Obitine Week
DAY TWO - Out of Place
I don’t belong here, Obi-Wan thought, staring up at the empty ceiling of his quarters.
Or at least that was what Obi-Wan had told himself last week, during his knighting ceremony. It wasn’t simply that the whole affair had felt abrupt, almost rushed, without the formal Jedi trials; his own Master had taught him that ritual tradition did have its place, but only so much as it served the individuals partaking in them. His sense that he didn’t belong there, in that room, becoming a Jedi at last when there had been a time in his youth when he hadn’t thought it possible—it was because the ceremony was incomplete.
Because Qui-Gon wasn’t there.
Just as he’s done during his ceremony, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but reach out through the Force to search for his late Master’s presence, casting about like a lost child searching for their parent. Even though he’d seen him cut down before his eyes, even thoughhe had died in Obi-Wan’s arms, his death didn’t quite feel real. Not yet. He didn’t dare share it with anyone, but he sometimes felt as if Qui-Gon were simply going to stroll up to him one day, ask him what he’d missed or why Obi-Wan looked so…not himself.
Part of this feeling of not being being quite himself, he knew, was his lack of sleep. Ever since he’d promised to Anakin that he would train him, the boy had taken to following him around all day—and all night, as it happened. More specifically, Obi-Wan had allowed his padawan to set up a cot a few feet from his own, a arrangement that soothed the boy but made it nearly impossible to sleep. He didn’t know why, exactly—Anakin didn’t snore, talk in his sleep, or engage in any of the other habits that would’ve kept him up—but he wondered if the responsibility the boy represented was feeding his insomnia.
A responsibility he was beginning to doubt he could uphold.
Obi-Wan sighed deeply, rubbing at his eyes as if the motion could stimulate sleep. Whatever the explanation, it was now nearly 03:00, Coruscant time, and he still hadn’t managed to even doze off. Anakin, meanwhile, was sleeping soundly, his young face the very picture of peace.
What I wouldn’t do to trade places with him right now.
While Obi-Wan contemplated whether it was befitting a Jedi Knight to harbor jealousy for a child’s seemingly effortless sleep, a soft chime sounded from where his belt hung in his small closet. Fearing it might awaken Anakin, he quickly crossed the room to grab the offending device—his comm—and discreetly slipped into the hall. It was only when he’d carefully closed the door and walked a few feet away from his quarters that he finally responded activated the comm.
“Kenobi here,” he said softly, mindful that others were sleeping in the neighboring quarters. Luminara in particular was a light sleeper, and he knew she’d box his ears if he disturbed her sleep.
“Master Kenobi,” a young voice said in greeting, perhaps not grasping how strange it was to hear the honorific for Knights and Masters applied to himself. “This is padawan Socha Qwin, on comm monitor duty. I wanted to inform you that you, um, have a message that’s been left for you.”
Obi-Wan frowned down at his comm-link. “When was it left?”
“Well…just now, actually. It’s from off-world, though, so maybe they didn’t know how early it is on Coruscant?”
He pinched at the bridge of his nose, barely suppressing a sigh. “I’ll be there shortly. Just keep me apprised of any further messages.”
“Yes, Master.” A moment of silence, then: “And, Master…?”
“Yes?”
“The caller specified that the message is private, so I, um, haven’t listened to it.”
As soon as he signed off, Obi-Wan finally allowed himself an exasperated sigh. Unless a message was mission-related—and he wasn’t being assigned any missions for the time being, not until the Council felt he had had sufficient time to grieve Qui-Gon—he couldn’t see why someone felt they needed to leave a privacy-designated message at 03:00. While most people might not know the time difference between most planets in the Republic, they surely had access to a chrono that displayed Coruscant time. It was, after all, considered standard time.
But then again…aside from the annoyance of receiving a message at an unseemly hour, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. After briefly returning to his quarters to put on his boots and belt, he set out into the empty halls, the occasional Temple Guard, maintenance worker, or fellow insomniac his only companions. It was almost eerie, really; he remembered very little of his time before arriving at the Temple, and for it to be without the constant hum of Jedi going about their daily business, it was felt oddly…empty. It was almost a relief when he finally arrived at the comm-center, the on-duty padawan—Socha Qwin, presumably—giving him an awkward little bow in greeting.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Master,” they said, their mop of loose blue curls flopping slightly in their face as they dipped their head. “The message is ready for you on terminal one. I’ll, um, wait out here until you’re done.”
A more well-rested version of himself might’ve tried giving them a reassuring smile—he could tell they were simultaneously nervous and trying their best to do their assigned duty with utmost seriousness—but all he was able to muster now was a quiet thanks and dip of his head before he closed himself in the comm center. As promised, terminal one was ready to go. One press of the “play” button, softly glowing in the dim lights, and a holo sprung to life, bathing the room in blue.
A heartbeat or so later, when recognition settled in and he realized who was in the holo, he had to almost immediately hit “pause.”
It was Satine.
The four years since they’d parted hadn’t changed her much; she was still just as stunning as ever, even virtually. What had changed was her apparel and her bearing. Instead of the simple tunics she’d donned during their year on the run from Mandalorian insurgents, she was now clad in a stately gown replete with jewelry, a ceremonial headdress, and other ornate accessories. And where he’d previously seen the softer side of Satine—the vulnerable side, the one she likely hadn’t let any but him see—she wore a mask of regality, projecting confidence and authority even across the parsecs that separated them.
Obi-Wan found himself looking away for a moment as a wave of something he hadn’t felt in a while washed over him. Part of him wanted to turn off the message, thank Socha, and be back on his way to his quarters, averting this reminder of the past. After all, he’d done it so well these past four years, with the exception of a few instances in which he read through transcriptions of Satine’s public addresses for what he told himself was “public policy research.” But there was a small voice in the back of his head—perhaps the sum of all the lessons he’d internalized from Qui-Gon—that said he needed to do this. He needed to look at the past, lest it gain more power than it should.
So with a deep, cleansing breath, Obi-Wan hit play again, allowing himself to swim in almost forgotten feelings while the message played.
“I know things between us perhaps didn’t end in the way they should have,” she began, her regal air slipping into someone who seemed suddenly as uncertain and young as he was. “And I know I’m likely the last person you wish to see, especially now. But when I received word a few minutes ago about what had happened to Master Qui-Gon on Naboo, I wanted to let you know how sorry I am. I realize those are just words, but you know better than I do how special he was, and to lose someone like him from the galaxy—for you to lose him, with everything that he meant to you—I don’t think there are words that can fully express that.”
She looked down for a moment, blinking. Was it a trick of the holo projector, or were there tears in her eyes? He couldn’t tell—at least not before she quickly dashed at her eyes before returning her gaze to the holo-recorder she’d made this recording on.
“I can’t even begin to imagine what you must be feeling at this moment,” Satine went on, “because I never knew Qui-Gon like you did. But I knew you—perhaps better than most—and I suspect part of you is likely doubting yourself right now.” A small smile. “You always used to do that when something happened to me, you know. But whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re going through in this moment, I only want you to remember that I never doubted you—and don’t suspect Qui-Gon would, either.”
With that, the message came to an abrupt end, and Obi-Wan was left staring up at Satine’s ghostly blue image in silence. He thought about simply returning to his quarters, trying—and most likely failing—to fall asleep. But something at the back of his mind whispered again that there was something he needed to do—and after about five minutes of sitting with Satine’s message, he knew exactly what it was.
“Padawan Qwin?” He said, stepping out of the empty comm-center.
Socha Qwinn started, looking as though they were about to jump out of their boots. “Yes, Master?”
“Do you by chance know if the shipping center is open at this hour?”
“Um, well, there’s probably a padawan on duty that you can leave a package with, but nothing is probably going to be sent out until the ship leaves around 08:00.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be on my way, then.”
Socha Qwinn looked slightly confused as he stepped out of the comm center and departed. He couldn’t blame them; it probably wasn’t typical to ask about package shipping at almost 04:00 in the morning. But he hardly cared. After a quick stop by his quarters to pick up what he intended to ship and to check whether his young charge was still truly asleep, Obi-Wan walked as fast he could to the shipping center, explaining what he could to the on-duty padawan once he arrived.
This padawan—several years older than Socha and looking perhaps a little less green around the ears—did at least try to hide her curiosity when she took in his instructions. “Of course we can send this, Master. Although I must ask, for the purpose of our manifest, that you identify what’s in the package you wish to send.”
“My padawan braid,” he said, without explanation.
“Oh.” The padawan blinked before her face returned to its mask of professional neutrality. “I see. Is there any message you wish to leave on the package label, perhaps to let them know who it’s from?”
“Just include my name, and ‘Thank you for believing in me.’”
With that, Obi-Wan said his “thank yous” to the padawan, who was radiating a mixture of confusion and interest in the Force, and returned to his quarters.
He fell asleep almost instantly.
@weekofobitine
