazards to one of the stars: his way of allowing people past his defenses.

Now it’s your turn,

he tells his apprentice, and follows Anakin back to his own mind.

It takes a few minutes for a visualization to form, but when it does, he’s not at all surprised by what the image is. First is Mos Espa, only empty, but replicated in exact detail otherwise (Obi-Wan has the feeling that if he were to go to where the Skywalker house is in the actual town, that’s where he’d find Anakin’s memories); beyond that, the desert, stretching as far as the eye can see, the suns hot and blistering. As he watches, the winds kick up until there’s a massive sandstorm encircling the city, the sand so thick it completely blocks the blue sky from view. Not only does the sandstorm act as good camouflage, it also will seriously pain anyone who isn’t properly protected.

It’s genius.

Well done,

Obi-Wan says, and then withdraws from the boy’s mind.

Now, imagine drawing a curtain across the entrance to our bond. Not solid enough to block out purposeful communication, but enough to keep surface thoughts and emotions from slipping through.

Almost before he’s finished explaining it, the ‘curtain’ shield is up.

The difference is immediately noticeable, and he smiles, opening his eyes and refocusing on the material world. “You picked that up very quickly,” he tells Anakin. “Much faster than I did as a youngling. Now hurry and get dressed--the parade is about to begin.”

Anakin jumps up, scrambles to get into his room; Obi-Wan remains in the main area of the suite, considering the lesson. It had gone well, and Anakin seemed to pick up the concept easily.

Perhaps he

can

do this after all.
 
Padme is dressed as the Queen for the parade, meaning that Anakin isn’t going to have a chance to talk to her before the Jedi contingent leaves, or so he thinks; however, because of the lesson this morning, neither he nor Master Obi-Wan had time to pack their things (not that he has very much, but), so they both have to return to the palace.

He’s in the hallway just outside the suite, eyes wandering over the rich decor, when Padme hurries up to him in a simple gold dress that makes her look even

more

beautiful, if that’s even possible. “Ani!” she exclaims. “I was afraid I wouldn’t catch you!”

The full-face makeup of the Queen has been scrubbed from her, and her curly hair is loose and resting against her shoulders. The japor snippet he’d given her a few days ago on the ship to Coruscant is tied around her neck. “You’re wearing the carving I gave you?” he blurts out, flushing a little, pride surging through him.

Padme blushes, too. “I’ve been wearing it since you gave it to me,” she admits. “I thought we might need the good luck you promised me.”

“Hey, we won,” he says with a grin. He seems to grin a lot, around her. And blush. It doesn’t make sense. “I’d say my good fortune came through.”

She laughs, the sound like the ringing of a thousand bells. “Oh, Ani, I’m going to miss you,” she says, her smile dimming.

“We’ll see each other again,” he says. “I know it.” There’s a pause, and then he says, “I’m not supposed to stay in contact with anyone, but--”

From her sleeve, she pulls out a small datapad and a commlink. “I thought maybe, if you wanted, we could still talk, with these,” she says when his voice falters. “The datapad is encrypted, and there’s a built-in scrambler program that renders all the data into code if someone other than you tries to access it, as well as a code you can enter that will wipe the whole thing. If either of us enters the code onto our ‘pad, the other one is automatically wiped, too.”

“Padme, that’s

brilliant,”

he says, eyes widening. She hands the datapad and commlink to him and he tucks them away before continuing. “What about the comm?”

“It’s as secure as I could get it,” she explains, “which really isn’t very secure at all, but for special occasions…”

“It’s

perfect!”

Anakin swallows, considering, and then he softly asks, “Can I give you a hug?”

Padme hesitates and then nods. “But hurry, I don’t want you to get in trouble,” and then she stops talking because he’s slipping his arms around her waist.

She hugs him back, tightly, and for a moment everything is utterly perfect.

But then there’s a nudge from Master Obi-Wan across the bond, and if he doesn’t respond his Master will come to get him, and he has to keep this secret, so… with a regretful sigh, he pulls back. “I have to go,” he explains. “But we’ll see each other again, Padme. I promise.”

She manages a smile. “Goodbye, Ani,” and she leans down and presses her lips against his cheek. “Good luck at the Temple.”

And then she turns and disappears down the hallway, leaving Anakin stunned and flushed behind her.

He’s still grinning like a lunatic when the ship taking him and his Master to Coruscant takes off.
 
Satine manages to corner Obi-Wan in a small, unoccupied nook shortly after the ship makes the jump into hyperspace. Anakin is holed up in the cockpit, bothering the pilot, and the other Jedi are elsewhere, so there’s no one to interrupt.

Obi-Wan looks vaguely terrified.

“Are you okay?” she asks, abruptly unsure of what to say.

He cracks a grin, though it’s halfhearted. “Of course. Never been better.”

It’s such a blatant lie she doesn’t even know how to respond. “I care about you, Obi,” she says softly, taking another step towards him. “If--if you need to talk, I’m here. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” he repeats, but there’s a different note in his voice now, something softer. It sends a shiver racing down her spine.

“And--I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” She takes a deep breath, looks away, unable to see the look in his eyes. “I wasn’t there when you needed me, and because of that, Qui-Gon--”

“Satine,” he says, and then he reaches out and rests one hand against her cheek, gently lifting her chin, forcing her to look at him. There’s no condemnation in his eyes. “I was wrong to blame you, and I apologize. You were only doing what you were told, and because of that, Queen Amidala was able to regain her throne. Duty must come before anything else, you know that. The mission comes first.”

“The mission comes first,” she echoes, but her heart’s not in it. Instead, she remembers the fleeting touches, the smiles, the flirting--the quiet secrets shared, late at night, in the dark of the training salle or while huddled together on a mission. What does he call that, then?

“You’re a good friend,” he continues. “Even though we didn’t exactly start off on the best terms.”

“Friend?” she says, before she can stop herself. “Is that what we are, then?” And that was

stupid,

stupid, stupid to say, so she rushes on before he can respond. “Just please come talk to me, if you need anything. Alright?”

He nods. “Of course,” he lies through his teeth, and she cares too much to point it out.
 
He’s not intentionally avoiding Satine.

He tells himself that, over and over again; he’s just been

busy,

with Anakin, and trying to get the boy caught up to the others his age. Anakin is actually quite young to be a Padawan, or he would be had he been Temple-raised, but since most of the younglings are brought to the Temple at around two years of age, he’s far too old to be an Initiate. Only being chosen as a Padawan allowed him to be a part of the Order at all.

But the point stands. It’s not like he’s avoiding his friends, especially Satine and Quinlan, on

purpose--

okay, maybe just a little on purpose.

Truth be told, he

really

doesn’t want to talk about Qui-Gon, and he’s still trying to puzzle out Satine’s comment:

Friends? Is that what we are?

What does that

mean?

Certainly, there are times where he has had distinctly

not-friendly

thoughts about her, but, well… there is the Code, and there is his--their--duty, and attachment is forbidden, and… and there’s nothing there. He’s overthinking things. He doesn’t

want

there to be anything there. Because that would be breaking the Code, and he lives by the Code, his Master taught him better than that--

(Except that he didn’t, did he? Qui-Gon broke the Code whenever it suited him.)

This is all ridiculous, really, but it’s better than obsessing about Maul and Naboo and Qui-Gon (he sees those scenes painted on the backs of his eyelids every night, anyway, the last thing he wants to do is to see them during the day too), and so when he’s not training Anakin, he wonders about Satine.

Honestly, though, he really

is

busy; the education standards for slave-born humans on Hutt-owned worlds are…

odd,

especially compared to Temple education. Obi-Wan spends a week straight teaching Anakin how to read Basic, because

apparently

all he’d ever been taught to read is Huttese. Which isn’t even

useful.

He knows almost

nothing

about galactic and Republic history, but knows almost more math than Obi-Wan himself, and can build just about anything.

He

adores

lightsaber combat.

The first time Obi-Wan gives Anakin one of the training ‘sabers, the boy panics and flings the casing halfway across the room; when Obi-Wan tries to touch him, Anakin flinches violently and jerks away, curling up on himself and trembling.

Obi-Wan freezes.

Anakin?

he tries, tentative, and something in the boy recognizes his mental signature because suddenly his shields part and allow the Knight in. The defending sandstorms are swirling with sheer fear. Anakin is utterly

terrified,

and Obi-Wan has

no idea why.

He’s patient, projecting warmth and Light and calm and safety, able to recognize the signs of a panic attack even if he doesn’t understand what the trigger is. He’s not sure how long passes before everything calms down enough for Anakin to recognize Obi-Wan’s presence, but finally the Padawan does; there’s a sense of gratefulness and apology, and then Anakin gently but firmly pushes Obi-Wan out of his mind.

“I’m sorry, Master,” Anakin’s saying. “Slaves aren’t supposed to have weapons, or the masters kill us. Them. I just--I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s perfectly alright, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, and Force-pulls the ‘saber back to his hand. “Do you want to try again?”

He nods, blue eyes fiercely determined. “Yes.”
 
Slaves aren’t allowed weapons.

Slaves also aren’t supposed to use the Force.

Anakin doesn’t tell Obi-Wan that, though, or about all the times Watto had beaten him when he

had

used the Force outside of the podraces (mostly it was an accident, but that didn’t matter to Watto). After all, he

knows

the Jedi are different, and of

course

they’ll want him to use the Force.

But it’s hard.

Sometimes, he forgets, goes pale and small and waits for a punishment. Most of the time, Master Obi-Wan doesn’t even notice--he hasn’t been around slaves long enough to know the signs--but sometimes, he has panic attacks.

Those are the worst, because he’s pretty sure Master Obi-Wan gets scared, too, but Anakin can’t help it. It’s not like he

wants

to have panic attacks! Maybe this time, Master Obi-Wan will realize that he’s not worth it, that he can’t be a Jedi, that he’s just not good enough, and he’ll get sent back to Tatooine. What if they send him back to Watto? He doesn’t

want

to go back to Watto!

He doesn’t

mean

to tell Master Obi-Wan about his fears, but after having a panic attack the first time Obi-Wan raises his hand like he’s going to hit Anakin (he’s not), everything comes spilling out.

“Please don’t send me back to Watto,” he begs, starting to cry and feeling sick about it. “I’m sorry, I’ll try harder, I’ll do better, just

please

don’t make me go back to Tatooine.”

“Ani,” Obi-Wan says, and that gets his attention because his Master has never used his nickname before, “I’m not going to send you back. I promise.”

“You won’t?”

“I promised you I’d train you, and that you would be a Jedi, remember?” Obi-Wan says.

Anakin nods, hesitantly. “But--”

“No buts,” his Master says firmly. “I swore to Master Qui-Gon that I would train you, even if I had to leave the Order to do it. I intend to keep that promise. You

will

be trained, Anakin.”

“Alright,” Anakin says, and he takes a deep breath.

He’s not going to disappoint his Master. No matter what it takes.

Hi, Padme.

Anakin glances up, carefully, to make sure Obi-Wan’s nowhere in sight before he sends the message.

The response is almost immediate.

Ani! How’s your training going?

It’s going okay,

he types back, a small smile spreading across his face.

I like Master Obi-Wan. He’s even letting me make my own lightsaber. How’s being a Queen?

Padme’s response takes a few minutes to come back, and he’s starting to worry she doesn’t want to talk when:

I have a surprise for you, Ani.

What????

There’s another pause, and then,

I freed your mother.