Chapter Text
“I’m volunteering, to fulfill the tribute to Mandalore.”
The appalled silence didn’t match his hoped-for reaction, but as far as interactions with the Jedi Council were concerned, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi considered this a better-than-usual start. His hands safely tucked inside the sleeves of his robe, he settled in to wait the Elders— Councillors— out.
In truth, he hadn’t expected his request to appear before the Council to be approved. Obi-Wan was still on extended probation after his return from Melida-Daan nearly a full year later, and the frosty reception by the Council as he descended the ship’s ramp, hunched in the shadow of his merciful master, had set the tone for his interactions with the rest of the Temple. Damaged goods. Given a wide berth, he kept to himself to spare the others.
Until the demand arrived.
Now he stood before the Jedi Council, armed with as much research and eavesdropping as he could manage, the only one to volunteer for the task. It was a strangely beautiful day to be offering up one’s life— the sun shone brightly through the eastern windows of the Council room, illuminating a brilliant blue sky only slightly muddled by the ever-present haze of Coruscant. It threw some of the Councillors' faces into sharp relief, others in deep shadow, and danced across the mosaic floor before the padawan. A millennia of history and culture in an intricate, orderly design. It fit this space.
He did not.
“Padawan Kenobi, do you understand what you are offering?” The Council’s newest member, Master Koon broke the lingering silence. Next to him, Master Windu remained silent, watching with an inscrutable expression. Master Dooku’s recently vacated seat stood empty on the other side. “This is not a temporary assignment.”
“I understand,” Obi-Wan answered confidently. This was not his first attempt at sacrifice, after all. And Master Qui Gon had been right from the start. He was not meant to become a Knight. At least he could serve the Order, and the greater good, in this. “The Council needs a volunteer to serve as reparations for the damages incurred by the Jedi Order on behalf of the Republic, on Galidraan last year, per the results of the third-party investigation into the incident,” he recited from the message he definitely had no business knowing. But no one needed to know how Quinlan managed to get that information; certainly no one in this room. “That volunteer will be remanded to the custody of the Mandalorians, in hopes to deescalate tensions between the growing Mandalorian Empire and the Republic, and restore peace.”
“It’s only right,” he added, more quietly, trying to stay in the here and now as intrusive thoughts battled for center stage. It’s only right that I pay the price, for having defied my master. If I had listened, had returned to the Temple and been here during the mission’s assignment, I could have warned Master Dooku, and maybe it could have made the difference. My selfishness is the cause of all of this.
But the Young… I can’t regret trying to help them, either. Even if I ultimately failed—
And the masters never listened to visions before—
“Why is it only right?” prodded Master Koon gently, interrupting Obi-Wan’s spiral. He blinked, straightening his shoulders.
“I am of Master Dooku’s lineage—” on a good week— “—and it is because of Master Dooku’s actions as the leader of the incursion on Galidraan that the Mand’alor lost his son. Mandalorians value children, so I will be a valuable tribute.”
“This cannot be the answer,” Master Koon objected, his low, calm voice unusually agitated, and in any other circumstance, Obi-Wan would have appreciated the care. “We cannot send a child to solve an adult’s mistakes.”
Undersized bodies lying neatly in a sewer—
“No one else has come forward—”
“And why would they? It’s a death sentence—”
The cold damp of a deepsea mine biting at his bones—
“It might not be for a child—”
“I am volunteering, Masters,” Obi-Wan repeated firmly, cutting through the cross-talk and his own spiraling thoughts. “I can do this. I will not fail the Order again.”
He caught wisps of emotion leaking from the encircled Masters before retreating again, too myriad and fast to be discerned. Obi-Wan glanced at each face, noting the other empty chair. Master Sifo-Dyas had not yet returned from his extended sabbatical, then.
“Such a decision cannot be made without your Master,” Master Rancisis commented, a strange look aimed at Master Yoda. “And why is he not here?”
“He is in the Halls of Healing with Master Tahl, who is declining,” Obi-Wan supplied, careful to not leak a single emotion into the Force. “I have already shared my intention and he agrees.” This was true, from a certain point of view; Obi-Wan had told Master Qui Gon of his intention, while the older man sat at the bedside of Master Tahl, where he had been since they returned from their latest “undercover slave” mission a month ago. Master Qui Gon had not turned around or acknowledged that he had heard Obi-Wan. But for the purposes of his goal, it was enough. He avoided the gaze of Master Windu, who still watched him closely.
He thought back to this morning, when he had dissolved the bond, sure of his path after seeing Master Qui Gon at the Halls of Healing. He had considered asking his Master to dissolve it together, then reflected. Their farewells had always been fraught, painful things; at Melida-Daan, the sharp yank from his mind had been crippling, and he’d nearly been shot by the Daan during the distraction. Four years of failed struggle, of constant failure. Just this once, the nearly seventeen-year-old, soon-to-be-ex-padawan wanted to be selfish, and carefully unwrap the bond in his mind, bid it a tender, bitter farewell, and let go.
Obi-Wan glanced beyond the Councillors’ seats at the sky beyond, eyes caught by a glint. The brilliant sun caught the side of a speeder in the distant lanes floating above and between the skyscrapers, moving slowly like ants on well-tread paths. They felt oddly out-of-place in this moment, and yet eternal, as though traffic somehow existed on a different plane than this political crisis. Beings, going about their lives, unaware of a debate over sacrificial banthas offered up to avoid further bloodshed. And in the face of that, what was one life against trillions? Those speeder lanes, full of beings grumbling over traffic delays, unaware and uncaring of pain and violence elsewhere in the galaxy— he wanted them to know, and care, and yet also to spare them that terrible weight. No doubt they had their own cares and struggles; he was a Jedi, or supposed to be. The welfare of the galaxy was his to shoulder for them.
“This is unacceptable—”
“Agree, I do, with Padawan Kenobi,” Master Yoda interrupted Master Koon, and Obi-Wan snapped to attention again, chastising himself for the wandering thoughts. Master Yoda’s ears drooped, and his gnarled claws clenched around the gimer stick. “Well-suited, Padawan Kenobi is to this mission. Passionate, he is. Strong-willed. A good fit, for Mandalorians he will be. Wrong, I was, to push him and his Master together. A better path this will be, hm.”
The words struck a blow clean through Obi-Wan’s chest.
Passionate, strong-willed, unworthy of being a Jedi— this was not exactly news to Obi-Wan, he’d heard it for years, but to hear it out loud in front of the entire Council still stung. He knew he was a mediocre Jedi, he would be sparing the Order the loss of a more talented member— but to hear his failings shared amongst the venerable Masters gnawed at that selfish part of him that ached for approval. He’d been good enough to play the part of a slave on their missions, to fight as a soldier in the Stark Hyperspace War, to offer himself up as sacrifice on Bandomeer— but where it counted, Obi-Wan would never measure up. And of course Master Qu— Jinn had never truly wanted him, had had to be pushed into it by his grand-master. It made horrible sense, thinking back to Melida-Daan, to Bandomeer.
I was made for sacrifice.
Obi-Wan gripped the scarred wrists hidden in the robe sleeves, grounding himself back in the moment, and bowed, before the Masters could object. “Thank you, Grandmaster. I will go prepare now.” And beat a hasty retreat before the Council could call him back, change their minds. As he walked down the quiet halls, ignoring the looks and whispers of passersby, he thought of the nightmare that had plagued him for weeks on Melida-Daan, of bright brown eyes glaring at him with rage and betrayal through the smoke and haze of a mud-churned battlefield, held down by enemy hands with his face pressed to the biting snow.
A child sent to forestall an adults’ war. I was made for this.
I was made for sacrifice.
And I deserve it.
Clear across the galaxy, a teen in full armor and a Jedi hit the ground with a soft flump.
The Jedi sat up first.
It worked!
Well. For a given measure of success, they were no longer on Tython, which had to mean progress.
Grogu had had his doubts about Ahsoka’s plan to send them there. For starters, Grogu wasn’t even sure he wanted to find another Jedi. Nearly going with Ahsoka on Corvus had awoken a realization that Grogu’s child mind hadn’t quite grasped before: going with a Jedi, meant leaving Din’buir behind. And he knew that Din’buir didn’t want to let him go, he could feel the Mandalorian shouting it through the beskar. Mandalorians were so loud that way. But Din’buir felt determined to see his quest through— he was good like that— so it was up to Grogu to change things up.
Secondly— he had a feeling Ahsoka didn’t remember her lessons as well as she thought. Tython’s Seeing Stone wasn’t just a means for reaching out to other living Jedi through the Force. It could do more. The trick was in being able to channel it, and the crèche-masters hadn’t elaborated on what that entailed.
Grogu was dimly aware that poor Din’buir got bounced off the column of blue light surrounding him as he communed with the Force, but the question being asked of the Force took precedence. Ahsoka had sent him to find another Jedi. Grogu had a different question in mind.
I want to change things.
It will change everything
Well. Grogu could live with that. Even if it meant returning to the past and risking a repeat of history, if there was a chance he could change it, could have Din’buir and maybe even still be a Jedi, he’d take it.
Which meant Din’buir needed to come with him.
And so on Din’buir’s next panicked attempt to breach the column, Grogu let him in, and now they were here.
The question remained where here was. And possibly when. The Force felt light and bright, but that could mean far before or far after his own time; things had been dark and clouded leading up to and during the days of the Empire, but they couldn’t have always felt so. After meeting with Ahsoka, meditating while buir assumed he was napping, Grogu had felt the Force, felt its lightness. This felt much the same.
He glanced around. They had landed in a small clearing, near a stream; a dense, dark forest of firs lay behind them, their spicy scent perfuming the air. A stream could mean fish or frogs, as Din’buir had taught him, so that was encouraging, but nothing looked familiar; similar to Sorgan, but colder. But buir was crafty. He’d figure out where they were.
A groan distracted Grogu from his pondering, and he crawled over to tap on his buir’s face. He was— younger. A lot younger. And human, or nearly; Grogu had guessed as much, but seeing his buir’s face for the first time certainly confirmed it. He didn’t have a great grasp of human aging, but he’d guess the Din’buir was now in his late teens, all smooth skin and fluffy chocolate-brown hair, the first vestiges of whiskers on his upper lip.
Younger. He hadn’t counted on that.
Soft brown eyes snapped open, and took a moment to focus on Grogu. “I know you.”
Memory loss. He hadn’t counted on the either.
“Grogu, right?”
Grogu cooed, patting his buir’s face. Buir smiled, and Grogu’s heart stuttered at the sight. He’d heard his buir smile, but to see it was something he hadn’t quite allowed himself to hope for. Evidently buir had the same thought, because he suddenly blanched and sat up suddenly.
“My helmet! I— you— I don’t think anyone is supposed to see my face.”
So. This memory loss was patchy. Before, buir had been ready to die before removing his helmet, and now he couldn’t quite remember why that was. He remembered Grogu, but likely had forgotten other things. This would be tricky. He glanced around, spotting buir’s helmet, and fiercely concentrated on summoning the helmet. The silver helm zoomed through the air, and Grogu panicked— this was much bigger than the ball!
Buir snatched it from the air just before it slammed into the little Jedi, looking as stunned as Grogu that he had done so. Well. Good to know buir’s excellent physical skills remained intact.
“This feels familiar, have we done this before?”
From a certain point of view, yes.
Buir examined his helmet, turning it over. “I feel strange. Some things are hazy memories, others I don’t remember at all. I should be older, shouldn’t I?” He huffed a laugh, shaking his head at Grogu. “This is your magic nonsense, isn’t it?”
Guilty.
“You are important to me, I remember that.” Buir offered a hand to Grogu, who climbed up into his lap. “Are you my child?”
Grogu’s heart leapt into his throat. This is what he’d wanted; he hadn’t expected to get the chance so soon, especially when buir barely remembered him. It was selfish, probably un-Jedi-like. But buir was a Mandalorian, and Grogu could be too. He wanted his family, as much as he wanted to be a Jedi; maybe even more so. If buir had a claim, then he wouldn’t let Grogu go so easily to the Jedi; he’d find a way to still see his son. He was Din’buir: he was beroya. He’d find a way.
Was it a lie to tell buir that he was his son? Grogu certainly felt that buir was his; he’d seen the man face down unimaginable odds to keep him safe and fulfill his quest. He knew Din Djarin loved him, felt the conflict in him on Corvus, the reluctance to let Grogu go. Not quite the same as claiming Grogu, but the feeling was there.
So Grogu would say (nonverbally) what they both wanted.
He nodded.
Buir’s expression grew fond, smiling with a twist of chagrin. “N’eparavu takisit, I don’t remember saying the gai bal manda for you. I guess I’m old enough to say it again… I think I might be, maybe eighteen? Is it okay if I adopt you again?”
More than okay. Grogu nodded.
Buir carefully picked him up, bringing them face to face. “Ni kartayli gai sa ad, Grogu.”
Victory. Now buir definitely wouldn’t simply give him away if any Jedi came sniffing. Grogu reached out to pat buir’s cheek, and the teen chuckled, carefully tapping his head against Grogu’s wrinkly green one.
“Sorry I don’t remember much, kid. Guess we’ll make some new adventures?” Buir slid on his helmet, and began tapping at his vambrace. “We’re on Concordia. I thought this looked familiar. We need some supplies, and a transport. And money, but we’ll figure that out after food and supplies. You want to walk, or hitch a ride?”
A few hours and several frogs later, Grogu jostled awake in his makeshift hammock— a birikad, buir called it— as buir came to a sudden halt. The reason dropped a stone into Grogu’s stomach, as he peeked out, and was met with the stark-white shriek-hawk sigil brightly painted on blue armor.
Not good.
Two armored Mandalorians stood before them, blocking the way. Blasters out and charge packs whining. Buir’s armored forearm shifted slowly to settle in front of Grogu’s birikad, and he poked his head around his makeshift shield to watch the interaction.
“What is a stranger in antique armor doing wandering Death Watch territory unannounced?”
Grogu sensed buir’s slight tensing, and desperately hoped buir remembered a little of history. Grogu wasn’t really clear on the connection between the Children of the Watch, and Death Watch, but something was there— it was right there in the name, for Force's sake. They might have tried to keep the war out of the crèche, but Grogu and his mates had learned some, had heard the rumblings about Death Watch on Mandalore, their alliance with various Sith. He knew Bo-Katan wasn’t nearly as noble as she had sounded on Trask.
He also knew that Death Watch, like most of Mandalore, was wiped out by the Empire. If they were here in numbers enough to claim a territory, then this was the past. Grogu might have the mind of a child, but he wasn’t stupid.
“My covert was wiped out,” buir answered evenly, and oh, clever buir.
“A joiner, then,” replied one, eyeing buir speculatively. “Worthless Haat’ade, bunch of honorless cowards. Which covert?”
“Mudhorn,” came the quick reply. The other tilted their helmet in skeptical consideration.
“Never heard of it.”
“We kept to ourselves.” Grogu smothered a giggle, but not fast enough to avoid drawing their attention.
“What’s that?”
“He’s my foundling,” and Grogu’s heart swelled at the defensive tone. “I’ve adopted him. Is that a problem?”
“Looks more like a pet,” sneered the one. “But we’re short-handed, so you’ll do, pet and all.” They gestured imperiously for buir to follow, and the other fell in at their flank. Grogu caught wisps of disdain and anger, though none directed at them; still, it was hard to settle with such dangerous folk nearby, regardless of buir’s incredible skill.
Grogu was reassured by the comforting pats his buir applied to the birikad, but couldn’t help feeling, as they entered the Death Watch camp and its two dozen Mandalorians wearing the sigil, milling about and bristling with weapons and simmering fury, that his plan to change things might have hit a snag.