Chapter Text
“KENOBI”
It was an echoey voice—like someone was calling to him from the furthest corner of the Jedi temple.
“KENOBI!”
He grimaced—what could be the matter? What had he done now?
“KEN—“
He sat up and looked around him—something was on his neck. Was it—mud?
“KENOBI!”
He looked behind him. There stood a great figure who towered over everyone else near him.
“GET UP, CHILD!” The figure bellowed. The youngling looked up from where he had fallen and all at once remembered. He had been scrambling over the top of the netted obstacle when he had lost his grip on it—again.
“Good going, farmer—“ a voice jeered at him from higher up on the net. The youngling’s eyes flashed with anger. He moved to stand up and grasp hold of the net once more which only elicited more goading from that terrible voice.
“I don’t see why you even try, Kenobi. You’re still coming in last—and anyone can sense that none of the masters are looking at you.”
“That’s not true!” Was all the youngling could retort with.
“It’s true, Obi.” A green youngling said simply but kindly before racing up the side of the net only to launch over it and land on his feet with great dexterity.
“See, even fish-face says so.” Krell said, climbing down the other side of the net.
“I only mean that he was coming in last—however as far as the masters are concerned—none of them look pleased.” The glassy-eyed youngling said. He stood up straight and dusted off his hands, having completed his final lap. “I have a feeling we’ll all be looked over this time.” He added before walking off the course.
The young Kenobi’s eyes flashed again, and his brow hardened. No, he would not be looked over—not this time. He was thirteen—about to turn fourteen. If he was not chosen by a master this time, he would be sent to the Agri-Corps.
A sharp breath in, and the youngling began to climb the net again. No matter how hard he trained—no matter how much time he spent on the obstacle course, the youngling Obi-wan Kenobi always seemed to struggle when it came to testing time. Nothing unnerved him more than dozens of eyes scrutinizing his every move. And all the other younglings knew it.
“Good luck, farmer!” Krell shouted when he reached the bottom of the other side. Then with a powerful pound of his large bantha-like foot, he jolted the side of the netted obstacle, sending a ripple through it that bounced Kenobi up and down like an insect clinging to the side of a speeder.
“Leave him alone, Pong!” Their acrobatic instructor bellowed across the yard. But what did it matter? Obi-wan was already so far behind. Pong Krell and Kit Fisto were the last of the class, besides Obi-wan himself—and Obi-wan still had one more lap around the arena.
With the grace of a young shaak, he finally touched the bottom of the other side of the obstacle and was about to continue on with his last lap when their instructor’s booming voice rang out once again.
“KENOBI!”
The youngling froze and looked up to the figure that no longer was standing on the observation platform, but right next to him.
“Master,” Kenobi bowed at his waist in respect. The Instructor scanned the dirt-clod youngling from his head to his toes.
“Get to the showers.” He finally ordered. Kenobi’s eyes grew wide.
“But, Master, I haven’t fin—“
“I said, GET TO THE SHOWERS.”
The Instructor turned around and left the boy with his head hung in shame.
“That goes for all of you, now go!” He shouted at the other less dirty younglings. “Report back in an hour to be chosen by your new masters.” And then he turned back to the muddied child with his head hanging low. “Well, at least for some of you, that will be the case.”
Kenobi watched as the large master walked away with heavy footsteps, corralling the other younglings towards the showers. Kenobi knew if he walked through those doors after his instructor, he would be sent to the Agri-Corps. It was his fourth year of being scouted for a Master to undertake as a Padawan, and once again, he would return to the classroom, unchosen.
He looked at the arena around him, growing greyer and greyer from the storm clouds forming overhead. Coruscant’s rain storms were becoming more random—and more violent—as the summer wore on. Already, he could feel the rain beginning to fall on his rough heavy tunic.
With his shoulders drooped, and his clothes and hair now thoroughly drenched in the sudden Coruscant storm, he turned towards the exit of the arena—and his inevitable reassignment to the Agri-Corps.
“Do you give up easily?” A voice asked.
The young Kenobi looked up, water running off the end of his nose, and the tips of his hair. He spotted a cloaked figure underneath the awning of the platform. His Jedi hood was placed over his head, shrouding his face in shadow.
“No, sir—Master—“ Kenobi tried to correct himself. He seemed to be getting nothing right today.
“Then finish your course.” The figure said. Kenobi’s brow furrowed.
“But Master Kasti said to—“ Kenobi began, but was cut off.
“I don’t care what Kasti said or didn’t say. Finish. Your. Course, youngling.” The figure stepped nearer. “A Jedi never leaves his assignment unfinished.”
The youngling looked at the figure for a moment. He really didn’t see the point of finishing the lap if it meant nothing for him. Whether the lap was finished or not, he still would be no Jedi—only a farmer—just like Pong Krell liked to remind him.
But regardless, he wiped his eyes and his forehead with the only dry part of his tunic that remained, and proceeded to finish his last lap. This time, he slipped even more and fell almost twice as he ran across the water-strewn obstacle course. When he had finally made it around to the figure, again, he was covered completely in mud, and his hair hung flat against his head, making him look like a truly pitiful Ewok baby.
“Good,” the figure said. His voice was gently encouraging, infusing in Kenobi a sense of hope.
“Now,” the figure continued. “Do it, again.” Kenobi was shocked. There was a faint smile that he could barely make out on the shadowed face. “Did you hear me, youngling? I said, do it, again.”
Kenobi shrugged. If this was his last time to do anything Jedi-like than maybe he should take advantage of it. Again, he charged through the obstacle course. It’s surfaces were still slippery, and though he managed to maintain his balance more than he did the previous lap, he did manage to fall completely off the rolling obstacle and smack his head on the walkway. When he stood before the figure again, he was covered in blood and mud this time.
“Do it, again.” Was the figure’s only response to his return.
Kenobi began the lap again, but not without the aching question of why? Hadn’t he completed ‘his course’ as the figure called it? Hadn’t he done what a Jedi should do?
More rain pounded the obstacle course, which meant more slippery surfaces, which meant that when he stood before the figure once again, he bore cuts and scraps down his arms, his blood now flowing with the rain and mud in a great stream. The figure looked him over. And just when the youngling thought the figure would take mercy and send him to the showers, the figure said.
“Excellent—again.”
I needn’t tell you how galling this whole event could be. But to the young Kenobi’s credit, it wasn’t till the eighth time around the obstacle course that he began to grow hot with frustration. When he finally finished the tenth lap over his required nine for the test, he finally protested.
“I don’t understand, Master!” Kenobi said between breaths after he was told to go once more. “Are you—are you laughing at me?” He said the words hesitantly, feeling so weak as he did so.
The figure stood silently under the platform—only the rain filling the void of sound. Then slowly, the figure stepping out from underneath, the rain pelting—and then soaking the heavy cloak shrouding it.
“Again.” He said simply. Kenobi’s heart sank. He wanted to roll his eyes and collapse right there in the middle of the arena. But, call it intuition—call it fate—or call it the Force—he made his way around the obstacle course, again.
And again. And again. And continued to go around and around and around, receiving less cuts and bruises, and gaining better balance despite the slippery surfaces of the obstacles until finally, the figure called out to him.
“KENOBI!”
He skidded to a halt, ready to go another round on the course. He looked to where the hooded figure stood to see a human man, with long hair, and a beard staring down at him with gentle eyes. Was this the face that belonged to the voice?
“Master Jin!” Kenobi now recognized the figure, and quickly bowed in respect.
“Do you want to be a Jedi, young one?” Master Jin yelled above the rain, that now roared loudly drowning out other sounds.
“What?” Kenobi asked, mouth agape. He must not have heard that correctly. Master Jin stepped nearer and bent down to where his green eyes were level with the young boy’s.
“Do you want to be a Jedi, Obi-wan Kenobi?” Master Jin asked. Kenobi stared into the older man’s face for a moment, still shocked by the question.
“Yes, sir! Yes, I do!” He blubbered out, the rain still dousing his face, hiding his cuts by washing the blood away. Master Jin smiled and even laughed at the sight of the undignified youngling, his clothes full of rips and tears, and his face framed with his sopping wet hair.
“You are quite obstinate, youngling. I believe you have what it takes to become my padawan.”
Kenobi stared dumbfounded. He could not believe his ears. He blinked, and opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t accept so eagerly, young one.” Master Jin raised his hand as if to stop him. “My path is not one to be taken lightly. It reaches to the farthest points of the galaxy, and deals with the most unsavory of characters—to train under me would mean to train under the harshest of circumstances and with courses that lead far from safety—often risking not only my own life, but the lives of many whom I am with. Do you understand me?”
Kenobi looked as if he were about to burst from excitement.
“Yes!” He finally shouted as he began hopping up and down. “Yes! Yes, sir!” And then in a fit of childish affection, he reached out and hugged Master Jin. The old man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. But no sooner had he done so, he smiled, and gently returned the hug.
“Go wash yourself, my young padawan—you hold half of Coruscant’s soil in your clothes.”
What makes a Jedi so noble?
Is it his bravery? His cunningness? An adherence to an age-old code created centuries before he was born?
Or perhaps it is his compassion? His care for those he deems less fortunate—defending them from what he believes is evil with the skill of an average saber-wielder?
Maybe it is his determination? His righteousness in the face of what he has been taught to hate?
“Or maybe—“ the masked Inquisitor leaned forward, knowing the blue holographic image would grow larger to those on the other side. “Maybe it is his delusion—his fantasy—that it is only he that stands in the way of the great tides of Evil—and that he alone could stand a chance to—”
“Cut the chatter, Reva. Get to the point.” One of the shaky holograms groused.
“To know your prey is to know your success, that is my point.” The masked Inquisitor sat back in her seat with a huff. How she hated when her colleagues did not see the bigger picture—especially when she painted it so prettily for them.
“I couldn’t care less about your hunting philosophy.” A deep voice caused the audio projectors to buzz like the insects that swarmed the ship just outside Reva’s window.
“I allow you much leniency.” The deep voice continued, despite Reva refusing to make eye contact with it. “But I will only allow it for so long.”
Then he leaned towards his scanner, his image cutting off till it was just a large floating pale white head. “I need results, Third Sister.”
Reva held her breath. Then she breathed in steadily and out slowly. To show the slightest unsettling hint of fear would cast her down a terrible staircase she had been climbing for the last twelve years.
She finally lifted her grey eyes to the white head that flickered from the hologram projector. She smiled—though no one could see it behind her mask. But she knew they would hear it—they would sense it.
“I will, my wise Grand Inquisitor. But such a prize that I seek cannot be rushed.” She tilted her head enough to show familiarity but not so much to show insolence. “I believe we have discussed this before?” She asked as innocently as she could. The other two Inquisitors that flanked the great white head immediately began squirming in their seats, which made Reva smile even more.
“What is she talking about, your excellency?” The one with tentacles finally asked. But the Grand Inquisitor only smirked, and leaned back in his chair, becoming a full body once more.
He stared at Reva for a long while. And Reva stared back—daring not to blink, despite her eyes being covered behind the mask. The other two Inquisitors continued to squirm in their seats, clearly uncomfortable with not knowing what the Grand Inquisitor and the Third Sister were discussing.
“One week.” The audio projectors buzzed.
“Sire?” Reva tilted her head again, this time in confusion. The Grand Inquisitor smiled broadly.
“One week, and if you have not located the General, then you will return to me.”
“The General!” The tentacled-Inquisitor threw his arms up in exasperation, finally understanding what this was all about. “He is dead! How many times must this be discussed? The Reports say ‘fell over the side of the Pau’an Hanger and—“
“I have reason to believe he is still alive.” Reva spat at the scanner, regretting immediately how much emotion laced her voice.
“You are a fool! A Youngling still caught in a childish fantasy!” The other Inquisitor shot back, too dumb to be afraid of the emotion displayed in his own voice. Reva quickly noted that he would in all likelihood be replaced within the week.
“One week, Third Sister.” The Grand Inquisitor’s voice silenced the others. His steady gaze pierced through half the galaxy, and sent a ripple of fear through Reva’s heart. “I have let you chase your fantasies amongst the stars for too long, already. I do not need to tell you what should happen, if you return to me—empty-handed.”
Reva did not move a muscle. She did not blink, she did not breath. She waited silently for five long seconds, counting the numbers in her head. Then she slowly nodded.
“I understand, Grand Inquisitor.” Slowly—careful to not let her fear push her hand faster towards the projector—she reached for the power switch, shutting off the hologram images with a loud “CLICK.”
Then she collapsed back in her chair, letting her fear rush over herself like a drowning tide that eventually ebbed into relief. She had one week. One week to close three years of hunting.
She looked up at the controls blinking orange and yellow above her, waiting for her to plug in the next coordinates. Yet she was at a loss. For three years she had been searching for the General, but to no avail. So many thought it was a wild womprat chase.
But you see, she had discovered something that no one else had—and that no one else but the Grand Inquisitor had been shown. Deep within the grassy plains of a forgotten planet that maintained a small export of fruits and whatever vegetables had managed to grow that year, she had discovered a lightsaber of an old Jedi General—a lightsaber that should have been lying at the bottom of an Pau’an crater lake.
A much older Obi-wan Kenobi sat at the opening of his cave, looking out across the desert of Dejuri. In his ten years of hiding, he had come to see the beauty of the sunsets, and now made it a point to place himself at the mouth of his cave every evening to watch the two suns journey their last few steps to the horizon, before shrouding the desert sky in stars.
He breathed the dry air in and then out. Much had happened since he had been the trembling youngling doused in the Coruscant rainwater. He had left his Master scattered among the fields of Naboo, and had since then focused on completing his course as a Jedi Knight and Master. How he wished his course had only involved numerous laps around an obstacle arena in a Coruscant rainstorm. But no, the Force had had other plans for him.
The old General unwrapped a skewer of womprat meat and began to tear pieces of it off and eat it. As he did so, he realized how dark and wrinkled his hands had become. Ten years in the deserts of Tattoine had left their mark on him. As he held the skewer, he recalled how he used to hold the silver grip of his lightsaber. He remembered how it was weighted—how it felt when he reached his thumb up and turned it on. He could see it as clearly as if it were resting right there in his lap.
But just when the vision was at its clearest, he shut it out of his memory with such force, that he knew it would not return for a long time. That time was past. He had buried his lightsaber on his home planet, and sought to dedicate himself fully to communing with the Force, learning its ways like he had never learned them before—discovering new depths he had not known were possible.
However, in his ten years of searching, communing, and discovering, he had indeed learned very little. Every time he attempted to sit down, and meditate, he was instantly overwhelmed with the cries and shouts of dying and tortured voices. Were they echoes of the terrible Order 66? Or were they the cries of the Jedi who were now hunted like animals, tortured when found, and slaughtered like the worst of society?
Jedi Master Obi-wan Kenobi was cut off. He had cut himself off. He had severed his tie to the crying voices the moment his starship left the ashen planet of Mustafar. Something in him had died—given up—on that planet. And now, he was hiding in the Tattoinian desert, watching from afar a young child he had helped deliver into the world. How grieved Master Jin would be to see him now, he thought. How grieved indeed.
What pulled Obi-wan out of his thoughts, was the bleeping of an alarm announcing the approach of a visitor. A visitor? In the wilderness of Dejuri? No one journeyed into Dejuri—not even the locals who had plenty of myths surrounding the barren wasteland.
Obi-wan jumped to his feet and reached into the corner—when he halted. No—no situation called for a blaster did it? Surely, he could defend himself with the Tuscan staff he had bartered off of a Jawa a few years ago? The bleeping of the alarm quickened, sending a note of panic through Kenobi’s limbs. Maybe a blaster wouldn’t be an altogether too terrible idea.
He stuffed the blaser into the front of his robe before throwing his hooded cloak around his shoulders and walked towards the entrance to his cave. According to the scanner, two beings were directly approaching the cave’s entrance. That either meant they clearly meant good—or clearly meant evil.
Either way, Obi-wan Kenobi, the wilderness hermit of Dejuri, would make sure to give them a proper, civilized welcome.