Welp... I got distracted by exams and reading. But here's another chapter! No mandalorians in this one, but the jedi have as much place in this fic as mandos.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 4
Chapter 5. The New Dawn.
Dooku crossed his arms. “Should I assume the Council approved this sudden adventure of yours?”
Sifo-Dyas, still catching his breath, waved a dismissive hand. “Details, details.”
Dooku gave him a dry look. “That would be a no.”
Sifo shot him a grin that was just this side of manic and promptly strode past him onto the ship. “I’m going with you.”
Dooku sighed through his nose but followed. “I see I have little choice in the matter.”
The hatch sealed behind them with a pressurized hiss. Within minutes, the ship lifted from the landing pad, merging into the pulsing flow of Coruscant’s air traffic.
The Room of a Thousand Fountains was steeped in tranquility. The soft trickle of countless waterfalls echoed against the polished stone, their crystalline streams weaving through moss-covered rocks and carefully cultivated gardens. The air was thick with the scent of water lilies and rare Alderaanian blossoms, the humidity wrapping around everything like a warm embrace. Soft, dappled light filtered in from the high transparisteel windows, casting shifting patterns across the smooth marble floor.
Master Dooku sat in perfect stillness, cross-legged on a stone bench beside a gently bubbling pool. Before him, his tea set was arranged with meticulous care—a polished silver tray, a delicate white porcelain cup, and a small ceramic teapot filled with water that had already begun to take on the deep amber hue of its steeped leaves. The scent was rich, earthy, and slightly sweet, the fermented leaves releasing their essence into the water with slow, deliberate patience.
This was his sanctuary, a rare moment of peace between the demands of the Order. Here, the ever-present hum of the Jedi Temple softened into something quiet, something personal. Dooku took a measured breath, reveling in the stillness, allowing his mind to clear as the gentle sounds of the fountains filled the space around him.
Then, without opening his eyes, he moved with unhurried grace, lifting his forearm to block the gimmer stick that was headed for his shin. The impact was light, a mere tap, as if the wielder had been testing his awareness rather than intending any real harm.
“Good evening, Master,” Dooku said smoothly, finally allowing a small smile to touch his lips. His voice was as refined as ever, tinged with amusement but entirely devoid of surprise.
A quiet chuckle, rough and knowing, answered him. “Alert, you remain,” Master Yoda said, his ears twitching slightly in satisfaction. “Laziness, this is not.”
Dooku finally opened his eyes, tilting his head slightly to regard his diminutive Master. “I would never dare to be lazy, Master. I merely appreciate the virtues of patience. A lesson I believe you once taught me.”
Yoda huffed as he hopped up onto the stone bench beside his padawan, his small frame settling into a meditative posture. “Mmm. Speak wisdom, you do. But mischief, I sense.”
Dooku exhaled softly, resting his hands lightly against his knees. “From me? Never.”
But the Force around Yoda was practically vibrating with amusement, a sensation that made Dooku arch an eyebrow. He had long since learned to recognize when his Master was planning something.
“You have a task for me,” Dooku stated, pouring himself a small cup of tea before glancing sidelong at Yoda. “The Force practically giggles around you.”
Yoda chuckled again, his ears twitching. “A mission, there is.”
Dooku took a measured sip of his tea, savoring the taste before responding. “I thought as much. And what dire predicament does the galaxy require my assistance with this time?”
Yoda hummed, watching his padawan with his keen, knowing eyes. “A Jedi, there is. One who should not be where he is.”
Dooku set his tea down with a soft clink, giving his full attention to his Master now. “Go on.”
Yoda’s expression grew more serious. “Korda Six, you will go. A Jedi, there is, aiding Mandalorians. Who, we do not know. Learn the truth, you must.”
Dooku leaned back slightly, his mind already working through the implications. A Jedi aiding Mandalorians? That was... unusual. And troubling.
He smiled faintly. “Well, Master. It seems my peace and quiet have come to an end.”
Yoda merely huffed again, his gaze warm but firm. “Much to learn, you still have, my padawan.”
Dooku chuckled softly, finishing his tea in one last deliberate sip. “It appears I always do.”
___
Master Sifo-Dyas sat alone in the dim meditation chamber, his breathing slow and deliberate, his hands resting on his knees. The air was still, unnaturally so, thick with the weight of something unseen. For years, the Force had tormented him with visions—flashes of death, endless suffering, a darkness stretching its grasp across the stars, consuming everything in its path. He had seen burning worlds, slaughtered innocents, and the ever-marching presence of white-armored warriors cutting through the chaos.
The visions had come without mercy. He had felt every death, every scream reverberating through the Force until it became unbearable. They had haunted his waking moments, robbed him of sleep, turned meditation from solace into torment. The whispers of the future had never ceased—until now.
Now, there was only silence.
He exhaled shakily, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his robes. No pain, no fear, no burning destruction. Just... nothing.
At first, he had thought it a reprieve. A moment of peace after years of suffering under the relentless onslaught of prophetic nightmares. But the stillness was wrong. The Force had been a raging storm, and now it was a lake without a ripple. It felt unnatural, as though something had shifted deep within its current, something vast and unfathomable.
He had meditated for days, reaching out, searching for answers, but all he had received was a single word.
"Patience."
It whispered through him like a gentle breeze, soothing and firm. Yet it unsettled him more than the visions ever had. Why patience? What had changed? Was the darkness truly gone, or was it simply coiling, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?
Sifo-Dyas pressed his fingers to his temple.
No more pain. No more death.
It should have been a comfort. It wasn’t.
The galaxy had never been still. The Force had never been silent. It pulsed with life, with conflict, with balance. And yet now, it was eerily void of all of it, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.
Waiting.
For what?
His breath hitched, and for the first time, a new kind of fear settled deep in his chest. The fear that he wasn’t seeing the future anymore. That he had lost his connection to the Force. That he was going mad.
Sifo-Dyas gasped as the Force shifted.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t gradual.
One moment, the universe was frozen in eerie stillness—silent, waiting. And then, in an instant, it breathed.
A shuddering exhale, as if the very fabric of existence had been clenched in an iron grip and was now suddenly free. The Force rushed outward like a flood, vast and endless, filling every space, every crevice, every unseen corner of the galaxy.
It was alive.
Sifo-Dyas cried out as the sensation hit him, raw and overwhelming. His body jerked as though struck by lightning, and he collapsed forward, his hands slamming against the cold floor of the meditation chamber. His knees scraped against the stone as he tried to ground himself, but the Force—so much Force—surged through him like a tidal wave, too vast to contain, too powerful to endure.
Sweat poured down his face, his breath coming in heaving gasps, his vision blurred with light. The world was too bright. Everything pulsed with energy—so much life, so much potential. He could feel it in every fiber of his being.
It was like taking a first breath after drowning.
Sifo-Dyas wheezed, air tearing into his lungs, his whole body shaking as he felt the shift in the galaxy. The oppressive weight of his visions—the unrelenting march of death, the choking despair—was gone.
For the first time in years, the Force wasn’t drowning in darkness.
It was singing.
He could barely comprehend it, barely hold onto the sensation, but it was real. A great wound in the galaxy had been healed, a fracture in destiny had been repaired. The currents of the future no longer bled with inescapable doom.
There was hope.
Sifo-Dyas let out a choking laugh, giddy and disbelieving. His fingers dug into the floor, as if anchoring himself to reality, to the truth of what he was feeling.
The galaxy had hope.
He didn’t know what had changed. He didn’t know who had changed it.
But the future was no longer set in stone. The Force had been rewritten.
Tears stung his eyes as he tilted his face upward, laughing breathlessly at the ceiling of the Jedi Temple. The burden he had carried for so long, the doom he had known was coming—had prepared for—was no longer inevitable.
It was a new future.
And it had just begun. Korda Six was calling
Sifo-Dyas stood in the dim glow of the meditation chamber, his breath still uneven, his heart pounding against his ribs. He clenched his hands into fists, grounding himself in the here and now. The overwhelming sensation of the Force’s shift still buzzed in his bones, so raw, so real—and yet, it had only been a vision.
But not just any vision.
After so many months of silence, after the Force had tangled itself into knots and refused to give him anything but fragmented glimpses of endless war and death, this was the first time in years that the vision had felt… right.
The Force had changed.
And the last thing it whispered to him before retreating into the vast unknown was Korda Six. Sifo’s eyes widened. He didn’t hesitate.
He ran.
He all but bolted out of the meditation chamber, his robes swirling behind him as he raced through the Temple halls, drawing startled glances from passing Jedi. His breath was still uneven, but he didn’t stop. He needed to move.
His quarters. Pack. Find Yan. Now.
———
The Republic transport was humming with pre-flight activity when Dooku spotted a familiar figure barreling into the hangar bay.
Sifo-Dyas, with his robes slightly disheveled and a travel pack slung over his shoulder, was weaving through mechanics and officers with single-minded purpose.
Dooku’s brows lifted in mild amusement. It had been a long time since he had seen Sifo move with such urgency.
Sifo skidded to a halt just in front of the boarding ramp, panting slightly.
Dooku crossed his arms. “Should I assume the Council approved this sudden adventure of yours?”
Sifo-Dyas, still catching his breath, waved a dismissive hand. “Details, details.”
Dooku gave him a dry look. “That would be a no.”
Sifo shot him a grin that was just this side of manic and promptly strode past him onto the ship. “I’m going with you.”
Dooku sighed through his nose but followed. “I see I have little choice in the matter.”
The hatch sealed behind them with a pressurized hiss. Within minutes, the ship lifted from the landing pad, merging into the pulsing flow of Coruscant’s air traffic.
Sifo-Dyas sat down across from his old friend, fingers tapping absently against his knee.
Dooku studied him, noting the gleam in his dark eyes—the kind of wild, determined certainty that had been missing for too long.
After a long silence, he finally asked, “Why, Sifo?”
Sifo exhaled, staring out at the skyline. “Because the Force just breathed for the first time in years.”
And Dooku, ever the skeptic, ever the measured one, simply… watched him.
“The Senate has sent us an inquiry,” Mace began, his deep voice resonating in the room. “They’ve reported sightings of a Jedi aiding one of the Mandalorian factions on Korda Six. The Senate is... displeased. They’ve reminded us, rather pointedly, that the Jedi are meant to remain neutral in conflicts.”
Ben and Jon descended the rocky cliff carefully, the former tucking his lightsaber into his robe to avoid provoking the Mandalorians below. Tension hung thick in the air, despite the battle’s end, as the True Mandalorians regrouped, their weapons still at the ready. Jaster Mereel stood at their forefront, leaning on one of his warriors for support, his injured leg visibly affecting his stance but not his commanding presence.
Ben cast a glance at Jon, who still clutched the rifle he’d used with unnerving precision during the fight. The boy’s face remained impassive, his small form dwarfed by the weapon, but his blue eyes were sharp and observant, scanning the Mandalorians as if already assessing potential threats.
As they reached the base of the cliff, Mereel stepped forward slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto the two Jedi. His Concordian accent carried the weight of leadership, steady and unyielding despite the exhaustion in his voice.
“I’ll not lie,” Mereel began, his voice even but edged with caution. “We’re grateful for your help. Without it, my men and I might not be standing here. But I have to ask—why would Jedi intervene in our affairs? You’ve never exactly been our allies.”
Ben sighed inwardly, already feeling the familiar weight of diplomacy settle on his shoulders. He stepped forward, keeping his hands visible to avoid any misunderstanding. “The Force led me here,” he said simply, meeting Mereel’s gaze. “I didn’t come here to fight your battles, but when I saw what was happening, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”
Mereel’s eyes narrowed slightly, skepticism clear in his expression. His gaze flicked to Jon, who remained silent at Ben’s side, the rifle held tightly in his small hands. “And the adiik?” Mereel asked, his tone tinged with disapproval. “Why did you allow a child onto a battlefield? Or is this standard practice for Jetiise now?”
Ben bit back a frustrated sigh, glancing at Jon, who seemed unbothered by the comment. “This child,” Ben began, his voice tinged with irritation, “might as well do as he pleases. I had no say in him being here. He’s...” Ben paused, searching for the right words. “...stubborn.”
The Mandalorians exchanged glances, a few muttering quietly to one another. Despite the tension, Ben noticed the faintest flicker of amusement among them.
Jon, his tone calm and matter-of-fact, piped up before Ben could stop him. “The Force willed me to help him.”
Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Jon...” he muttered, already exhausted by the boy’s unwavering adherence to his perceived purpose.
Mereel raised an eyebrow, his skepticism deepening. “The Force, is it?” he said, his tone skeptical but not entirely dismissive. “And you let the adiik follow its will without question?”
Before Jon could respond, Ben shot him a warning look. “Don’t.”
Jon hesitated but eventually fell silent, though his lips pressed together in clear discontent. Mereel’s gaze shifted back to Ben, his expression unreadable.
After a moment of silence, Mereel reached up and removed his helmet, revealing a weathered but noble face framed by dark hair streaked with gray. His piercing eyes softened slightly, and he inclined his head. “Whatever your reasons, you saved our lives. And for that, I owe you a life debt. To both of you.”
Ben opened his mouth to protest, but Jon was quicker. “We’re servants of the Force, not—”
Ben cut him off sharply. “Jon.” He turned to the boy, his tone firm but not unkind. “Do not disrespect their culture. A life debt is a matter of honor.”
Jon blinked, clearly taken aback by Ben’s tone. “Of course, Master,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter.
Ben sighed, suddenly weary. “And stop calling me that,” he muttered.
“Of course, Master,” Jon replied again, his expression unreadable.
The Mandalorians, previously tense and watchful, began to relax. A few even chuckled at the exchange, the tension in the air slowly dissipating. They must've guessed from the cues that "Master" didn't mean Ben was Jon's slaver. That was a popular misconception, especially out of the Core and Inner Rim.
Mereel studied the pair for a moment longer, his sharp gaze lingering on Ben. “You know Mandalorian culture well,” he observed.
Ben’s expression remained carefully neutral. “I do,” he said simply, offering no further explanation.
Mereel didn’t press him, though Ben could see the curiosity in the man’s eyes. Instead, the Mandalorian leader nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well then, Jetii. I suppose we’ll see where the Force takes us next.”
Ben only nodded, feeling the weight of the encounter settle in his chest. The Force may have led him here, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of a much larger journey—one that he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
The Mandalorians led Ben and Jon to their crashed ship, a metallic husk leaning precariously against the rocky terrain. The moment Ben laid eyes on it, he winced. The damage from the ion cannons was severe—electronics fried beyond repair, panels scorched, and wires exposed like the ship had been gutted from the inside out. It wouldn’t be flying again anytime soon.
As they approached, a Mandalorian in sand-gold armor—clearly a medic, judging by his attitude—stepped forward, brisk and commanding. His voice carried a tone that brooked no argument. “Mereel, with me. You need patching up.” The leader of the True Mandalorians nodded reluctantly and allowed himself to be whisked away.
The medic’s sharp gaze then shifted to Ben and Jon. “And you two. You don’t have armor, so you’re getting checked too.”
Ben opened his mouth to argue, uncomfortable with the idea of being fussed over by Mandalorians, but one look at the medic told him resistance was futile. The man looked like the type who wouldn’t hesitate to hypo him with a sedative to ensure compliance. Ben sighed, his irritation barely concealed, and nodded.
The medic’s demeanor softened slightly. “Good. I’m Mij Gilmar,” he introduced himself as he motioned for them to follow.
Mij led them inside the ship to the medbay, a stark and utilitarian space that reminded Ben uncomfortably of the medbays aboard the warships of the Clone Wars. The memory flickered through his mind, sharp and bitter. The sterile smell of antiseptics, the low hum of damaged electronics struggling to stay online—it all clawed at his nerves, souring his mood further. The Force whispered insistently in his mind, Patience, as if mocking his weariness.
Mij got to work quickly, running a scanner over Ben’s body as he grumbled under his breath. “Crazy unarmored people. What were you thinking, running into a firefight like that without so much as a helmet?”
Ben chose not to answer, his jaw tight as he let the medic do his job. Once Mij was satisfied that Ben wasn’t injured, he moved on to Jon. The boy sat quietly on the edge of the medbay cot, his small frame looking even more frail in the dim lighting. Mij scanned him and frowned. “The kid’s exhausted,” he said, his tone shifting from irritation to concern. “Why does he look so tired?”
“It’s the Force,” Ben said, glancing at Jon. “He’s Force-weary. Using it during the battle likely drained him.”
He didn't mention he was quite tired too, out of caution. He could still cause some damage.
Mereel, now patched up but still favoring his injured leg, joined them in the medbay and eyed Jon curiously. “How’d you even find this adiik?” he asked, his Concordian accent giving his words a blunt edge.
It was then that Ben realized he hadn’t properly introduced himself. “He… found me, more or less,” Ben admitted, his tone weary. “I’m Ben.”
Mereel tilted his head, studying him. “What about your clan name?”
Ben stiffened, glancing away. “I don’t have one.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the Mandalorians exchanging glances. Mereel broke the silence, his tone cautious. “I thought Jedi formed something like clans. Brotherhoods, at least.”
Ben exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping. “I haven’t been in the Temple for a long time. And even if I had, there's no one who would know me. It’s just me.”
Jon, still sitting quietly, looked up at that. “It’s not just you anymore,” the boy said softly. “It’s me too.”
Ben closed his eyes briefly, wishing for a strong drink to drown the weariness threatening to overwhelm him. “Right,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.
Mij, apparently unbothered by the weighty exchange, turned his attention to Jon. “What about you, adiik? Do you have a clan back in the Temple?”
Jon shook his head. “I’ve never been to Coruscant,” he said matter-of-factly.
That got a reaction from the Mandalorians far stronger than Ben's admission. Confused murmurs rippled through the room. Mereel looked at Ben sharply. “What do you mean, he’s never been to Coruscant? I thought all Jedi were trained there.”
Ben shifted uncomfortably. “He was trained by… an unconventional Jedi. One who doesn’t follow the usual traditions. There is some who follow only the Will of the Force, not our Council.”
Mereel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his sharp eyes narrowing. He didn’t say anything further, but Ben could tell what he was thinking. The Mandalorian leader clearly disapproved, and Ben couldn’t entirely blame him. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about Jon’s training situation either. Children need other children to grow, they need a fixed place, a routine and familiar faces on a daily basis.
Mij, perhaps sensing the tension, finished his examination and stepped back. “The boy needs rest,” he said simply. “Force-weary or not, he’s running on fumes.”
Jon opened his mouth to protest, but Ben cut him off. “You’ll rest,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
For once, Jon didn’t push back. He simply nodded, and Ben felt a flicker of relief. But as he glanced around the medbay, the Force still tugging insistently at the edges of his mind, he couldn’t shake the feeling that their task here was far from over.
Ben leaned back in the worn medbay chair, his eyes drawn to Jon’s small form curled up on the cot. The boy had fallen asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, his chest rising and falling in an untroubled rhythm. It was a strange contrast to the persistent storm Ben felt simmering within himself. He rubbed his temples and let out a weary sigh.
And to say I thought Anakin was bad, he thought grimly, memories of sleepless nights chasing a young, defiant Anakin through the corridors of the Temple flashing through his mind. At least Anakin had been loud—impossible to ignore, constantly questioning and pushing boundaries. Jon, though... Jon was quiet, unnervingly so, and far too compliant for a child his age.
Ben glanced at the boy again and felt a pang of guilt. The child needed more than just someone to fight beside; he needed guidance, structure, and care. But was Ben the right person to provide any of that? He wasn’t sure he even had the strength left for such a task.
He let out another sigh, this one heavier. He was tired—bone-deep tired—not just from the past few days of chaos but from the weight of everything he carried. Still, he couldn’t sleep. His mind churned with thoughts of what came next.
For now, they were in the medbay, under the wary but relatively accepting eyes of the Mandalorians. Yet Ben knew their hospitality had limits. The Mandalorians valued children as the future of their people, but he was a Jedi, and that made everything more complicated. Staying longer than necessary would only invite trouble.
But even as these practical concerns filled his mind, the Force whispered differently. It was insistent, pressing, tugging at him with a subtle but unrelenting pull. Your task here is not finished.
Ben shifted uncomfortably in his chair, closing his eyes to the faint hum of the medbay’s systems. The Force carried with it an ominous rhythm—war drums, distant but distinct, beating a cadence that resonated in his bones. It wasn’t real, not in the physical sense, but it felt undeniable.
His gaze drifted back to Jon. The boy needed a teacher, someone to guide him on a path that didn’t lead to darkness or destruction. The Dark Woman—Ben clenched his jaw at the thought of her—had done little to prepare Jon for the life of a Jedi. If anything, she’d made him more brittle, more vulnerable to the worst parts of their Order.
And then there was the boy’s unwavering faith in the idea that Ben was meant to be his master. The conviction in his voice whenever he said, “The Force willed it.” Ben didn’t know whether to feel flattered or burdened by it.
Maybe he’s right, Ben thought reluctantly. Maybe the Force did put him in my path for a reason. But the thought soured quickly as his mind turned to the last time he’d taken on a padawan. He’d trained Anakin, hadn’t he? And look how that turned out.
The memories of Mustafar burned fresh and raw in his mind. He couldn’t shake the image of Anakin—no, Vader—standing amid the flames, hatred in his eyes. The boy he’d sworn to protect had become a monster. How could Ben trust himself to guide another child?
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw. The weight of the past threatened to crush him, but the present demanded his attention. Jon deserved better than what he’d had under the Dark Woman, and despite Ben’s reservations, the boy seemed determined to stay by his side.
You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? he thought, a faint flicker of fondness breaking through his frustration.
Still, the question of what to do next loomed large. The Force offered no clarity, only that same maddening whisper: Patience.
Ben sighed deeply, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. He needed to think. He needed a plan. And, most of all, he needed a karking drink.
Morning broke over the jagged peaks of Korda Six, the sunlight cutting through the chill of the air. The Mandalorians had gathered near the remains of their ship, their voices low but charged with purpose. Jaster Mereel, his injured leg now firmly braced, stood before his people, his voice carrying authority as he made his announcement.
“Montross,” Mereel declared, his voice heavy with both anger and resolve, “has betrayed us. He is dar’manda—no longer Mando’ad, no longer one of us. Let his name be a warning to those who would forsake their brothers and sisters.”
A ripple of agreement passed through the gathered Mandalorians, their expressions hard and resolute.
Mereel’s tone shifted, growing solemn. “I would also speak of these jetiise.” He gestured toward Ben and Jon, who stood a little apart from the gathering. “They saved my life, and the lives of many of our brothers and sisters. For this, I owe them a debt. From this moment forward, they are allies of House Mereel.”
The announcement sent murmurs through the crowd, some Mandalorians casting curious or wary glances at the pair. To name Jedi as allies was no small declaration, given their complicated history with Mandalorians, but none dared to openly oppose Jaster Mereel’s decision.
When the gathering dispersed, Mereel approached Ben and Jon, his expression thoughtful. “Jedi,” he said, his Concordian accent as thick as ever, “what is your plan now?”
Ben hesitated, glancing at Jon, who stood quietly at his side. “The Force is insistent that my task here is unfinished,” he admitted, “though I can’t say what that task is just yet. It seems I’ll have to impose on you and your people a little longer.”
Mereel studied Ben for a moment, then nodded. “We’ll be on this planet for a week, long enough to repair the ship so we can limp our way to Mand’yaim. You’re welcome to travel with us—as long as you don’t anger my people.”
“I’ll do my best,” Ben said, inclining his head in gratitude.
Content, Mereel clapped him on the shoulder and strode off to oversee the repairs, leaving Ben and Jon alone. The boy tilted his head, looking up at Ben with a questioning expression.
Ben sighed, gesturing for Jon to follow him. “Come on,” he said.
They walked a little ways from the ship, far enough to find a quiet spot amid the rocky terrain. The sounds of Mandalorians working on the ship faded into the background, replaced by the soft rustle of the wind.
Ben sat cross-legged on the ground, motioning for Jon to do the same. “We’re going to meditate,” he said.
Jon obediently sat, folding his legs beneath him with an ease born of practice. Ben studied the boy for a moment, noting the way his posture was perfectly straight, his expression calm and blank. It was almost too perfect, too practiced.
“Close your eyes,” Ben instructed, his voice gentler now. “Focus on your breathing. Let the Force flow through you.”
Jon complied without question, his eyes sliding shut. For a moment, the two of them sat in silence, the faint hum of the Force filling the space between them.
Ben closed his own eyes, trying to center himself. He reached out to the Force, seeking its guidance, its clarity. But all he felt was the same insistent tug, the same maddening whisper: Patience.
As he breathed deeply, he allowed his thoughts to settle. The boy’s presence beside him was steady but faint, as if Jon was holding something back. Ben reached out with his senses, brushing against the boy’s presence in the Force.
It was like touching the surface of a calm lake, only to sense the storm churning beneath. Repressed emotions, unspoken fears, and a quiet but fierce determination—all buried deep within the boy’s small frame.
Ben’s heart ached at the realization. The child carried so much weight for someone so young. He deserved more than this, more than a life of hardship and uncertainty.
As the wind whispered through the rocks around them, Ben made a silent vow. Whatever the Force intended for him, he wouldn’t fail Jon. Not like before.
___
The grand chambers of the Jedi Council on Coruscant were bathed in soft, filtered light from the high windows. Seated in a semi-circle, the Jedi Masters deliberated with calm but focused intensity. Master Mace Windu leaned forward in his chair, his expression as firm as durasteel.
“The Senate has sent us an inquiry,” Mace began, his deep voice resonating in the room. “They’ve reported sightings of a Jedi aiding one of the Mandalorian factions on Korda Six. The Senate is... displeased. They’ve reminded us, rather pointedly, that the Jedi are meant to remain neutral in conflicts.”
A ripple of concern passed through the Council. Master Plo Koon tilted his head, the faint hum of his breathing apparatus the only sound he made before speaking. “Are we certain it was a Jedi? Many factions across the galaxy imitate our tactics and use weapons resembling lightsabers.”
Master Yaddle, her voice soft yet full of authority, interjected. “Confirmed, it seems. A lightsaber was seen in use. The reports speak of one Jedi aiding the True Mandalorians, specifically Jaster Mereel’s faction. But no Jedi was sent there, not officially.”
Ki-Adi-Mundi frowned. “A rogue Jedi, then? Or one who has abandoned the Order?”
The room grew tense as the possibilities hung in the air.
Master Saesee Tiin spoke up, his voice sharp. “We cannot allow the perception of disobedience or partiality. If this Jedi has defied the Council’s directives, it will only fuel the Senate’s distrust of us.”
Master Yoda, seated at the head of the chamber, listened in silence until now. He shifted slightly, his green ears twitching. “Much we do not know,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate. “Certain, the identity of this Jedi, we are not. Investigate, we must.”
Mace Windu turned to Yoda, his brow furrowed. “And who will we send? The situation is delicate. Whoever we dispatch must tread carefully, lest we escalate the conflict.”
Yoda closed his eyes briefly, his thoughts turning inward. Then, with a nod, he made his decision. “My padawan, I will send. To Korda Six, Dooku will go. Learn, he must, the truth of this Jedi’s presence.”
Mace inclined his head in agreement. “A wise choice. Master Dooku has the discretion and skill needed for such a delicate mission.”
Yaddle added, “Send him with haste, we should. Resolve this matter quickly, the Senate expects.”
The Council murmured their assent, though unease lingered in the room. Yoda’s gaze drifted to the far window, where Coruscant’s endless skyline stretched into the horizon. Somewhere out there, a Jedi was walking a dangerous path—one that might threaten the tenuous trust between the Jedi Order and the Senate.
“May the Force guide him,” Yoda murmured, the weight of the decision pressing on him as the Council prepared to dispatch his padawan to uncover the mystery.
“Jon,” Ben said, breaking the silence. “How did you become her padawan?”
Jon didn’t look up as he replied. “She found me on the streets.”
Ben’s brow furrowed. “How long ago was that?”
Jon shrugged. “A long time.”
Ben pressed further. “How old were you when she found you?”
Jon’s steps faltered for the briefest moment before he said, “I don’t know.”
The freighter touched down on the dusty surface of Korda Six with a shudder and a whine of old mechanics. Ben stood at the ramp, gazing out as it descended, revealing the alien world beyond.
The planet’s surface was rugged and uneven, a patchwork of ochre and rust-colored terrain that stretched to the horizon. The air shimmered with a faint, golden haze, and jagged mountain ranges loomed in the distance, their peaks sharp and shadowed against the pale green sky. Sparse vegetation clung to life in cracks and crevices—scrubby bushes with waxy leaves and hardy vines that seemed to grow directly from the rocks. The heat wasn’t as oppressive as Tatooine’s twin suns, but it was still stifling, and the air carried a metallic tang that made Ben’s nose wrinkle.
The settlement near the landing pad was a modest collection of weather-beaten structures built from stone and scavenged metal. It had the air of a place long accustomed to fending for itself—pragmatic, functional, and entirely unwelcoming.
Ben glanced over his shoulder at Jon, who stood silently behind him, his small frame stiff with attention. “Stay close,” Ben said firmly. “And stay alert.”
Jon nodded, his expression unreadable as he followed Ben down the ramp and onto the rocky ground.
Ben took a deep breath, letting the Force wash over him as he closed his eyes and silently asked the question that had been plaguing him for days. Why am I here?
The answer was the same as it had been since the voice first whispered to him on Tatooine: Patience.
Ben clenched his jaw, frustration prickling at the edges of his composure. There was more this time, though—a gentle tug in the Force, a pull toward the distant mountains. He opened his eyes and exhaled slowly, turning in the direction of the range.
“This way,” he said, his voice steady despite the churn of uncertainty beneath.
Jon followed without a word, his small footsteps barely audible against the uneven ground. As they began the trek toward the mountains, Ben couldn’t help but glance down at the boy beside him.
The child was unnaturally quiet, his demeanor subdued in a way that felt wrong. Children were supposed to be noisy, curious, emotional. Jon was none of those things. He moved with a calmness that was almost eerie, his expression impassive, his presence in the Force tightly contained.
Ben felt a flicker of unease. Perhaps the Dark Woman shouldn’t have been entrusted with training a child. Her methods were notoriously unconventional, and though Ben had never worked closely with her, he had heard the stories.
His eyes drifted to Jon’s head, noting the lack of a padawan braid. That, at least, wasn’t surprising.
“Jon,” Ben said, breaking the silence. “How did you become her padawan?”
Jon didn’t look up as he replied. “She found me on the streets.”
Ben’s brow furrowed. “How long ago was that?”
Jon shrugged. “A long time.”
Ben pressed further. “How old were you when she found you?”
Jon’s steps faltered for the briefest moment before he said, “I don’t know.”
“How old are you now?”
This time, Jon glanced up at him, his blue eyes calm but guarded. “I don’t know.”
Ben sighed, his frustration softening into something closer to concern. “You look to be about ten,” he said.
Jon didn’t respond immediately, but Ben felt a faint ripple in the Force—a glimmer of quiet satisfaction that caught him off guard. The boy didn’t care, or so he claimed, but knowing his approximate age seemed to please him all the same.
Ben’s heart ached at the thought. The boy wasn’t as emotionless as he seemed; his feelings were there, buried deep beneath layers of repression and self-discipline. What had the Dark Woman’s teachings done to him?
Not that Ben was in any position to judge. He wasn’t exactly a paragon of mental health himself, not after everything he’d been through. The galaxy had taken its toll on them both.
As they continued their trek toward the mountains, Ben couldn’t shake the weight of his thoughts. He glanced down at Jon once more, the boy’s small figure dwarfed by the expanse of rocky terrain around them.
Perhaps they were both searching for something on this strange planet. Something that neither of them fully understood yet.
Ben froze mid-step as a fiery streak tore through the green-tinged sky, smoke and sparks trailing a rapidly descending ship. His eyes followed its chaotic trajectory, the distant mountain range framing its doomed path. A thunderous crash echoed moments later, shaking the ground faintly beneath their feet.
Jon, standing at his side, broke the silence. “That must be your task.”
Ben didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on the plume of smoke rising from the mountains ahead. But deep in the Force, the boy’s words resonated with an undeniable truth. He nodded once, silently agreeing.
“We need to move,” he said, quickening his pace.
Jon followed without complaint, keeping up as they made their way toward the site of the crash. The terrain grew more treacherous as they neared the mountain range, the ground shifting under their boots as the rocky expanse turned to steep ridges and uneven cliffs.
Nearly half an hour later, they approached the edge of a cliff overlooking a narrow valley. Ben dropped into a crouch and gestured for Jon to do the same. Crawling forward, they peered over the ridge, taking in the scene below.
The ship lay sprawled at the center of the valley, smoke billowing from its engines and hull. The damage was catastrophic—plating was torn asunder, and debris was scattered in all directions. But it wasn’t the wreckage that drew Ben’s immediate attention.
Two groups of Mandalorians clashed in the chaos below.
One group wore armor of varied colors, their designs mismatched but their movements coordinated and precise. The Haat Mando’ade—True Mandalorians. Ben recognized their style from descriptions Satine had shared during their time together.
The other group was starkly uniform, clad in gray and blue armor that gleamed even in the smoky haze. The Kyr'tsad—the Death Watch. Their name alone stirred unease in Ben’s chest.
He felt the sharp pang of recognition as pieces of the story fell into place. This was no ordinary skirmish. This was the day Satine had told him about, the day Jaster Mereel, the leader of the True Mandalorians, was betrayed by one of his own and killed.
“This,” Ben muttered under his breath, “is the moment.”
Jon glanced at him, curious but silent, as Ben felt the Force pressing against him, urging him forward. This was the point where it all began to spiral—this betrayal would lead to the rise of Death Watch, and in turn, to the chaos that would echo through the galaxy.
Ben’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t stand by and let history repeat itself. Not when the Force had brought him here.
“Stay hidden,” he told Jon firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Do not follow me. Stay away from the fight.”
Jon hesitated but eventually nodded, settling back behind the ridge as Ben rose to his feet and began moving toward the fray.
He passed the bodies of fallen Mandalorians on his way, each armored figure a reminder of the stakes of this battle. He spotted a sniper rifle lying near one of the fallen, and without hesitation, he picked it up. It felt foreign in his hands—he was a Jedi, not a marksman and he personally found blasters uncivilised—but the weapon would serve its purpose.
Reaching a vantage point on the cliff, Ben dropped into position, his eyes scanning the battlefield below. The skirmish was chaotic, the True Mandalorians outnumbered and pinned down by the Death Watch’s assault.
He adjusted the scope, searching for key targets among the Death Watch ranks. His breathing slowed, his focus narrowing as the Force guided his aim.
Ben wasn’t here to rewrite history completely. He couldn’t stop the Death Watch from existing, couldn’t erase their influence on Mandalorian culture. But he could shift the balance, ensure Jaster Mereel lived to fight another day.
And then he fired.
He took a deep breath, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. The Force swirled around him, sharp and decisive, as if time itself held its breath.
The valley was chaos incarnate. Blasterfire streaked across the battlefield, the cracks of shots echoing off the rocky walls as the True Mandalorians fought desperately against the overwhelming forces of the Kyr'tsad. The True Mandalorians moved as a unit, covering each other and holding their ground despite their disadvantage, but the Death Watch pressed in relentlessly, their disciplined assault forcing the defenders further back toward the wrecked ship.
The first shot dropped a Mandalorian mid-charge, sending him crumpling to the ground. Another found its mark in the chest of a sniper taking aim at Jaster Mereel, who was rallying his men from the center of the fight.
Ben fired again and again, each shot deliberate, each one guided by the Force. But precision had its price. After the fifth shot, one of the Death Watch soldiers spotted the flash of the rifle from the ridge.
“Sniper on the cliff!” the cry went up, followed by a volley of blasterfire in Ben’s direction.
Ben ducked behind a boulder, the air around him sizzling with energy bolts. He adjusted his grip on the rifle and tried to line up another shot, but the volume of fire made it impossible to aim.
A bolt ricocheted off the rock beside him, too close for comfort. Gritting his teeth, Ben realized he couldn’t hold this position for long. The Force hummed a warning, and he rolled to the side just as another shot streaked through the space he’d occupied.
He reached for his lightsaber, the hilt familiar and steady in his hand. Igniting it, the blue blade sprang to life, casting an ethereal glow over the rocky terrain. Ben rose to his feet, deflecting shots with practiced precision. But using the saber meant he couldn’t fire the rifle, and the Death Watch were relentless.
Before he could decide his next move, a small figure appeared at his side.
Jon.
The boy dropped into a crouch beside him, his expression calm despite the chaos around them. “Give me the rifle.” Jon said firmly.
Ben blinked at him, stunned. “Are you out of your mind? Get back into hiding!”
Jon shook his head, his tone resolute. “It’s my task to help you in your task. Give me the rifle, Master.”
Blasterfire rained down around them, the Death Watch pressing their attack. Ben swore under his breath, barely able to spare a glance at the boy. “This is no place for a child!”
Jon didn’t flinch. “I’m not leaving.”
There was no time to argue. With a frustrated growl, Ben shoved the rifle into Jon’s hands. “Fine! But stay behind me, and don’t you dare get shot!”
As if to punctuate his warning, a bolt sizzled past them. Ben stepped in front of Jon, his lightsaber a blur of motion as he deflected the incoming fire.
Shouts from below reached his ears. “Jetii! There’s a Jetii on the ridge!”
Ben grumbled under his breath. “Great. That’s all we needed.”
Jon, undeterred, had already taken up position, the rifle steadied in his small hands. He fired with precision and remarkable calm, each shot well-placed and effective. Ben couldn’t help but glance back in surprise. The boy wasn’t just competent—he was unnervingly good.
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Ben asked, deflecting another volley of bolts.
Jon’s expression didn’t change. “The Dark Woman taught me. She said I should be able to handle any weapon.”
Ben dodged a shot that came dangerously close to his shoulder, shifting his stance to keep himself between Jon and the attackers. “That woman has a lot to answer for.” he muttered.
Jon fired again, dropping another Death Watch soldier. “She taught me to do my duty.” he said simply.
Ben grimaced, redirecting another bolt back toward its source. “And are you suicidal, too?” he snapped.
Jon’s reply was calm, almost serene. “There is no death. Only the Force.”
Ben felt a chill at the boy’s words, the mantra striking too deep. He was horrified—not just by the sentiment, but by the emptiness behind it. Jon truly believed it, and that belief left no room for self-preservation.
“Blast it,” Ben muttered, redoubling his efforts to shield the boy. The fight below raged on, the Mandalorians locked in their deadly struggle, but for Ben, the battle had taken on a new dimension.
Jon was proving himself capable, but at what cost? For the first time, Ben wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake in letting the boy stay. Yet even as doubt gnawed at him, the Force urged him forward. This was the moment, the turning point.
They had to see it through.
Ben’s heart clenched as he watched Jaster Mereel take a blaster shot to the knee. The leader of the True Mandalorians fell hard, his balance lost as pain visibly radiated through his body. He gritted his teeth and tried to rise, but the injury left him vulnerable. The Haat Mando’ade, already outnumbered, began to falter without their leader’s presence rallying them.
The Death Watch forces pressed their advantage, closing in with brutal efficiency. Ben deflected another blaster bolt aimed in his direction, his mind racing. He couldn’t stand by and let the True Mandalorians be wiped out—but what more could he do?
A desperate thought struck him as his eyes scanned the battlefield. Above a cluster of Death Watch soldiers, perched precariously on a ledge, was a massive boulder. It was teetering, loose from the wear of time and gravity. If he could bring it down, it would crush a significant portion of the Kyr'tsad forces.
But in a battle this chaotic, it would take precision, strength, and focus—more than Ben could manage. At least alone.
His eyes flicked to Jon, crouched beside him, still firing. The boy was steady and calm, but Ben could feel the Force swirling around him, unrefined yet powerful.
“Jon!” Ben called over the blasterfire.
The boy didn’t stop firing but turned his head slightly. “What?”
“Can you use a Force pull?” Ben asked hurriedly, blocking another shot with his lightsaber.
Jon hesitated, his expression cautious. “Not very well. Why?”
Ben pointed to the cliff above the Death Watch. “We’re going to bring that rock down.”
Jon lowered the rifle, his gaze following Ben’s gesture to the precarious boulder. For the first time, curiosity flickered across his otherwise stoic face. “You want me to help with that?”
“Yes, together,” Ben said, his tone firm. “Focus, and do exactly as I say.”
Jon didn’t argue. He set the rifle down carefully and shifted into a kneeling position behind a cover of some rock, closing his eyes.
Ben extinguished his lightsaber and knelt beside him, raising his hands. “Feel the rock,” he instructed, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Feel its weight, its shape. Let the Force wrap around it.”
Jon’s brow furrowed as he extended his hand, his small frame tense with concentration.
Ben reached out, the Force flowing through him like a current. He felt the boulder, massive and heavy, teetering on the edge. It resisted at first, the sheer weight of it a challenge even with his connection to the Force. But then he felt Jon’s presence join his, the boy’s power raw but surprisingly strong.
“Now, pull,” Ben urged.
Together, they tugged at the boulder. The rock groaned and shifted, dislodging from its perch. The ground seemed to tremble as gravity took hold, and the massive stone plummeted toward the battlefield below.
The impact was catastrophic. The boulder crashed into the midst of the Kyr'tsad forces, scattering them like leaves in a storm. The Death Watch soldiers who weren’t crushed outright began to flee, their morale shattered.
The remaining True Mandalorians seized the opportunity, rallying around Jaster Mereel despite his injury. They pushed forward, overwhelming the few Kyr'tsad who remained.
The battle was over.
Ben exhaled deeply, exhaustion threatening to claim him. The Force was still humming around him, but the weight of what they’d done—what they’d changed—settled heavily in his chest.
Jon sat back, his hands dropping to his sides. He didn’t speak, but there was a faint glimmer of satisfaction and exhaustion in his eyes, a rare crack in his stoic demeanor.
Below, the True Mandalorians regrouped around their wounded leader. Jaster Mereel, supported by two of his men, turned his helmeted gaze toward the cliff where Ben and Jon were perched.
Ben froze as a sense of dread crept up his spine. The Mandalorians had seen them—seen him. A Jedi.
The Mandalorians were a proud people, and the history between their culture and the Jedi was fraught with conflict. Even if Ben had just saved their lives, that didn’t guarantee gratitude—or trust.
Jon glanced at Ben, his expression unreadable. “What now, Master?”
Ben swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his lightsaber. He had no choice but to face them. “Now,” he said grimly, “we explain why a Jedi just interfered in their battle.”
“And if they don’t like the explanation?” Jon asked, his tone unnervingly calm.
Together, they rose, stepping forward to meet the Mandalorians’ gaze as the weight of their next challenge loomed ahead.
Ben managed a faint, humorless smile. “Then let’s hope they’re in a forgiving mood.”
Chapter 1 here. | Chapter 3 (which I forgot to add a link to)
Chapter 2. The boy who was so sure.
We're leaning into reluctant and tired dad heavy with this one and I'm all for it.
That one person who left 1 kudos, kudos to you! See what I did there? Ha!
Crouched amidst the crates was a boy, no older than ten. His long, messy dark hair hung in his face, and his piercing blue eyes stared up at Ben with a mix of curiosity and defiance.
“Are you a Jedi Master?” the boy asked, his voice steady despite his precarious situation.
Ben Kenobi sat in the cockpit of the freighter, the swirling blue of hyperspace surrounding him. The Force felt so unnaturally light here, so warm, that he’d found himself uncharacteristically at ease. It reminded him of a time before the war, before the darkness that had consumed everything. The purity of it was almost overwhelming, and he let it envelop him, a rare comfort he hadn’t felt in years.
But then, there was a flicker.
He stiffened, his senses sharpening as a faint presence brushed against his awareness. It wasn’t strong, and the shields around it were sloppy—barely trained. But it was unmistakably there. His heart pounded as paranoia took hold. Who was it? Someone after him? A trap?
Ben rose silently from his seat, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his lightsaber beneath his robes. He followed the presence through the narrow corridors of the freighter, his footsteps light but purposeful. The cargo hold. Of course.
The presence was trying to stay hidden, but its inexperience was evident. Ben pushed open a container lid and froze.
Crouched amidst the crates was a boy, no older than ten. His long, messy dark hair hung in his face, and his piercing blue eyes stared up at Ben with a mix of curiosity and defiance.
“Are you a Jedi Master?” the boy asked, his voice steady despite his precarious situation.
Ben blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. He lowered the lid slightly but didn’t take his eyes off the child. “Who are you? Where are your parents?”
The boy ignored the question, leaning forward. “You are a Jedi Master, aren’t you?”
Ben sighed, his patience already fraying. “That’s not important. What are you doing here? Why did you sneak onto this ship?”
The boy tilted his head, studying Ben intently. “You didn’t say no,” he pointed out. “You are a Jedi Master.”
Ben closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to stay calm. The situation was absurd. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this isn’t a place for children. You need to tell me where you came from.”
The boy crossed his arms, a stubborn set to his jaw. “I’m going with you.”
Ben stared at him, affronted. “You most certainly are not. I’m hardly good company for a child, and this—” he gestured around the hold, “—isn’t a rescue mission.”
The boy’s expression didn’t change. “You’d still be better than my teacher.”
Ben paused, his brows knitting together. “Your teacher? Who’s your teacher?”
The boy hesitated, then muttered, “Everyone calls her the Dark Woman.”
The words hit Ben like a blow, his mind racing. The Dark Woman. He knew of her, of course—a mysterious, elusive Jedi Master who had trained some of the Order’s most unusual and unconventional students. If this boy was her apprentice, then that meant...
“What’s your name?” Ben asked, his voice careful.
The boy hesitated again, lowering his gaze. “I don’t deserve a name yet,” he said quietly.
Ben’s breath caught. That response was enough to confirm his suspicion. Jon Antilles. A name as common as grains of sand, a placeholder until one earned the right to something greater. It was a philosophy as old as the Jedi Order itself, and one that only someone trained by the Dark Woman would adopt.
The boy looked up at him, his blue eyes shining with determination. “The Force says I should stay with you.”
Ben stared at him, incredulous. "The Force what?"
“It told me,” the boy said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the galaxy. “I’m supposed to go with you.”
Ben took a step back, his mind reeling. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “I’m not... I’m not taking on a student. I’m not even—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “No. This isn’t happening.”
The boy stood, his small frame straight and unyielding. “It’s what the Force wants.”
Ben threw up his hands, his frustration bubbling over. “Of course it is,” he muttered. “Because the Force just loves meddling, doesn’t it?” He paced a few steps, running a hand through his hair. “First, it sends me halfway across the galaxy on a fool’s errand, and now it wants me to babysit?”
The boy didn’t move, his expression as calm as it was infuriating. “The Force brought us together for a reason.”
Ben turned to glare at him, his voice sharp. “You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t have to,” the boy said simply. “The Force does.”
Ben groaned, leaning heavily against a crate. He could feel the truth of the boy’s words, the same quiet pull that had guided him to this ship, this journey. But that didn’t make it any less infuriating.
For a long moment, they stood in silence, the boy’s unwavering gaze locked onto Ben’s. Finally, Ben exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging.
“Fine,” he said reluctantly. “You can stay. For now. But this doesn’t mean anything.”
The boy smiled faintly, a hint of triumph in his eyes. “Thank you, Master.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ben snapped, already regretting his decision.
As he turned to leave the cargo hold, he felt the boy’s presence following him, small but steady, a faint echo of the light in the Force that had surrounded him since this journey began.
The Force has a strange sense of humor, he thought bitterly.
The days in hyperspace passed in relative silence, broken only by the hum of the freighter's engines. Jon—if he could even be called that yet—was quiet in a way that Ben found almost distressing. It wasn’t the watchful silence of someone scheming or plotting; it was simply an absence, as though the boy was barely there at all. He moved soundlessly through the ship, rarely spoke, and often sat in some corner of the cargo hold, staring into nothing.
It was unnerving.
Ben, who had grown accustomed to solitude, found himself frustrated by the boy's lack of presence. He would catch himself forgetting the boy was even aboard, only to be startled when he appeared at his side or quietly moved past him. It was too much like a ghost.
Finally, one evening, as Ben sat tinkering with the ship’s navigation systems, he broke the silence.
“I can’t just keep calling you ‘boy,’” he said without looking up.
The boy, sitting cross-legged on the floor, shrugged. “I don’t care.”
Ben frowned. “You don’t care?”
“The Dark Woman said names don’t matter for Jedi,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “We don’t need them to serve the Force.”
Ben paused, his hands stilling on the console. He looked at the boy, who stared back with a blank expression that somehow felt too old for his young face. “That’s a very lonely existence,” Ben said softly.
The boy tilted his head, as if considering this. Then, with the air of reciting a mantra, he said, “The Force provides.”
The words sent a sharp pang through Ben’s chest, unbidden memories stirring. He was reminded of his own early years as a padawan, of sitting in silence in austere training rooms, waiting for a word of praise or approval that never came. Qui-Gon Jinn had been distant and strict, always focused on the bigger picture. Ben had often felt like an afterthought in those early days, just another instrument for the Jedi cause.
He sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Well, I need to call you something. And unless you have a suggestion, I’ll call you Jon.”
The boy shrugged again, his expression unreadable. “That’s fine.”
“Good,” Ben said, though he didn’t feel particularly satisfied. He studied the boy for a moment. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the Temple on Coruscant? The Jedi there could help you—”
“No,” Jon interrupted, his tone firm but calm. “Your task is more important.”
Ben raised an eyebrow, his frustration simmering. “I don’t even know what my task is.”
Jon looked at him evenly, his voice steady. “I don’t need to know what it is. My task is to help you.”
Ben groaned, running a hand over his face. The boy’s unwavering conviction was both impressive and maddening. And all the while, Jon kept referring to him as “Master,” a title that made Ben’s skin crawl. He hadn’t agreed to take on a padawan—he wasn’t even sure he was worthy of being called a Jedi anymore.
“Stop calling me that,” Ben said sharply one evening after Jon had used the title yet again.
Jon looked up at him, unperturbed. “What else should I call you?”
“Just Ben,” he replied, exasperated.
Jon said nothing, but Ben could see the doubt in his eyes. It was clear the boy wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.
After a long pause, Ben crossed his arms. “Did you even tell the Dark Woman you were leaving her?”
Jon’s lips twitched, almost a smirk. “She’ll know when she doesn’t see me.”
Ben stared at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and annoyance. “That’s not how it works.”
Jon shrugged, his tone carrying a faint edge of sarcasm. “It worked for me.”
Ben shook his head, turning away before his temper got the better of him. The boy’s presence was a puzzle, one he hadn’t asked for and wasn’t sure how to solve. The Force had clearly brought Jon into his path, but for what purpose?
As much as he hated to admit it, Jon was becoming a part of his journey. And no matter how much he grumbled or protested, Ben knew he couldn’t send him away.
Not yet.
Ben leaned against the small table in the freighter's galley, his thoughts a tangle of frustration and reluctant curiosity. Jon sat cross-legged on the floor near the wall, as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The boy’s quietness gnawed at Ben—it was unnatural for someone so young.
Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he frowned. “Have you been eating these past few days?”
Jon blinked, his expression calm but vaguely puzzled, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him. “I’ve been taking ration bars from storage,” he said simply.
Ben nodded, relieved but feeling awkward. He should have checked on that sooner—children were supposed to be looked after, fed, guided. But Jon didn’t act like a child in need of care. He acted like... something else entirely.
Ben cleared his throat, feeling the silence stretching uncomfortably between them. “I, uh, don’t think I introduced myself,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Ben. Ben Kenobi.”
Jon didn’t react, his expression unchanging. It was as if the name didn’t matter to him in the slightest, and perhaps it didn’t.
After a moment, Jon finally spoke, his voice steady. “When does my training start?”
Ben froze, staring at the boy. “Your training?”
Jon nodded.
Ben felt a flash of irritation rise in him. “I didn’t promise to teach you. I only allowed you to stay aboard because—” He paused, uncertain of the exact reason. Because the Force had willed it? Because the boy seemed destined to cross his path? “Because you didn’t leave me much of a choice,” he finished.
Jon remained unfazed, his expression betraying no doubt. “You’ll teach me,” he said, as though it were an indisputable fact.
Ben sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re awfully sure of yourself for someone who stowed away on a ship without a name.”
The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across Jon’s lips, but he didn’t respond.
Ben sat down heavily in the chair across from him, his gaze searching the boy’s face. “Why are you so certain I’ll train you?”
Jon’s eyes met his, calm and unwavering. “Because the Force says so.”
Ben groaned, leaning back in his seat. “The Force says a lot of things, apparently.”
Jon didn’t argue, but his silence carried a quiet assurance that made Ben’s frustration bubble up again. The boy had an unnerving certainty about him, a sense of purpose that reminded Ben too much of himself at that age—eager, idealistic, and utterly unshakable in his belief in the Force.
For a moment, Ben considered arguing further, but he stopped himself. The truth was, he didn’t know what the Force had planned for either of them. Perhaps Jon was right. Perhaps he was meant to train the boy, to guide him. Or perhaps this was all some cosmic mistake.
He sighed again, rubbing his temples. “We’ll see,” he muttered, though he doubted Jon would accept the answer.
Jon said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes. In his mind, the decision had already been made.
In honour of the person who created Tatooine Slave culture, it's not mine, clearly, as many know. It's a very interesting culture for sure, but I know too little about it and I really like mandalorian culture more.
Also I adore time-travelling Ben. He's tired, weary and would like a drink. And I also adore blakkats (gosh, did I write it right? I'll have to check) portrayal of Jon Antilles.
Chapter 1. A Master without a purpose.
Chapter 2 here
In the deserts of Tatooine, Ben Kenobi lives in exile, haunted by the fall of Anakin Skywalker. When the Force whispers cryptic visions of a distant planet, Korda Six, Ben is drawn into a mysterious journey that challenges his solitude and guilt. As he uncovers the truth about his past failures, Ben must confront his role in the galaxy’s fate. This is a tale of loss, hope, and the enduring power of the Force.
The twin suns of Tatooine hung low in the vast, unforgiving sky, their relentless heat bathing the planet in an oppressive golden light. The sands stretched to infinity, shifting dunes whispering secrets to the dry, desert winds. It was a harsh world, where life clung desperately to whatever shade or moisture it could find, and every breath felt like a struggle against the elements.
Outside a modest, weatherworn shack perched on a ridge overlooking the desolation, an old man sat cross-legged on a simple wooden porch. He was draped in rough robes, his face lined with age, sunburn, and sorrow. Ben Kenobi—known once as Obi-Wan—closed his eyes, the faint hum of the Force stirring within him like a dying ember. He meditated, letting the stillness of the desert mirror the stillness he sought inside.
But there was no peace. Not today.
His thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the boy he had raised like a son. Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One. The memory of his wide-eyed, eager smile burned brighter in Ben's mind than the twin suns before him. Then the smile twisted, darkened, became the visage of Darth Vader—his greatest failure. The air around Ben seemed to grow heavier as he relived it all once more.
What could I have done differently? The question plagued him daily. He had loved Anakin, trained him, guided him. And yet, the boy had fallen so far, taking the galaxy with him.
Ben sighed, the sound heavy with guilt. He whispered into the silence, “Was it my fault?”
At first, there was no answer. Just the faint hiss of the wind scraping over sand. But then, soft and clear, a voice echoed in his mind. Young, curious, and yet carrying an unmistakable weight of insight.
"Do you truly think it was your fault?"
Ben's eyes snapped open, his heart skipping. The voice wasn't his own, nor was it a memory. It felt... present. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once. He looked around the empty desert, scanning the horizon for something—anything—that might explain it.
He closed his eyes again, reaching deeper into the Force, letting it flow through him. The voice lingered, steady and calm, as if it came not from outside but from the very heart of the Force itself.
"You did what you thought was right. But was it? Or are you just trying to carry a weight too heavy for one man?"
Ben clenched his fists, the wind tugging at his robes as if to pull him back to reality. He swallowed hard, a bitter lump forming in his throat.
“I was his master,” Ben whispered. “I failed him. If I’d been better... if I’d seen the darkness sooner...”
"Would it have changed him? Or would he have fallen all the same?"
The words stung, cutting through Ben’s practiced defenses. They forced him to question the narrative he’d clung to for years. The old Jedi sat in silence, the desert wind his only companion as the voice faded, leaving him alone once more.
The twin suns dipped lower, casting long shadows over the sand. Ben opened his eyes, staring into the horizon. He didn’t have an answer—not yet. But the question lingered, echoing in the corners of his mind.
And for the first time in years, he wondered if he could let go.
___
The twin suns were dipping below the horizon, painting the Tatooine sky with streaks of orange and purple as Ben Kenobi trudged back to his modest shack. His arms carried a small bundle of supplies he’d picked up in Mos Eisley—a few dried rations, some water, and a handful of vegetables he’d bartered for with what little he had left. The desert winds swirled around him, tugging at his robes, carrying the faint scent of sand and dry stone.
His thoughts were simple as he walked: survival, reflection, and the quiet monotony of the days stretching before him. But as he approached the ridge leading to his home, a familiar sensation brushed against his consciousness—like a whisper carried on the wind.
"Would you change anything if you could?"
Ben froze in his tracks, his grip tightening on the bundle of food. The voice was back. The same young, curious tone that had spoken to him weeks earlier. For a moment, he considered ignoring it, shaking it off as some trick of his weary mind. But something about it was undeniable—its presence felt rooted in the Force itself, as real as the ground beneath his feet.
He exhaled sharply, setting the bundle down on a nearby rock. “I’ve thought about it,” he said aloud, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Of course I’ve thought about it. But I did everything I could with what I knew at the time. What’s left for me now is to reflect.”
The voice responded with a soft chuckle, its tone light but tinged with something deeper—understanding, perhaps.
"That’s what your Master would say."
Ben sighed heavily, running a hand through his graying hair. The mention of his old Master stirred a deep ache in his chest. “Well, I suppose he was right about many things. Though I doubt he’d approve of me standing here, talking to myself like a madman.”
For a moment, silence reigned. Then a thought flickered through his mind, unbidden but persistent: All is possible through the Force.
The voice seemed to sense it.
"What if everything began to spiral far earlier than you think it did?"
Ben’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Why does that matter now?” he asked, his tone edged with frustration. “The galaxy’s already fallen to darkness. What good does it do to dwell on the past?”
The voice didn’t answer immediately. Instead, it whispered one word, so soft it seemed to blend with the wind itself:
"Patience."
And then it was gone. In its place, an image bloomed in Ben’s mind—vivid, clear, and unmistakable. It was a planet, foreign and unfamiliar. He could see jagged cliffs, dense forests, and a sky that seemed to shimmer with strange hues. And with the image came a name, etched into his thoughts as if burned there by the Force itself: Korda Six.
Ben staggered slightly, gripping the rock beside him for balance. He whispered the name aloud, testing its weight on his tongue. “Korda Six... What does that mean?”
There was no answer. Only the whistle of the wind and the endless expanse of desert stretching before him. He stood there for a long moment, the food bundle forgotten at his feet, staring into the horizon as the suns dipped below the sands.
Korda Six.
He didn’t understand it. Not yet. But the Force was stirring, and Ben Kenobi knew better than to ignore its call.
That night, sleep did not come easily to Ben Kenobi. He lay on the small cot in his shack, staring at the ceiling, his mind swirling with questions. Korda Six. What does it mean? Why now? The voice’s whispers had unsettled him in ways he couldn’t quite name, yet there was an undeniable pull.
The desert winds moaned outside, their steady rhythm lulling him into uneasy slumber. But even in sleep, his mind felt restless, skimming the edges of dreams that shimmered with light too brilliant to hold.
When morning came, Ben awoke slowly, the golden light of Tatooine’s twin suns creeping through the slats of his window. At first, it seemed like any other day, but then he sat up and froze. Something in the air had changed.
The oppressive weight of the desert heat, the dull heaviness that had hung over the planet for years—it was gone. In its place, there was a stillness, a balance, a lightness so profound that it took Ben’s breath away. He closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, it was as if he were a child again, before the war, before he’d even been taken as a Padawan. Back when the Force had been pure and unclouded.
He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes as the sensation washed over him. He didn’t know why, but the sheer scale of the light present in the Force was overwhelming. It was everywhere, suffusing every particle of air, touching the farthest corners of his consciousness. It was as though the galaxy itself had momentarily remembered what it was to be whole.
He stood, his movements slow, almost reverent, as he took in his surroundings. His shack—weathered and rusted by years of Tatooine’s harsh climate—looked... different. The walls seemed sturdier, the metal less corroded, as though time had rolled back. Yet, stepping outside, he saw that the planet itself remained unchanged. The sands still stretched endlessly under the twin suns, and the heat still beat down with relentless intensity.
Ben frowned, his mind racing. What is happening?
Shaking himself from his reverie, he decided to stick to his routine. Whatever this shift was, he couldn’t afford to lose focus. His life here depended on careful habits, and the trek to Mos Eisley was one of them.
Gathering his belongings, he wrapped himself in his robes and began the familiar journey through the desert. The sands crunched beneath his boots as the heat rose in shimmering waves around him. But as he walked, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Force itself was walking beside him, whispering a single word in his mind:
"Patience."
It was as though the voice, the presence, wasn’t just lingering—it was guiding. Ben glanced back over his shoulder at his home, then ahead toward the distant outline of Mos Eisley. His steps felt lighter, though his heart remained heavy with questions.
And so he walked, through the sands, under the burning suns, with the whispers of the Force as his only companion.
Mos Eisley was alive with the ceaseless hum of activity. The sprawling, chaotic spaceport buzzed with the energy of its denizens—humans, Rodians, Twi’leks, Jawas, and countless others, all hurrying through the dusty streets. The harsh desert sun reflected off metallic droids and ships parked haphazardly near cantinas and markets. It was a brutal existence, but here, survival was business as usual.
Ben Kenobi stepped cautiously into the fray, his hood pulled low to shield his face from both the sun and prying eyes. He wove through the crowds, his senses tuned to the ebb and flow of the Force, as he always did when venturing into town. But as he passed a merchant stall laden with strange fruits and a group of traders haggling over salvage, something struck him as odd.
The usual murmurs of Mos Eisley life—grumbles about harsh conditions, bartering disputes, and whispers of fear regarding the Empire—were strangely absent. Instead, the air was thick with chatter about a name Ben hadn’t heard in years: Gardulla the Hutt.
He paused near a cluster of merchants, feigning interest in their wares while tuning into their conversation.
“…she’s been tightening her hold on the spaceports again. Trying to bring in more spice routes through here…”
“…Gardulla’s not one to cross. You remember what happened to those Trandoshan smugglers…”
“…Jabba might be watching, but Gardulla’s the one with real power right now. Always was.”
Ben’s brow furrowed beneath his hood. Gardulla the Hutt? That didn’t make sense. Gardulla had been a prominent figure on Tatooine once, true—but that was long ago, before Jabba had taken control. Anakin had spoken of it once, back when he was still a boy on the cusp of his Jedi training. He’d said Gardulla lost a high-stakes game of sabacc to Jabba shortly after he was born. That game had been pivotal, marking the transfer of power between the two Hutt crime lords.
Yet here, people spoke of Gardulla as if she were the reigning Daimyo, her influence as strong as ever. Ben’s stomach churned uneasily. Something was wrong.
He drifted further into the crowd, listening carefully to other snippets of conversation. Everywhere he turned, the same name arose. Gardulla the Hutt. Her control over Tatooine. Her dealings with off-world syndicates. Her dominance in Mos Eisley. There was no mention of Jabba’s reign, and even stranger, there was no mention of the Empire—no stormtroopers, no Imperial edicts, no fear of the Emperor’s shadow.
Ben’s pulse quickened as realization dawned. The world around him felt familiar, yet the details were out of place. It was as though he were walking through a memory—a Tatooine from decades past. He clenched his jaw and drew his robes tighter around him. He needed confirmation.
He headed toward a cantina he frequented sparingly—a dark, loud place where smugglers and pilots often gathered to exchange information. The air was thick with smoke and the low hum of conversation when he entered. He scanned the room quickly, noting the usual mix of species crowded around tables and at the bar. The cantina band played a jaunty tune in the corner, but Ben ignored it.
He approached the bar, catching the attention of the barkeep, a grizzled human with an impatient scowl.
“Water,” Ben said quietly, sliding a few credits across the counter.
The barkeep nodded and handed him a small glass. Ben leaned in slightly, keeping his voice low. “I’ve been hearing talk of Gardulla the Hutt. Is she really... in charge again?”
The barkeep raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “Again? What’re you talking about, old-timer? Gardulla’s always been the Daimyo ’round here. Ever since I was a kid. You feeling alright?”
Ben’s heart sank. The man’s words confirmed what the Force had already been whispering to him: something had shifted, pulling him into a time that wasn’t his own. Or perhaps it wasn’t time at all—perhaps it was something far stranger.
He drained the glass of water, the cool liquid doing little to calm his nerves, and placed it back on the counter. As he turned to leave, the barkeep called after him.
“Hey, if you’re worried about Jabba or something, don’t be. Gardulla’s got this place locked down. Always has.”
Ben didn’t respond. He pulled his hood tighter over his head and stepped back into the glaring suns of Tatooine, his mind racing.
What is happening? Why here, why now?
The Force was pulling him toward something—he was sure of it. And whatever it was, it had begun with Korda Six.
Gardulla’s rule over Tatooine was brutal, a reign of cruelty that eclipsed even Jabba’s infamous tenure. The streets of Mos Eisley bore silent witness to her greed and ruthlessness: more slaves shuffled through the dusty markets in chains, their eyes hollowed by exhaustion and despair. Public executions were a grim spectacle in the town square, their frequency a warning to any who dared resist. Food and water were scarcer than ever, hoarded by the Hutt for her own indulgence while the rest of the population scraped by on meager scraps.
Ben Kenobi walked through the chaos, his hood pulled low to conceal his face. His once-vivid ginger hair, now streaked with gray, remained hidden beneath the heavy fabric. It was dangerous to be seen here, especially as a Stewjonian. His sharp features and fair complexion would stand out far too much in this region, and his heritage alone could invite trouble. Worse still, being Force-sensitive—an Aethe’rith, as the Amatakka called it—would mark him for far greater dangers.
Keeping to the shadows, he approached a modest fruit stand at the edge of the market. The vendor, an older woman with weathered skin and a sharp gaze, was arranging a basket of pali fruit. Ben lingered just long enough to catch her attention.
“Looking for something, traveler?” she asked, her voice low but wary.
Ben leaned in slightly, keeping his tone measured. “Just information,” he said, his Amatakka hesitant but serviceable. It had been years since he’d spoken the language, a skill he’d picked up long ago in the mines of Bandomeer.
The woman’s eyes widened slightly, her hands pausing mid-motion. Her expression shifted from suspicion to something warmer, almost reverent. “Aethe’rith,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “You are Dai'Je, aren’t you? A freed one.”
Ben stiffened, glancing around to ensure no one had overheard. The market was noisy, but the wrong pair of ears could turn her words into a death sentence for them both. He gestured quickly for her to lower her voice.
“Please,” he said, his Amatakka faltering as he searched for the right words. “Speak... quieter. We might be overheard by depur.”
The woman immediately dipped her head in apology, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Forgive me, Dai'Je. I meant no harm. It’s just... I never thought I’d see one of you here, in this place.”
Ben’s gaze softened, but he remained cautious. “What do you mean?”
She glanced around nervously, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her shawl. “I’ve had dreams,” she said, her words coming slowly as though she were choosing them carefully. “Dreams of a man in a hood, a Dai'Je, walking these sands. I didn’t know if it was real, but now...” She looked at him with a mix of awe and desperation. “Now I see it was true. You’ve come.”
Ben shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, the weight of her words pressing down on him. “I don’t know what you’ve seen,” he said carefully, “but I’m no savior. I’m just... passing through.”
The woman shook her head firmly. “No. You are here for a reason. I feel it. The Force brought you here.” She leaned in closer, her voice barely more than a breath. “I will help you however I can—when my depur isn’t watching.”
Ben hesitated, his instincts urging him to retreat, to disappear back into the anonymity of the desert. But the conviction in her voice, the light in her eyes—it reminded him of something, of someone. He nodded slowly, his heart heavy with uncertainty.
“Thank you,” he said, his Amatakka halting but earnest. “But be careful. Helping me could cost you everything.”
The woman smiled faintly, a trace of defiance flickering across her face. “Gardulla has already taken everything from me. She can’t take my dreams.”
Ben lowered his hood just slightly, enough for her to see his face and the gratitude etched into his features. He turned and melted back into the crowd, his mind racing. The voice in the Force, the whispers of patience, the image of Korda Six—everything was connected. And now, it seemed, the people of this harsh world were beginning to sense it too.
The sun was setting over Tatooine, painting the desert sky with deep reds and purples as Ben Kenobi made his way through the quieting streets of Mos Eisley. The market stalls were closing up, merchants packing away their wares as the day's trade dwindled. He spotted the woman from the fruit stand gathering her meager belongings into a woven sack, her movements slow and weary.
As he approached, she looked up and gave a faint smile. “You came,” she said softly, glancing around to ensure no one was watching.
“You offered your help,” Ben replied, his voice equally quiet. “I wasn’t sure if it still stood.”
“Of course it does,” she said, slinging the sack over her shoulder. She gestured for him to follow. “Come. It’s not safe to talk out here.”
Ben trailed her through the narrow streets, keeping his hood low as they wound their way toward the outskirts of the settlement. Her small house was barely more than a hovel, its walls cracked and weathered by years of sandstorms. It reminded Ben painfully of his own shack when he’d first begun his exile, its decay a reflection of the harsh life endured here.
She unlocked the door and ushered him inside. The space was sparse, with little more than a cot, a rickety table, and a few cooking implements. A single, flickering glow panel illuminated the room. She set her belongings down and turned to him with a weary smile.
“Please, sit,” she said, gesturing to one of the two wooden stools by the table.
Ben hesitated but eventually sat, his movements careful. The woman filled a small cup with water from a clay jug and placed it in front of him.
“You must be thirsty after the walk,” she said.
He looked at the cup, then at her. “You need it more than I do,” he said gently. “But thank you for offering.”
She shook her head and pushed it closer to him. “It’s all I have to give, Dai'Je. Please, take it.”
Reluctantly, Ben lifted the cup and took a small sip, the cool water soothing his parched throat. He set it down, offering her a grateful nod.
After a moment, he leaned forward, his voice low and intent. “I need to ask you something. Is space travel... possible for one person? Discreetly?”
The woman frowned, her brows knitting together in thought. “It’s... possible, maybe. But dangerous. Especially for you.” She paused, considering. “My brother works at the spaceport. I could ask him in a couple of days, but I can’t promise he’ll help. It’s not safe to aid an Amatakka. The depur would punish him severely if they found out.”
Ben nodded slowly, understanding the risk. “I won’t ask him to put himself in danger. All I need is information—details about ships leaving the planet, their routes. If he can provide that, I can handle the rest.”
She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded. “I’ll speak to him. Quietly. But it will take time. These things can’t be rushed.”
“I understand,” Ben said. “And I’m grateful.”
The woman gave a small, tired smile. “You remind me of the stories my mother used to tell. Of the Dai'Je who walked among us, bringing hope even in the darkest times.” She shook her head. “I never thought I’d live to see one. But here you are.”
Ben looked down at his hands, his heart heavy. “I’m no bringer of hope,” he said quietly. “I’m just a man trying to make sense of all this.”
She didn’t respond, instead turning to tend to the small fire in the corner of the room. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but weighted with unspoken truths.
As the stars began to peek through the small window above them, Ben felt the Force stir around him once more, its whispers faint but insistent. Patience.
He sighed and settled into the stillness, waiting for what was to come.
Three days later, the scorching heat of Tatooine was as relentless as ever, the twin suns glaring down as Ben Kenobi made his final preparations. The woman's information had been invaluable: a Weequay cargo ship was set to leave the planet that evening. It was the opportunity he needed, though he still didn’t fully understand why the Force had led him here—or where it would lead him next.
The night before, she had come to him, her face lined with exhaustion but her voice steady.
“The ship will leave under cover of night,” she had said. “They’re smugglers—no manifests, no questions. If you’re careful, you can slip aboard unnoticed.”
Ben had paused, studying her intently. “Why did you help me?” he asked quietly. “I wasn’t here to free you. Or anyone. I don’t even know why I’m here.”
She had smiled faintly, her eyes soft with understanding. “You don’t need to know yet. When the time is right, you will.”
Her words had struck a chord deep within him, stirring echoes of lessons long past. He had thanked her profoundly, bowing his head as he handed her the remainder of his food and water.
“You need these more than I do,” he had said.
She had tried to refuse, but he insisted, pressing the bundle into her hands. “For everything you’ve done. I owe you more than I can repay.”
Now, as the night descended on Tatooine, Ben moved carefully through the shadows of Mos Eisley’s outskirts. The spaceport was a labyrinth of ships, cargo crates, and scurrying workers, their movements lit by the dim glow of scattered floodlights. He kept his hood low, blending into the darkness as he approached the Weequay vessel.
The ship was a battered freighter, its hull marked with scorch marks and rust. A group of Weequay crew members was loading crates onto the ramp, their voices gruff as they barked orders to one another. Ben waited, watching their patterns, his instincts sharp.
When the moment came, he moved swiftly, slipping between crates and shadows until he reached the ship’s open cargo bay. The hum of machinery and the low murmur of the crew provided cover for his movements as he found a narrow space to hide behind a stack of supplies.
The minutes stretched into hours as the crew continued their work. Ben remained perfectly still, his breathing steady, his senses attuned to every sound. Finally, the ramp groaned as it lifted, sealing the cargo bay with a heavy clang. The ship shuddered as its engines roared to life, and Ben felt the subtle shift of liftoff as they left the planet behind.
He stayed hidden for a long while, his mind racing with thoughts of the woman, her words, and the strange pull of the Force that had brought him here. He didn’t know where this ship would take him, but for the first time in years, he felt a glimmer of purpose stirring within him.
As Tatooine faded into the void of space, Ben Kenobi closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. Patience, the Force whispered again, steady and unyielding.
He would wait.
___
Ben Kenobi moved cautiously through the industrial sprawl of Corellia, keeping to the shadows of the bustling starship yards. The Weequay cargo ship had docked hours ago, and he had slipped away unnoticed, his hood still drawn low. Corellia’s vibrant and chaotic spaceports were filled with ships of every size and design, and while that made it easier to blend in, it also meant finding the right vessel could take time.
He searched for something inconspicuous, a ship that wouldn’t attract too much attention—nothing too sleek or militarized, but sturdy enough for interstellar travel. Eventually, he spotted it: a battered freighter with peeling paint and mismatched panels, docked near a quieter part of the yard.
Ben approached cautiously, scanning the area to ensure no one was watching. The spaceport workers were preoccupied with larger, more lucrative ships, leaving this one relatively unguarded. He placed his hand on the hull, the cold metal humming faintly beneath his fingers.
This will do, he thought.
He reached for the control panel near the access hatch, his fingers brushing the buttons as he focused his mind. The memory came unbidden, warm and vivid—a flash of his younger self, sitting cross-legged in a training room, watching Quinlan Vos demonstrate the technique.
“Not everything requires finesse, kid,” Quinlan had said with a grin, his hands working quickly to short-circuit a panel. “Sometimes you just gotta get it done.”
Ben, still an initiate at the time, had furrowed his brow, frustrated by his own attempts. “But Master Yoda says patience and precision—”
Quinlan had cut him off with a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, patience is great. But sometimes, you need to improvise. The galaxy isn’t always going to wait for you to do it Yoda’s way.”
He had knelt beside Ben, showing him the sequence again, the Force flowing effortlessly through him as he manipulated the circuits. The air had felt alive then, the Force warm and welcoming, a shared connection that made the galaxy seem just a little smaller.
Ben smiled faintly at the memory, his hands moving instinctively now as he bypassed the freighter’s security. The panel sparked softly, and the hatch slid open with a quiet hiss.
Once inside, he quickly made his way to the cockpit, settling into the pilot’s seat. The ship was old but functional, its controls straightforward enough for him to manage. He powered it up, the hum of the engines filling the cabin as he accessed the navigation computer.
“Korda Six,” he murmured, typing the name into the search interface. The computer processed for a moment before displaying a set of coordinates. Ben entered them into the hyperdrive, locking in the destination.
As the ship prepared for the jump to hyperspace, he turned his attention to the datapad left on the console. It connected to the Holonet, offering a sparse collection of information about Korda Six.
The planet was remote, with a population primarily composed of non-advanced locals. It seemed to have little interaction with the wider galaxy, though there were mentions of Mandalorian activity in the region.
Ben sighed, setting the datapad down. The mention of Mandalorians was no surprise. Somehow, everything in his life seemed to circle back to them. It was a peculiar echo of how the Force had always drawn Anakin back to Tatooine, no matter how far he tried to run from it.
The freighter lurched as the hyperdrive engaged, the stars outside stretching into lines of light before dissolving into the swirling blue of hyperspace.
Ben leaned back in the pilot’s seat, his gaze distant. The Force was still guiding him, though its purpose remained unclear. He would find out soon enough.
Hi all! This is a Star Wars AU that I've just started working on and would love some feedback on this little bit of a teaser. I've been in a not so great writing block/rut, but this little idea has succeeded in at least partially pulling me out of it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!
Chapter 1: Of Ire and Life Debts
Mace Windu has two hands.
Two hands that are actively shaking from the after effects of sith lightning.
He’s not on Coruscant… He's not on Coruscant.
Instead, Mace Windu, The Master of the Jedi Order is in the middle of a forest and he has no clue what planet he’s on. He would also appreciate it if his head would stop throbbing as spikes of pain splinter through his brain.
Mace finally, shakily pulls himself to a standing position and slowly takes in his surroundings. Trying to get a better grasp as to where he is and where he should start walking to find some civilization.
He reaches out to the force with a question pressing, projecting outward and junts off his pain, fear, and worry out into the force. All he gets back as an answer is a distinct feeling of amusement and comfort. Much like the creche masters would give an amused and indulgent smile and a slightly humiliating pat on the head to initiates with silly fears. As they are cheerfully reassured that it ‘passes with time’.
