Chapter Text
Obi-Wan woke to the sound of blaster fire.
That in and of itself was not a new experience, though it rarely preceded anything good. Honestly he was surprised to be waking at all. He immediately took stock of himself, finding a startling lack of pain given his last clear memory was of facing Vader on the Death Star. Given that, it was with quite a bit of hesitancy that he reached out to the Force.
He… hadn’t been cut off. Which was also surprising. The Force was there, heavy with pain-death-anger-focus in a way he immediately recognized as an active battlefield. And yet, despite that, it felt…
…lighter?
An explosion nearby tore his attention from the strange almost-weightless feeling in the Force, causing his eyes to snap open and had him instinctively rolling from his back into a defensive crouch.
Or, he tried to roll into a defensive crouch.
His limbs didn’t move quite the way his mind expected, and he almost ended up face-down in the dirt instead. After catching himself, the former Jedi took a moment to figure out what was going on. Had he been drugged?
No, a quick check with the Force confirmed that there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary in his system. He didn’t have a concussion either. In fact, his entire body seemed to be working perfectly well.
Too well.
Obi-Wan blinked, leaning back on his haunches so he could lift his hands. He scanned them critically, tramping down the initial spike of panic at the sight only thanks to years of long practice.
Small. Smaller than he was used to, and skinny. Covered in gray dust from where he had thrown them out to prevent his fall. Smooth, save a few scratches, speckled with tiny freckles instead of sunspots. And free of almost every scar he had collected over his nearly sixty years of life.
Young.
His hands looked young. And when his gaze continued past them to the rest of his body, everything he saw matched. Lanky limbs, thin shoulders, and – when he reached up to feel his face – no beard.
His breath stuttered in his chest for a moment before he closed his eyes and forced himself to stop. This was not the time or place. Breathe. In, two, three- There was a battle going on. He had no idea where he was or who was fighting. Out, four, five- Figuring out what was going on with his… age?? (Breathe) -whatever this was, could wait until he wasn’t in an active firefight with unknown aggressors.
Slowly, the familiar calm-focus of battle settled over him like a cloak, mind brushing the unhelpful emotions aside to deal with later. He rolled his shoulders back and lifted his head, ignoring the fact that his line of sight was closer to the ground than normal, and took stock of his situation with the critical eye of a general used to live combat situations.
It seemed as though he was currently tucked under a large piece of debris that leaned against a partially collapsed wall, perhaps a fallen bit of ceiling. It created a pocket of space large enough for him to move around in semi-comfortably, though even at his diminished height he would have to duck if he stood. He did just that, moving carefully at first to get used to his new (old??) form.
Force but it was odd. His balance was off ever so slightly, the weight in an adolescent body distributed differently than that of an adult, and his first few steps were more unsteady than he would have liked.
Not that he had long to dwell on it. He’d barely made it to the largest gap in the rubble when the sight of very familiar armor had him ducking back immediately.
Mandalorians.
Carefully he inched forward again, keeping low and double-checking to make sure as much of him was in shadow as possible. It should have been simple given that he had less to hide, but he didn’t trust his muscle memory since it clearly didn’t match his current state. At least he could still rely on the Force.
It had been a long time since Obi-Wan had encountered a Mandalorian in anything more than distant passing. He knew Boba had worked for Jabba more than once, and he'd made sure to keep well clear of the city whenever the bounty hunter was on-planet. He didn’t know if the boy-turned-man would recognize him after so many years, but he hadn’t been willing to risk Luke’s safety.
Other than Fett, he hadn’t seen an armored Mandalorian since the Clone Wars, and those had been-
He stilled, breath freezing in his chest as his eyes caught a flash of the all-too-familiar jagged lines of a stylized shriek-hawk painted on black and blue armor.
Death Watch.
A blazing anger suddenly flickered to life within him, memories from decades ago flashing before his eyes before a single thought brought him up short-
…hadn’t Death Watch been wiped out?
After Maul and then the Empire he’d thought…
In his moment of confusion the blaster fire had started up again, echoing along with angry, modulated shouting and the dull roar of beings with jetpacks taking off.
Obi-Wan shook himself, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a deliberate breath in and out. Just one more thing to figure out later. Right now he needed to find out who Death Watch was fighting. As long as it wasn’t the Empire, any enemy of theirs was a possible ally of his.
He huffed to himself as he quietly leaned further around the edge of his unintentional hiding spot, the side of his mouth ticking up.
Narudar. ‘The enemy of my enemy.’ What a very Mandalorian thought.
Apparently fitting though, as he finally caught sight of the beings on the other side of the conflict.
More Mandalorians. Though unlike Death Watch, these didn’t seem to have a singular theme for their armor or colors. Just the small glimpses he got as they ducked out from cover to return fire made it seem as though — between the eight or so members of their group — they had armor that spanned nearly the entire visual spectrum. There was also every possibility they had details that weren’t visible to the human eye as well, given the Mandalorian propensity of accepting anyone into their ranks regardless of species.
However, that only made the situation even more bizarre. He hadn’t seen a group of Mandalorians like this since his mission to the planet Mandalore itself when he was a teen.
Suddenly the Force tugged at his attention, a sensation he hadn’t felt with such strength in years. He scanned the area trying to determine what it was trying to tell him-
There!
Part of the fight had condensed, several bouts of hand-to-hand combat breaking out as they lost the distance needed for blasters.
One such pair was what the Force had pointed him towards, an extremely large Death Watch commando wrestling with a more averagely-sized humanoid in dark blue and red armor.
The Force tugged at him again just as the smaller figure lost ground and Obi-Wan followed its pull without any further prompting. He darted out from his hiding place, carefully circling the rest of the fight and doing his best to remain unseen.
Just as he got close, the more colorful Mando got thrown to the ground. It only took a few seconds for them to roll out of it and come up in a crouch, but those few seconds were enough for the larger fighter to pull a clearly modified rifle from their back and aim it at the other's throat.
“Ash'amur dar’manda aruetii!”
Oh, Obi-Wan didn’t think so.
Still running, he slammed his full body weight into the side of the rifle and the hands holding it — causing the shot to go wide and the Death Watch commando to curse and jerk back in shock.
Knowing better than to waste the element of surprise, he wrapped an arm over the weapon and spun, using his torso as a leaver to twist it out of their grip. He took advantage of the fact that this also caused them to stumble forward to throw a punch at their throat with his other fist.
The rather unconventional attack worked wonderfully. They choked, dropping fully to a knee and releasing the rifle, which Obi-Wan allowed to fall. Even if he were able to pull it around before they recovered, he had no idea if his arms would be long enough to hold the blasted thing.
Being this small was incredibly inconvenient.
Luckily, whatever had brought him here had seemingly only shifted his clothing to fit him and not replaced it entirely, meaning that the vibroblade he always kept in his boot was still there. One precise jab in the vulnerable gap between helmet and shoulder guard and the Death Watch commando was tumbling to the ground, gripping at their neck and choking on the blood that was pouring out of them faster than they could stop.
Obi-Wan grimaced as he stepped back from the dying being and the growing puddle of crimson beneath them. While necessary in this instance, he never did enjoy taking a life. Especially like this.
Movement from behind had him whirling around, blade up and ready in a reverse grip before he could even think. It was the most effective stance for short blade fighting, but for a moment it reminded him of Ashoka so strongly that his chest drew tight with grief before he shoved it down.
He needn’t have bothered anyway. It was the other Mandalorian, who had climbed to their feet and then immediately thrown up both hands in surrender when Obi-Wan turned.
“Udesii! Udesii ad, Ni- I, I'm not going to hurt you.”
Obi-Wan snorted inelegantly and relaxed his stance, shaking his head at his own paranoia as he stooped to quickly sheath his blade. “Well I would hope not. That would be rather ungrateful considering that I just saved your life.”
The Mandalorian was hard to read in the Force. As with anyone encased in Beskar, their emotions were muffled quite a bit, but as Obi-Wan straightened their posture seemed caught somewhere between confused and offended by his casual dismissal.
“What are you even doing here ad? Where are your bu- your parents?”
Right. Because he apparently looked like a youngling.
To buy himself some time to think of an excuse, he grabbed them by the arm and began dragging them out of the open to somewhere they would hopefully be less exposed. The Mando went easily, picking up his intent after a moment and following him into crouching behind a half-destroyed wall.
“Well-” Obi-Wan started after a breath, about to spin a hopefully believable story about how he had gotten separated from his ‘parents’ by the fighting- only for the Force to nudge him rather insistently.
He closed his mouth in surprise. The Force almost felt… reprimanding?
That couldn’t be right.
“Kid?”
He blinked, pushing down his confusion. Perhaps it wished for him to tell the truth? “I… don’t have any.”
Pleased. The Force felt distinctly pleased by his answer, which… He knew that the Force had a will, he did his best to follow it however he could, but he had never felt it react to his actions so directly-
“Osik, I- I’m sorry ad. That’s-”
The abrupt curse jerked him back to reality, suddenly realizing how that sounded. “Oh, no, they’re not dead.” He turned to scan their surroundings, head tilting absently in thought as he focused on keeping watch for any other Death Watch commandos that might come after them. “At least not that I know of. They just didn’t want me.”
He realized it was a poor choice of words immediately. The Mandalorian he’d rescued had more tact than to recoil physically, but it was a close thing. He felt it in the Force anyway — an instinctive denial and revulsion at the mere thought, quickly followed by white-hot anger.
Force, he had forgotten how protective real Mandaorians were of children. It had been so long since he dealt with any outside of Death Watch and the pale imitation that the New Mandalorians had become. It had pained him, to see the vibrant culture pulled to such extremes that both groups had forgotten what it truly meant to be Mandalorian.
He was reminded, now, why Mandalore had always held a special place in his heart.
The fire that raged before him — barely contained by armor and flesh — was one of anger. Absolute fury in its purest form that raged and burned.
And it was beautiful.
He knew several Masters that would have had a fit if they ever heard someone say something so blatantly heretical, but it was true.
It had taken him a long time — far, far too long — to realize that anger by itself was not wrong. That anger was merely the result of pain and injustice, both things that the Jedi were supposed to fight. It was what you did with anger that truly decided who you were. Allowing it grow uncontrollably was the path to the Dark, yes, but anger itself was simply a result of passion. And despite what some might think, and how much he denied it to himself, he had never quite been comfortable with the most common version of the Jedi Code.
There is no passion, only peace.
He’d always felt too much.
And Mandalorians were nothing if not passionate.
They embraced their emotions, allowed themselves to feel every one to the fullest. They used their anger, but didn’t let it control them. They treated it like a weapon, wielded carefully and with a healthy respect.
Passion yet peace.
They were angry, yes, but the Mandalorian in front of him was in complete control. Obi-Wan knew that the fire would not burn him, no matter how close he got. Which meant that he could admire up close how it caused their Force signature to flare beyond their armor, brightening with protectiveness and righteous fury that almost seemed to flicker towards his own.
“Ad-”
They cut off abruptly, Force signature pulling back into the space muffled by their armor as they lifted a hand to the side of their helmet in a gesture he recognized from when the Vod’e were talking over comms and wanted whichever nat-born was with them to know that was what they were doing.
“… jor'lekir. Alor cuy Vyc, ni ganar neverd’ika ti ni.”
Now it was Obi-Wan’s turn to feel vaguely offended. Civilian child? Really?
“Naasad.”
At least he had a name for his new friend.
“... Elek, yaimparla at dab’ika.”
Vyc lowered their hand and held the other out towards him like an offer. “Come on, it’s about to get worse out here. You can come with me back to our camp.”
Before he could reply one way the other, the ground shook. They both caught themselves and ducked lower behind the wall as bits of rock and debris flew over their heads. Vyc cursed and rushed forward to grab him around the waist, their jetpack roaring to life and lifting them both off the ground before Obi-Wan even realized what was happening.
“Wait!” His disconcertingly high-pitched shout barely carried over the wind rushing past them as he grabbed at their armor frantically for something to hold onto. Luckily the Mandalorian heard him anyway.
“No time! The hut’uune have reinforcements on the way. We have to go.”
Which was not normally something he would argue with, but all of a sudden the Force was pulling at him. Even as several more of what must be Vyc’s squad took off and joined them in the air, it began tugging him in the opposite direction to where they were flying.
“We need to go the other way!”
“That’s where they’re coming from kid, trust me you don’t-”
Obi-Wan didn’t hear the rest of whatever Vyc was going to say. The Force was practically shouting at him to turn around now, go back before it’stoolatefixchangeSAVE-
He was moving before he even realized, twisting and shoving away from the arms holding him at the same time his leg came up and kicked hard in a place he knew armor didn’t cover. The Vyc yelped, and while usually Obi-Wan would feel bad, it was pushed to the back of his mind as he was now free-falling towards the ground several dozen yards below.
He felt multiple bursts of barely-muffled panic above him and almost all of the group’s Force-signatures abruptly change course to follow him. That caused a spark of remorse, even as he angled himself to dive faster. He hadn’t meant to scare them, especially since they had been trying to rescue him in the first place, but the Force was insistent that he didn’t have any time to waste. He would apologize later if they met again.
As he neared the ground, he twisted around in the air like a Lothcat — using the Force to cushion his fall just as his boots hit the ground, tucking into a roll only to spring out of it already running.
The echoes of shock and disbelief from behind him barely registered as he sprinted, pushing his too-small body as fast as it would go and farther. Vaulting over rubble and dodging debris on auto-pilot, he reached out and immersed himself in the Force like he hadn’t since the war.
Battle meditation. It was a practice that had become uncommon since the Ruusan Reformation, only really taught to future Watchmen or Jedi who often found themselves negotiating tense situations. (Obi-Wan had been in the latter category, though he had figured it out on his own well before anyone would have thought to teach him.) Then the war began and suddenly the Jedi were generals leading an army of millions. After that everyone was required to learn at least the basics, or else risk getting themselves or the men under their command killed.
But Obi-Wan hadn’t been just any general. He had been High General of the Third Systems Army. The 212th — and his Ghost Squadron specifically — had been the ones to call when a situation looked hopeless. For over three years he was down on the ground more often than not, leading his men with lightsaber in hand. And before that- the Battle of Naboo, Mandalore, Melida-Daan.
Obi-Wan Kenobi knew battle, knew war, better than any Jedi alive save perhaps Master Yoda or Master Fey.
So even after all these years — even after everything — slipping into a battle meditation felt as simple as falling into the first stance of a kata.
Scenery flew by, blurring into streaks of color that he hardly noticed, his entire focus on the steady thrumming of the Force as it pulled him forward towards something.
Someone Obi-Wan realized after a moment of concentration, just as he suddenly broke cover and almost ran face-first into the wrong end of a blaster. He vaulted up and over the group without breaking stride, landing behind them before he even registered the color of their armor.
Blue and black.
There was shouting and the sound of blasters being primed behind him but he didn’t turn, because in front of him was the lumbering form of a tank.
Three tanks. All of a model that was not-quite-familiar and with their cannons aimed at something about thirty yards ahead.
The Force flared and he pivoted just in time to avoid a blaster bolt aimed at the back of his head. But his small body didn’t move as quickly as it should. The bolt missed him by less than a hair’s breadth, so close that he felt the sting of heat on his cheek.
He ignored the close call and kept running, letting the Force lead him more than ever as the rest of the Death Watch commandos behind him recovered from their surprise and began to shoot at him.
There was another group of Death Watch ahead, slightly to the left, that had begun to turn at the sound of blaster fire. He ran towards them. Using his small size and their confusion to his advantage, he darted back and forth through the taller forms with almost insulting ease. By the time any of them thought to try and grab him he was already through, using them as a shield from the first group while he continued towards the tanks. It wouldn’t take them long to gather themselves and start firing too, but that was fine. He was nearly there, and only had to doge two shots before the Force warned him to get DOWN-
He dove to the ground and threw his arms over his head less than a heartbeat before a series of explosions rocked the ground, a wave of heat washing over him from behind as the grenade he had activated on one of their belts went off and triggered more.
He sprung to his feet the moment it was over, ears ringing and eyes still tightly shut. The dust cloud the explosion kicked up would make opening them nearly useless, and he didn’t really want to deal with the sting the smoke would no doubt cause.
He didn’t need to see to fight anyway.
Not wanting to waste the distraction, he rushed over to the tanks. Trusting the Force to guide his steps he jumped up onto the side, scrambling a little awkwardly across the uneven surface until he reached one of the several small exhaust vents situated along the back. Activating another grenade he’d swiped from the group, he dropped it into the opening and rushed to the next one.
Obi-Wan barely managed to drop the last explosive into place before more blaster bolts began to fly past him. Finally figuring it was safe to open his eyes, he slid down the opposite side of the tank from where they were shooting at him.
The front apparently. Which, of course.
He mentally sighed, but there really wasn’t anything for it. Besides, the Force was pushing him forward and never let it be said that Obi-Wan Kenobi was one to ignore the Force’s pull.
At least he could finally see what it was drawing him to now. He left what meager protection was afforded to him by the tanks’ bulk to run towards the lone figure that was clearly using the commotion to try and find some cover of their own. The Mandalorian in black and red armor was limping heavily but making admirable progress despite it, and Obi-Wan took a moment to be impressed before the Force chimed in warning again. He threw out a hand to shove the figure down at the same time he dropped-
The shockwave was much stronger this time, the tank’s powercells overloading and causing a chain reaction that ripped the whole thing apart from the inside. He didn’t move, reaching out with the Force to make sure that no debris hit him or the person he was trying to help. The next detonation went off moments later. As the third blast turned Death Watch’s final trump card into little more than scrap, part of Obi-Wan wondered a little idly if he should worry about hearing loss being this close to so many explosions in quick succession.
He mentally shook his head as he pushed himself up and darted forward again. He could worry about the potential consequences to his health later.
With the smoke and ash kicked up from the destroyed tanks working as a surprisingly effective cover, it took him mere moments to reach the injured Mandalorian and duck under their arm to help them to their feet. They startled at his touch but accepted the help when he began hauling them away from Death Watch and deeper into the trees.
“Vor entye ad’ika.” Came a low voice, grunting from exertion and pain in equal measure. “Vaii- ah, where are-?”
“Ven morut’yc.” Obi-Wan cut them off, the Mando'a flowing from his tongue without thought as the Force buzzed unsafedangermove- under his skin. Even without its warning, he was unwilling to stay out in the open any longer than necessary. Besides, they both needed to save their breath. The Mandalorian was injured and with their armor was a lot heavier than Obi-Wan’s small body was used to carrying, even with the Force to bolster him.
“...gar serim.” They acknowledged.
The two quietly wove their way through the trees, the only sound between them the soft thumping of footsteps and labored breathing. But Obi-Wan could feel his companion’s curiosity, it sparked and swirled around their form even through the muffling effect of beskar.
After a bit of a tense walk the sound of jetpacks reached them, growing louder and clearly headed their direction. The Mandalorian stiffened, looking around presumably to find somewhere to hide, but Obi-Wan didn’t bother. The Force was whispering reassurance-peace-help, so he left his charge leaning against a trunk and ignored their panicked protests as he jogged over to a break in the cover to wave the incoming squad down.
When the group began to descend, Obi-Wan realized that they were the same Mandalorians he had left behind in his single-minded drive to follow the Force.
Vyc — the one he had rescued from being shot — landed only a few paces from him and closed the distance immediately, a litany of curses and questions all running together as they dropped to a knee and began to check him over.
“-gar jaro?? Dini'la ad, what in the hells were you thinking?!?”
Obi-Wan blinked in bemusement as the armored warrior poked and prodded him for injuries like a worried Creche Master. “I was thinking you were all going the wrong way.”
“And you didn’t try to explain??” Vyc let go of his arm and sat back on their heels, visibly agitated and practically bleeding anxiety into the Force. “We were at least five stories up! You could have broken your neck!!”
“I’ve fallen much farther than that before.” He responded calmly, internally amused by the sputtering that followed. “Besides, there wasn’t time. If I hadn’t left when I had, Death Watch would have killed them.” He continued, gesturing towards the injured Mandalorian that two of the others were hovering over protectively while a third attempted to create a makeshift splint.
“It’s true.” They growled, their vocoder making it difficult to tell if the speaker was a near-human with a rough voice or simply a species that made sounds like that naturally. “Montross is a dar'manda hu'tuun. I called for an airlift and instead he left me to die. If the ad hadn’t shown up when they did I’d be nexu meat right now.” The black and red helmet tilted slightly in a way that Obi-Wan knew from his years fighting beside the Vod’e indicated a frown. “Though I’m not really sure what happened to the tanks.”
Vyc, who was still kneeling in front of Obi-Wan, sputtered for a moment before asking in a rather higher-pitched voice than before- “Tanks??”
“Oh, that. I dropped portable grenades down their exhaust ports.” He replied casually. Between his chaotic padawanship, significantly different yet equally chaotic time as a Knight, and his experience on the front lines as a Master and general, finding and exploiting weaknesses like that had become second nature to him. “Apparently it goes straight to the main powercell. Terrible design flaw, they really should have a grate over it or something.”
One of the other Mandalorians – a Togruta if the shape of their helmet was any indication – piped up, voice incredulous. “Down the- did you climb on the tanks?!?”
He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. “How else would I have reached the exhaust ports?”
Vyc made a strangled noise, and Obi-Wan frowned at them in concern.
Before he could ask if they were alright, another Mando from the group — this one in light blue and orange — cut in with a wave of their hands. “Hold on, just- let me see if I’ve got this straight. You not only saved Vyc’s life by taking down a Kyr'tsad hut'uun with a vibroblade, but dropped several stories without injury, ran at least half a click through an active battlefield, took out multiple tanks with hand grenades, and then half-dragged an injured, fully armored commando you don’t even know through the woods???”
Ah. Yes, that would seem rather odd from their perspective. Especially considering his current size.
“Well, when you put it like that…”
He could feel the disbelief wafting off of them, slipping through the gaps in their armor like steam out of an overworked boiler. Low mutters passed between several members of the group, the mando’a whispered too quickly for him to catch.
“Ad,” He turned back to the Togruta, who sounded rather concerned now. “How old are you?”
“I’m… not actually sure.” Obi-Wan replied uncertainly. He looked down at himself, tilting his head and considering his relative size to the beings around him. He wasn't tall enough to have hit his first teenage growth spurt yet, so- “...twelve? Perhaps thirteen standard?”
The general air of disbelief quickly shifted into a mix of emotions that were too muffled for him to pick apart individually. What he could pick up was that none of them were particularly happy by that answer.
Especially Vyc.
“Ad’ika,” Obi-Wan’s lips thinned at the diminutive but didn't interrupt. “Where did you learn to do that?”
The entire group quieted at that question, clearly wanting to know the answer to that too. But what was he supposed to say? That he lived an entire lifetime as a Jedi? Fought as a general on the front lines of a war for three years? Learned how to pull off the impossible more than once because the other option was letting the people under his command die?
The Force curled around him in a way that almost felt amused, but it also whispered truth and trust.
“I… was taught by a former Jedi." There was a distinct burst of negative emotions following that statement — though not aimed at him thankfully — so he hurried to continue, "My birth parents didn’t want me, and there was nowhere else for me to go. My Master took me in.”
As willing as he was to follow the Force’s will, Obi-Wan highly doubted they would believe that he was a war veteran well into his fifties that had possibly-almost-certainly died and been shoved back into his pre-teen body by the Force. So, a version of the truth it was.
…from a certain point of view.
“He died a few years ago. I-” He closed his eyes and took a breath, not having to fake the grief that welled up in him. Even after all these years, the memory of Qui-Gon’s death still hurt. Though it seemed a bit more intense than he remembered. Perhaps a side-effect of whatever had happened to him? His emotions did seem a little more… unstable since waking up.
Whatever was causing it was helping his case though. He could feel the Mandalorians around him softening, even through the beskar. As always the sympathy made him uncomfortable, but they saw him as a hurting child and for the moment he wasn’t inclined to dissuade them of that thought. So he would live with it for now.
The Force seemed mostly pleased by this, if a bit melancholy, and settled around him like a comforting blanket.
It was… incredibly odd to be frank.
But he could ponder that later.
“Ad’ika-” The Mandalorian he had rescued from the tanks started, but Obi-Wan shook his head. He would tolerate their concern but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear it, especially for something that happened so long ago.
“I ended up traveling with a group of vod’e.” He continued stubbornly. Again, parts of the truth. “They weren’t- They were not technically Mandalorian, as their sire and those who followed him refused to acknowledge them, but they were Mando’ade in every way that mattered. They had no reason to accept me, but they did anyway. They helped me… so much. I learned a lot from them.”
The last part came out shakily as memories of the Vod’e swam through his head, battles and down-time alike. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his men as they fought an impossible war. The brightness of their presence in the Force that bolstered him in his lowest moments, giving him the strength to keep fighting without them even knowing. Their way of finding happiness in the smallest things. The stunning individuality that each of them possessed despite the Kaminoans’ best efforts at uniformity. The pure, unfettered life that each of them exuded, which the Senate refused to acknowledge because of their selfishness and greed.
Those unique, brilliant, wonderful souls that had been created for nothing more than to die once they had served their purpose.
Very little could truly anger him anymore, but the injustice done to the Vod’e…
Well, if he had to place the feeling he got when thinking about it all — other than grief — it probably leaned a bit too close to rage for any reasonable Jedi to be comfortable.
But, well. He hadn’t been called reasonable or a Jedi in a long time.
He could tell from the mix of dread and sadness coming from the group that they had picked up his use of past-tense.
“And they’re not… here?”
-with you? The unsaid part of that question hovered in the air around them. Because Mando’ade didn’t leave their people behind when there was a fight, especially a child – which he currently appeared to be.
“No.” His voice came out thick and he swallowed to clear it. “They-” This time he couldn’t fight the tears that welled in his eyes so he turned his head, gazing intently at a large tree across the clearing as he struggled to get himself under control. The adage he had heard so many of the Vod’e repeat flowed from his lips, the Mando'a coming out no more than a rough whisper. “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”
Not gone, merely marching far away.
One with the Force.
Obi-Wan had learned a long time ago that even if true, words like that didn’t mean the pain of loss stopped tearing at you from the inside out.
"They sound like great verde."
It was the injured Mandalorian again, the leader if the way the rest deferred to them was any indication.
Most would have offered platitudes or apologized for his loss, but Madalorians were ever practical. Apologies were given only when necessary, and Obi-Wan appreciated the lack of coddling.
"They were." A small, fond smile crossed his face as he remembered the awe his company inspired in the shines who saw them in action for the first time. Especially Cody. Well over half the army had been in awe of his commander, and not only because he could put just about anyone in their place on the mats. Including — more than once — Obi-Wan himself.
Cody had always been bashful whenever he’d bring that up, not that anyone but Obi-Wan had noticed. Always so humble. His commander had been a steady presence by his side, solid and unmoving when everything around them was constantly in flux.
Force he missed Cody.
His voice grew quiet as he spoke again. "They were some of the best people I've ever known."
"I regret that I won't have the chance to meet them in this life." The leader tipped his helmet forward in a gesture of respect and the rest followed suit. "I don't know who their parent was, but know that they would have been welcome with us."
"That-" The thought of the Vod’e in actual beskar, fighting because they wanted to fight for a cause they chose was enough to bring him back to near-tears. Force, whatever was going on with his emotions was starting to become frustrating. "Vor entye. They- they would have been honored."
The Mandalorian shook their head, voice gentle even through the vocoder. "No debt. From what you’ve said, the Haat Mando’ade would be the ones lucky to have such honorable verde.”
Suddenly it felt as though the entire planet shifted beneath Obi-Wan’s feet, ‘Haat Mando’ade’ echoing through his thoughts as all the odd things he had noticed began to come together to form a seemingly impossible picture.
Then again, he remembered dying. And now he was a child again. So perhaps not that impossible.
‘All things with the Force’ indeed-
“True Mandalorians?” He asked, hoping his voice sounded at least somewhat normal. The question came mostly from a lack of anything else to say, but also because the realization that was steadily taking shape in his mind was too outlandish to even think without his mind instinctively rebelling against the idea.
He didn’t know what kind of answer he was hoping for.
Vyc was beginning to radiate concern again, but the leader continued before they could say anything about how out-of-sorts he must look at the moment.
“Lek, that’s what we call ourselves.” They gestured to the group with the arm that wasn’t slung around the shoulders of the Mandalorian currently helping them stay upright. “Along with the Resol’nare, we follow a code of honor that takes inspiration from old laws and the writings of past Mand’alore.”
“-all sixty pages of it.” Muttered a Mandalorian to their right in armor painted various shades of green, prompting several stifled laughs and a general air of amusement mixed with a slight bit of exasperation. It seems they weren’t the only one who thought the code was a bit of a… tedious read.
The leader gave the green Mando what was clearly a look through their visor before turning back. “I’m the leader of the Haat’ade. Jaster, Clan and House Mereel, he/him.”
Jaster Mereel.
Obi-Wan almost felt faint. Even with his growing theory of… of time-travel — good gods — it hadn’t occurred to him that the person he’d just saved from Death Watch was the current Mand’alor.
Not only that, but Mand’alor the Reformer.
After his time in Mandalorian space, Obi-Wan had found himself fascinated by the planet and its people. At first he’d thought it residual longing from his feelings for Satine, but after a while he’d realized that it was the culture itself that called to him. In his free time he had read anything and everything on Mandalore he could find, including some things that Madame Nu would be horrified to learn weren’t in the Temple Library. It had led to some of the only instances in which he had visited Dex for information that wasn’t in some way related to a mission.
Jaster Mereel was a minor legend. Expelled from the Journeyman Protectors after refusing to help his corrupt superior officer and then killing them to save an innocent’s life, he had earned the respect of his peers both with his prowess in battle and strict moral code. Adoptive parent of Jango Fett, and author of the Supercommando Codex, Meerel was man who many said had the integrity and strength that could have united Mandalore like it hadn’t been since the Dral’haan. If only he hadn’t-
…been betrayed.
Oh Force.
“Whoa!” Vyc caught Obi-Wan’s shoulder as he swayed, grabbing his other arm to keep him steady. “Okay, I think that’s enough. You’re clearly exhausted and we need to get back to camp.” They shot a glare over their shoulder at Meerel who looked about as contrite as one could in full armor.
“Right,” The Mand’alor nodded. “Apologies ad, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Ben.” The name slipped out with barely any thought, catching the attention of the entire group.
If he truly was when he thought he was, then there was already an Obi-Wan Kenobi out there in the Galaxy. No more than a toddler, possibly not even at the Temple yet.
Force, the idea was dizzying. But he had already lived his life, full of loneliness and pain though it was. He would not take the chance of a better one from another version of himself.
And besides, until Luke had come along he hadn’t truly thought of himself as Obi-Wan in a long time.
“My name is Ben Kenobi.”