Chapter Text
The Temple was on high-alert, the hallways and common areas uncharacteristically barren for a building so usually filled with life regardless of the hour. Temple Guards walked the halls with a singular determination, their movements silent despite their layered garb. The Temple's head of security - Cin Drallig, blue eyes hard and shrewd - stalked among them like fortitude manifested.
The hour was very late and the halls were mostly empty, save for the occasional youngling or Padawan that moved under the protective eves of a hovering Master or two, and even the Knights seemed to have taken to traveling in groups. The cause of the unease was an unprecedented attack on the Temple – an EMP strike so strong that it had blasted out half the windows and fried circuitry on the mid-floors. There had been no sign of the attackers, no demands made upon the Temple, and the feeling at whole was that it was some sort of terrorist attack, though no group had come forward to claim it.
From where he stood, tucked carefully into a dark corner where a balcony curved to meet the wall and an oversized potted plant, Obi-Wan Kenobi watched the drawn faces of his fellows, his own expression a twisted composition of unabashed awe and guilt. He was still completely unsure of what was going on, too frightened to put belief in what his own eyes – and the Force – told him.
Because what was before his eyes was an impossibility.
He had seen the Temple burning; burning and littered with the bodies of the only family he had ever known. Dead from the hand of the only boy Obi-Wan had ever called ‘Padawan.’ A boy who, if he was utterly honest to himself, Obi-Wan had called ‘brother.’ Instinctively, Obi-Wan tightened his shields to keep the raging maelstrom of horror and guilt from alerting the shades he watched. He didn’t understand; one moment, he had been flat on his back, the heat of Mustafar sinking through his robes, Anakin standing above him – his eyes a brilliant blazing golden-red, like twin suns, the darkside swirling around him like a physical caress, that once clever smirk now hardened and twisted into something terrifying. “A gift from Padawan to his Master,” his boy had snarled, his lightsaber a bright blur as it descended, and then –
Then, Obi-Wan had found himself on his knees in his childhood room, vomiting until he felt like he had nothing left in his body. His heart had felt like it was trying to sear its way through his chest, and the confused Jedi had clawed at the beige carpet beneath his hands, taking stuttering and desperate breathes in distress and confusion as the lights around him had flickered before exploding violently and throwing the windowless room into darkness. By the time Master Kant had come to check on him, looking hale and whole despite the fact that she had died nearly ten years ago, Obi-Wan was already staring blankly at his youthful visage in the mirror. Thankfully, the Twi’lek had thought his shock and terror was related to the attack and had simply pulled him tightly to her side before ushering him into her personal quarters with the rest of the Boma Clan members.
The sight of the youthful faces of his once-Creche mates had robbed him of nearly all sanity, and only three years of nearly constant war had kept what he was feeling from escaping him. Even now, thinking of how young (young and alive, so blissfully, impossibly alive) his childhood friends had looked made his throat tight and his eyes burn. Even the surly faces of Bruck Chun and Siri Tachi made Obi-Wan’s heart gallop in his chest. He took a steadying breath, trying to calm the panicked emotions and winced, a hand reflexively griped his tunic over his chest. Alongside his whiplash emotions, the strange, aching throb in his heart has been the only constant over the last day. It was a queer burning sensation, one that seemed to spread out and into his lungs and Obi-Wan found himself digging his knuckles into the tunic, as if the kneed would somehow quiet it.
The sensation didn’t quiet though and Obi-Wan turned soundlessly, moving through the upper hall to a nearby sitting room, the sight of the prowling Guards suddenly too much. He should be dead, one with the Force, and yet – and yet –
He stumbled across the empty room and rested his head against the expansive viewing window there. The cold felt like a balm against his heated skin and Obi-Wan closed his eyes in relief at the feel of it, greedily pressing his palms against the smooth glass. He tried to quiet his mind, tried to bring some sort of order to his thoughts, to find his center, and when it would not come he desperately reached out to the Force. Just as it had answered his summons all day, he felt the welcome familiarity of its touch, and basked in the feel of so many Jedi around him even as his mind railed at the incredibility of it all. For so long, the Force had been Obi-Wan’s only comfort; the only friend he knew that he would never lose. It was the never erring guide that kept him moving during the war, that kept his faith when he found himself overwhelmed by the death and destruction around him - a light when all else had fallen to darkness.
It spoke to him now, its voice low and muted, but the words unchanged; this was no trick, no illusion. The impossibility of it still bit at him, but the Force was so clear, clearer then Obi-Wan had ever heard it before. Somehow, this was the past. His fingers curled around the glass, feeling the familiar sting of tears to his eyes. He had cried more in the last day then Obi-Wan could ever recall crying in his entire life; but it was just too much.
Just – Just too much.
Anakin.
He let out a choked sound, the clicking of his throat swallowing loud in the room. Why was here? Why had the Force brought him here? After everything, Obi-Wan just wanted to curl up somewhere and disappear. Death had been almost welcomed when Anakin had brought it to him. Anakin. His Anakin. A Sith. His Padawan, the very boy that he had raised, had spent battle after battle at his side, had watched with pride and fondness as he grew like a weed, who always had a quip or a joke to make Obi-Wan laugh, even in the cruelest of battles, who was the closest thing to blood family Obi-Wan had ever had and –
How had it all gone so wrong? How had he failed his padawan so? Obi-Wan took another shuddering breath, eyes squeezing shut as fought to control himself, but the self-deprecating thoughts would not stop. How had it come to this? How had it ended in the destruction of the Order? Of the death of so many, of the death of poor Padmé? How had he let this happen? How had he ever thought he could train the boy? Why had he ever thought himself ready? Why had he insisted on taking Anakin on as an apprentice the same day he’d been Knighted? It was almost unheard of; most Knights waited at least two or more years before taking a padawan. And to take one so old, so wild and untrained…But Obi-Wan knew why he had done it, and that failure stung most of all. He had wanted to protect his Master’s memory, to fulfill his last wish. So, his mind threw at him bitterly, not only a Padawan did you fail, but a Master as well. Not just a Master, but the Order
He bowed his head, hands sliding over his eyes and over hair shorn short, to clasp his head tightly, fingernails digging in deep. He couldn’t handle this – not this. All this time, Obi-Wan was sure it would be the war that broke him. Either by the death of another friend that finally snapped his spirit, or through the constant death that littered the Force until Obi-Wan swore he could feel its scarring touch on his very soul. And then Anakin – but it was this. It was this that would finally break him, Obi-Wan was sure of it. Before he at least had a goal, a direction. Win the battle, keep his padawan alive, support his friends, protect his men, save the Republic, stop Anakin. But now? He felt utterly lost with no clear path in mind. And how could Obi-Wan face them? How could he face the very people that he failed so utterly and completely?
So wrapped in his own self-hatred, Obi-Wan nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the prickle of another's approach. He swung around, eyes wide in surprise to find a Temple Guard standing just a few paces behind him. The flare of alarm he felt faded at the sight of stern grey and bronze mask, but even as his mind registered no threat, he was still stunned. It had been years since someone had managed to get the jump on him like that. Had he truly been so lost in his own thoughts?
“Initiate,” the Guard greeted, his Coruscant accent crisp and cool, detached from any emotional inflection. The Jedi Guards were plucked from the best of the Knight ranks – an honor some said, a heavy sacrifice said others – and from the moment they donned their masks, left behind their identities in a study of the ultimate form of emotional detachment. They were allowed no attachments to any in the Order - no friendship or Master-Padawan bond was allowed to remain, nor would any apprentice they ever take. Even their lightsaber pikes were assigned to them, crafted by another, and all bearing the same amber crystals.
“Knight Guard.”
“You are aware that there is a curfew in effect, are you not?”
“I needed some air.” Obi-Wan said quietly, looking down at his slippered feet. “I am...unsettled. I’m sorry, I know it was wrong of me to leave my room.”
He was unsure of why he was lying; he was unsure of why he had been lying all day, strangely desperate to keep his…secret…from those around him. He had lied to Master Kant, to Bant and Garen, their sweet little faces scrunched in confused concern, to his instructors, to all that had questioned his rattled persona.
But Obi-Wan clung to it tightly, determined to keep anyone from finding out what he was halting coming to believe was true. Time travel. What a madness was he living? Had he lost his mind? Was he still laying on Mustafar, waiting for Anakin to strike, his sanity shattered beyond belief? The Guard watched him for a moment, the silent stillness between them almost startling, and he wondered just what the Jedi in front of him saw. His shields were intact he knew, but what use were they now? Even as he tried to pull himself together, Obi-Wan could feel the staccato beat of his heart, the heavy weight of his swollen eyelids, the flush of his face and neck. The Guard’s head tilted to the side ever so slightly, just enough to make his hood shift and reveal a shock of ash blond hair. Obi-Wan’s lips twitched, but gave no other sign of his surprise.
That one act may be more personality then he’d ever seen from a Guard before.
The odd act seemed to break some of the haze around him, and already Obi-Wan could feel himself rallying, shoulders rolling back, spine straightening, face smoothing out as he folded his arms – only to abort the moment awkwardly when he realized he wore no robe to hide his trembling hands in.
“What Creche do you belong to?”
“The Boma Clan, sir.”
The Guard nodded, stepping back and gesturing towards the sitting room’s open entryway. “Come, I will return you to your Creche Master, youngling.”
Obi-Wan nodded and tried to strengthen the quiver to his knees as he walked, allowing the Guard to guide him towards the nearest turbolift. The return to the youngling living quarters was a long, silent one, and though the Guard was masked Obi-Wan could swear he could feel the weight of the Knight’s eyes. As the last lift’s doors opened to the youngling quarters, Obi-Wan felt a small smile take his lips at the sight of a frantic Master Kant storming down the hallway towards him.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi!” The Twi’lek’s voice was a mix between exasperation and naked relief, “you are determined to drive me to an early grave! I promise you, youngling, you will not be able to feel your legs by the time you finish all the meditation exercises I have…”
Master Kant’s rebuke faded off as she grew closer, her eyes widening as she took in Obi-Wan’s undoubtedly still blotchy face. The irritated lines on her face softened and before Obi-Wan could truly register what was happening, he was being swept into a tight hug. He tensed on instinct, a part of him so unused to gentleness after the chaos of the field, but almost instantly he felt himself go lax. He curled his arms tightly around Master Kant’s form, hands fisting against her back, pressing his face against her breast, and let himself breathe.
She smelled the same; a scent that Obi-Wan had long forgotten with age and yet somehow recognized on a primal level. Kant had been his caretaker since he had come to the Temple at two years old and the center of his world for the first five or so. How many nights had she held him close like this that first month, hushing and cooing to him as he whined and cried for his mother and father, for his brother? As he let her draw him closer, her fingers running comfortingly through his hair, the Force drifting from the pads of her fingers like a soothing blanket, the feeling of maternal safety and comfort her arms gave was so complete - so utterly felt - that Obi-Wan wondered how he could have ever forgotten her touch.
“My poor little one,” Kant said softly, “this is not just about the attacks today, is it?” Obi-Wan felt a sob try to break through and die in his throat, nodding shakily in acknowledgement. Master Kant sighed, a motion he more felt than heard, as she maneuvered them towards his room. “You still have time before your birthday, Obi-Wan, you may still be chosen. And even if you are not, there is honor to be found in serving in the Corps as well, youngling. I promise you, all is not as lost as it seems.”
Obi-Wan clung tight to her – and tighter even still to her words – and allowed himself this moment of weakness, his tears soaking his Creche Master’s shoulder.
From where he stood, the Jedi Guard’s head tilted ever so slightly curiously to the side, watching as the pair retreat down the hallway and into a room at the far end. Master Kant’s voice was low murmurs, the Initiate’s form stiff and still even as he clung tightly to the Creche Master’s robes. He waited until they disappeared inside, the door sealing shut behind them, before turning and making his way back towards the lift. Soundlessly, he retraced his path to the small sitting room he’d found the distraught boy in. The Guard stood in the room for a moment, brows furrowed behind his mask, before approaching the window where’d he’d first spotted the Initiate.
The Force was strange here; it swirled with a quiet anxiousness, a feeling of something off balance, of something that was out of place. He reached out, fingers hesitating for a moment – even as he was unsure of what made him cautious – before touching the glass. A shock of despair and sorrow shot through the touch, a Force echo strong enough to make his breath catch, and the Guard yanked his fingers away. He took a stumbling step back, his hand rising quickly to pull his mask free, feeling all at once stifled behind it in a way he hadn’t since he’d first donned it. He stared at his tingling fingers, the memory of such horrified grief still making his heart pound and his stomach knot. His face twisted in confusion, glancing from his fingers to the glass.
What the kriff had that been?
“Guard?” A voice called from behind him, but the Knight didn’t break from his staring contest with the viewing window. A hand on his elbow shocked him into movement and he turned to find a frustrated Master Cin Drallig standing at his side. “Put your mask back on,” the Guard Captain said with after a moment, sighing. “We’ve talked about this before, Feemor. When not in the dormitory, the mask is always on.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Feemor Gard cleared his throat, happy to slid his Guardian Mask back on if it hid his far too visible blush. He had been both flattered and surprised when had been offered a position among the Guard; flattered, because it had been unlooked for honor after being so blatantly repudiated by his once-Master, surprised because…well, no one would ever suspect that Feemor was one of the silent, unfeeling sentinels of the Temple. Feemor had always been reputed as a cheerful, easy-going Knight, and one that was generally well liked. But it had seemed like the right route when it had presented itself to him; Qui-Gon had been quite thorough in his sentiments, and his shunning of Feemor and their years of training together had left him as flat footed and unsure as he had felt those first few days after his first master, Locallakk, had been killed. And, yes, maybe the offer also came because he shared a lineage with Cin through Master Yoda, but Cin Drallig was also not the type of man who took anyone on out of pity.
“Are you alright?" Cin asked after a moment, voice slightly kinder, "I thought I felt something…at unease.”
Feemor paused in his fiddling, the mask only half sealed. He shook his head after a moment, deciding to keep the troubled Initiate’s wandering to himself, and pressed the mask fully on. “Nothing. It was nothing.”
But even as he spoke those words, the haunted look in the boy’s reddened eyes – that flare of crippling sorrow – seemed burned into his mind.
…Obi-Wan Kenobi, huh?
Feemor would keep an eye on the youngling.
Just in case.