Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I, Preigo, your humble servant, have searched far and wide, oh, illustrious plunderer of the universe and found you a most special entertainment." -Star Wars: The Clone Wars (S5, Ep 8: Bound for Rescue)

Navigating Coruscant’s lower levels was a heculean task on the best of days.

Trying to find his way in the dark, alone, with his vision obscured by tears, face sticky with snot, only made it even harder.

But Obi-Wan knew that he had to get away.

Had to get as far away as possible before they sent him away. And Obi-Wan couldn’t let this last chance escape him. He wouldn’t.

He’d thought…at the tournament, after getting Bruck to grudgingly mutter “Solah,” he’d thought that maybe he still had a chance at becoming a knight. That maybe a knight or master might finally see what he was capable of. What he might be able to accomplish as a padawan-learner, if only someone gave him the chance.

And when the elusive Master Qui-Gon Jinn had attended? When he had accompanied Master Yoda, who just the day prior had teased at the possibility a master might take him on? That Qui-Gon Jinn, the knight who’d lost his last apprentice to a great battle and continued to fight the darkness that plagued the galaxy alone, might take Obi-Wan as his apprentice…

But Master Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted him.

Had looked at him with mild disinterest, face a cold and impenetrable mask of jedi serenity and condemned him to a future where he’d Fall.

“It is better not to train a boy to become a knight if he has so much anger,” Master Qui-Gon had said calmly. Almost sadly. “There is a risk that he will turn to the dark side.” Obi-Wan knew he wouldn’t turn to the dark side, he wouldn’t. He would not allow himself to Fall, had promised Qui-Gon with a certainty he’d only ever felt once before. With the same certainty he knew he was destined to become a knight.

But Master Qui-Gon did not listen. Instead, as though Obi-Wan’s future was a minor inconvenience that had waylaid his path the way a pebble in his shoe might have, the great Qui-Gon Jinn had whirled away. His cloak streaming behind him dramatically. Intent to once again return to his one-sided battle against the darkness. Alone.

As younglings, they were taught to release their hardships to the Force. To center on the here and now, let go of their anxieties. Their anger. Their fear.

But Obi-Wan had never been good at it. Had never been able to simply let go of everything he felt, to work through his emotions and find peace. Had never been able to focus on the here and now when his anxieties and fears seemed to scream at him about all the things that could go wrong.

That had gone wrong.

Because in four weeks he’d be thirteen, officially too old to be taken on as a padawan-learner, and not a single master wanted him. Despite having done well in the Initiate Tournaments.

Despite having the highest scores in his Galactic Linguistics class.

Despite knowing, with a certainty he still hadn’t lost, that he was destined to be a knight.

But so far the only thing his pursuit of knighthood had wrought him was pain.

Accusations of being too angry, too unfocused. To undisciplined. Too everything!

Master Qui-Gon had been his last chance. Perhaps his only chance.

And now it was gone.

All those years of effort, of hardship, of trying…

Of hoping, dreaming, wishing…

Gone.

They’d been taught to release their feelings to the Force, to accept where its currents may bring them.

Obi-Wan knew now that his dream of knighthood was gone. It was time to find a new dream, one that was on his terms.

Now if only he could figure out where the kriff he was.

Qui-Gon was meditating in his favorite corner of the star map room, allowing his mind to drift among the countless planets and stars, when a familiar tap, tap, tap broke his concentration.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes.

Master Yoda was frowning at him, mouth curled in disappointment and ears drooping dangerously. “Remember I do,” he said slowly. Thoughtfully. “Another angry boy who wished for nothing but to be a knight.” With a deliberate show of the weight of his many centuries, Yoda lowered himself down across from Qui-Gon.

His grandmaster might be old, but there was a calculating look in those shrewd eyes that belayed his show of age. Yoda hadn’t become a master of Form IV without knowing how to focus his aggression against an opponent. To overwhelm them with a continuous and unyielding barrage of blows.

Yoda had tried to appeal to Qui-Gon’s empathy by showing him an initiate close to aging out. To a boy who fought well, but ferociously.

A boy who reminded Qui-Gon far too much of Xana.

Now his grandmaster was trying to appeal to his sense of filial piety.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon agreed. “And we both know how a boy like that can be consumed by their own ambitions.”

Yoda regarded him quietly for a moment, and Qui-Gon wished that his grandmaster could let this go. Could accept that Qui-Gon wasn’t ready to take on a padawan so soon after his last. That he may never be in a place to take one again.

It was not the darkness of the galaxy he fought, as so many younglings and knights liked to whisper, but his own.

“Speak of Xanatos,” Yoda began, eyes impossibly kind. “I do not.”

Not for the first time, Qui-Gon Jinn wondered what his life might have been like if he hadn’t been taken on by Master Yan. Where would he be, if he had never become a padawan-learner?

If he had devoted his life to something else.

Like farming?

He liked plants. Liked the feeling of dirt under his nails and the sun on his face.

Perhaps in such a life he might have known peace.

Perhaps in such a life, he might have kept his boy safe.

But as a master of the living force, Qui-Gon Jinn did not dwell on possibilities.

Breathing slowly, carefully, he turned his attention back to the here and now. “I will not take him,” Qui-Gon said. “The boy is not my responsibility.” He would never allow himself to become responsible for such a bright young life again.

Master Yoda hummed, claws curled around his gimmer stick thoughtfully. “If take him, you will not,” Yoda huffed. “His future, changed it will be.”

Tired of this conversation, of speaking to a man who could not take no for an answer, Qui-Gon sighed. “The future is always changing grandmaster,” Qui-Gon replied quietly. As he made his way out, he turned around one last time. Master Yoda’s face was still turned into a frown, eyes searching. For what, Qui-Gon couldn’t begin to guess, but unraveling the complexities of his grandmaster’s thoughts was not a task he would ever wish to take on. “Perhaps this future will be kinder for the boy in the long run.”

Because the look of open desperation and fear on little Obi-Wan’s face was far too similar to another angry little boy’s. And Qui-Gon hoped with a ferocity he’d thought had burnt out on Telos, that the Force would be kinder to Obi-Wan than it had been to Xanatos.

Yoda huffed as his obstinate grandpadawan left. It had been nine years since Xanatos...

Nine years of forcing Qui-Gon to attend the Initiate Tournaments. Of parading capable young initiates before him, only for his grandpadawan to leave empty handed. Far too intent to fight the darkness clouding his future, alone.

Returning a padawan to the Force was a weight a master should never have to bear. Yoda would know.

There is no death, Yoda reminded himself. Blinking back his melancholy, he settled himself more firmly onto the meditation cushion he’d chosen. There is the Force.

It was hard, bearing the weight a padawan who’d been returned to the Force far too early. But it was a weight that could be carried, if one allowed others to lighten the load.

Yoda had chosen the Temple. Had chosen to surround himself with as many bright lights as he could to help ease the pain of having seen so many faded. He was far too old now to take on another padawan, and though the last of his students would surely die before him, he had contented himself with his teachings living on through their students. Through their students’, students.

Qui-Gon embodied the best of Yoda’s teachings.

Draped in the currents of the Living Force and a master of ataru.

A consular. A diplomat and negotiator.

Kind, compassionate, and not afraid to play a prank every now and again.

Yet the boy had also picked up the faults that seemed to plague their lineage.

That stubbornness he’d inherited from Yan, from Yoda himself.

Stubborn, must you always be? Yoda humphed, eyes drifting to the stars and planets that had continued their placid orbit. The star map room had always been Qui-Gon’s favorite. Study the stars, grandpadawan? Learn will you, the lessons they impart?

Obi-Wan, for all his faults, shone brightly in the Force.

The boy had potential, potential that Yoda knew only Qui-Gon could truly nurture. They would make a formidable team, perhaps the greatest of their generation.

But more than that, the weight of Xanatos’ death may be easier to bear if Qui-Gon had the help of a padawan like Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Yoda knew Qui-Gon would not remain in Temple much longer, now the Initiate Tournament had ended. Obi-Wan would not remain for much longer either, with only four weeks until he aged out and the Council of Reassignment placed him in a corps posting or university. Whichever the boy decided.

Yoda knew, knew with a certainty he’d never felt in all his long years, that his boy needed a padawan. Needed a partner to help bear the burden of his loss.

Obi-Wan needed a master.

Qui-Gon’s stubbornness was an obstacle, but not an insurmountable one.

He’d tried appealing to his grandpadawan’s sense of compassion, and then his sense of duty.

Now he would play upon his sense of responsibility.

He claimed no responsibility over Obi-Wan?

Perhaps that would change, if the boy was reassigned.

Yoda closed his eyes thoughtfully. The council had just received a request from the Senate, one where they had asked for Qui-Gon specifically.

Bandomeer was a harsh planet, filled with deadly predators and brutal storms. It was certainly not a place for an initiate, but perhaps it was a place for a padawan…

The AgriCorps had recently established an outpost there.

His grandpadawan might not accept a student here, in the heart of the Jedi Order where a world of possibility remained for an initiate who’d aged out. But perhaps he’d accept responsibility for a child who’s very survival depended on the skill only a master could provide…

Qui-Gon embodied the best of Yoda’s teachings. He would not lose another bright light to the darkness.

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how he had come to be standing before the bulletin board, couldn’t even remember leaving the pigeon-hole he’d managed to find.

His first night away from Temple was harder than he’d thought it would be—though not for the reasons he’d expected. He’d anticipated having to rough it, every initiate had gone through basic survival training at some point.

Coruscant wasn’t too bad, as planets went. Weather regulated by the ecumenopolis’ governing office, which meant the temperature never got below freezing and it only rained a couple of weeks out of the year. Obi-Wan had lucked out, as his birthday was smack dab in the middle of the Galactic Standard Calendar—which meant he had several months before he’d have to worry about finding a more appropriate shelter.

What was hard was being away from the Temple’s natural shielding, away from the gentle thrumming that echoed across his entire being—a sensation he’d never noticed before as he had never had to go a day without it. Until he ran away from the only home he had ever known. Away from the warm safety of the creche, from the shields that had been built over millennia by thousands of force-sensitives layering their natural protections within its mortar. Love, and warmth, and light seeped into every brick.

The Temple was never quiet, but its cacophony of sounds held a familiarity Obi-Wan had taken for granted, until they were gone. He’d spent the night curled around a too slim pack, eyes flitting from shadow to shadow at every unfamiliar noise.

When he’d woken up from a fitful sleep, eyes grimy from dust and tears, mechanically shoveling a stale ration bar into his mouth and swallowing it down with fresh water, Obi-Wan was forced to take stock of his current situation.

He was a Temple-raised kid with no identification and zero connections outside the Jedi Order. The Republic’s regulations on force-sensitives meant that any identifying information was kept classified for their protection. Obi-Wan didn’t even know if he had any living family members. He’d been given to the Temple as an infant, like most force-sensitives had following the Ruusan Reformation.

Everything from medical records to education status was encrypted within the Temple mainframe. If he’d been selected as a padawan, he wouldn’t have to worry about his lack of official record. Master-padawan teams were provided with credentials from the Judicial Department, which allowed them access to most Republic spaces. If he’d allowed himself to be reassigned to a corps he would have been granted temporary credentials that, while limited, would have been something.

Initiates rarely left the Order, which meant their lack of official documents usually weren’t an issue. He knew, logically, that there was a process in place for anyone who did decide to leave but he’d been sick with Stygian flu when they’d covered it in class and Docent Vant hadn’t seen the point in providing a refresher. Convinced he’d either be taken on as a padawan, or would accept his corps assignment with the grace befitting of a Jedi.

If he was careful with his supplies and used public fountains to refill his water supply, he could probably last a week or two before he’d need to worry about where he could find more. And the place he’d found to sleep was relatively safe, tucked away in an abandoned building with limited visibility from the street. It was a safe bet that he could stay there, at least for a little while before he’d have to worry about finding another.

His biggest worry at the moment, was finding a long-term solution now that he’d left the Jedi.

But what could a Temple-reject accomplish with no identification and no money? Anything he’d ever needed had been provided by the Temple quartermaster! And Obi-Wan wasn’t a hundred-percent certain, but he doubted anyone would be impressed by his knowledge of Force-sect philosophy or his handle on the various intonations and conjugations of Ithorese!

Where could he go?

What could he do?

It was only when he felt the familiar icy grip around his chest, heard just how ragged his breathing had gotten, that Obi-Wan realized he was slowing spiraling into an anxiety attack. If he was at Temple, one of his friends would have grabbed a nearby master to help him. If it was Quinlan, he would have been offered quiet reassurances mumbled in kiffu. Grounded by the feel of the other boy’s hands carefully working through his curls.

But Obi-Wan was alone.

He needed to try and calm down by himself.

He’d closed his eyes, knowing additional stimuli would only make it worse, and tried to focus on his breathing the way Docent Vant had taught him. But each ragged breath in only served to remind him how hard it was to breathe! How he wasn’t getting enough oxygen! What if…if…

Another shallow breath in, and he could feel tears bursting behind the curtain of his eyelids.

I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.

An exhale, still shaky, but better than before.

I am one with the Force… He breathed in. And the Force is with me… He breathed out.

…with the Force…with me…

He repeated this to himself, again and again. Allowing the familiar mantra to ground him, for the words to fill the vast emptiness he’d been feeling ever since he’d left home.

When he came too, eyelids sticky and throat dry, he was standing in front of the board with no way of knowing how he’d gotten there. Had the Force guided him?

The board itself was old, different from ones on the upper levels by the layers of old flimsi plastered across its front as opposed to the more common holos. Advertisements for local shops. A poster about a missing tooka. Obi-Wan turned his eyes away from one flier, cheeks hot, as a scantily clad twi’lek endorsed a nearby club.

What had the Force wanted him to see?

He sent a soft query, but the Force remained silent. Mission accomplished for now. Whatever it wanted him to see, it would be up to him to find it.

Several minutes were spent quietly perusing the board, and Obi-Wan was finally ready to admit defeat, when he saw it.

Tucked away in a corner and partially obscured by an advert for “genuine” trandoshan scale boots, a tattered red and white flier proclaimed that the Corusca Circus was hiring.

Roll up! Roll up!

Looking for a career change? Ready for a life of magic, mayhem, and mystery?

Then you’re in luck, because the Corusca Circus is looking for passionate, motivated individuals to join their troupe.

Salary commensurate with experience! Room and board provided upon offer.

Please enquire with Kitt Pavi for further details.

The Greatest Show on Coruscant!

At the bottom of the flier was a comm-code, along with an address in the Old District.

Obi-Wan had never been to a circus before…was this what the Force had been guiding him to?

Before he could second guess himself, Obi-Wan ripped off the flier and tucked it away in his pocket.

Hopefully, they were still hiring.

Coruscant’s oldest continuous standing circus was nestled deep within the planet’s core, in the heart of the Old District, which was no stranger to runaways and vagabonds.

While some may describe the dim, yellow lighting as nostalgic or whimsical, for Kitt Pavi—principal owner of the Corusca Circus and its twenty-fifth ringleader—it reminded him of the fact that they hadn’t been able to afford renovations for longer than he’d been alive.

The Corusca had been held by the Pavi family since Chiesso Pavi and her wife had immigrated from Pantora with a dream, and a fresh certificate from the planet’s leading circus academy, almost one-hundred and fifty-three years ago. Starting off as a big-top circus, Kitt’s great-grandparents and their siblings had managed to purchase the theater the Corusca currently called home with help from one of Chancellor Soh’s Great Works. Back then, the Old District was teaming with pedestrians and tourists who were eager to be entertained from acts across the galaxy.

But that was a long time ago.

Frowning down at the pile of unpaid bills that had only seemed to grow in his absence, Kitt blearily reached for his mug of caf. Hoping it was still warm, and wondering if he’d be able to muster up the energy to reheat it, if it wasn’t. Probably not. He thought wearily, whining when a familiar hand pulled it out of reach.

“Larep,” Kitt stared up at his best friend beseechingly. “I was drinking that.” The kalleran merely raised a bony brow.

Larep Key had been the only person manning the Lights and Sound booth of the Corusca Circus since Kit had taken over as Ringleader nearly three years ago. Not through lack of effort though. Kit had been trying to get additional staff, especially for their backstage crew but finding someone who was okay with relatively minimal pay and weird hours—the Circus had a season like everything else on Coruscant and between rehearsals, shows, and training their schedule was erratic at best—was like trying to find a melioorun on Lothal.

“Nope,” Larep said merrily. Placing a glass of water in front of him instead. “You’re lucky you’re not dehydrated.”

In a manner unbefitting a semi-functional adult and belying his vast twenty-four years, Kittsed Pavi groaned. “You know that study was debunked,” he tried. Hands reaching desperately for his purloined mug. “Caf is perfectly hydrating! Especially for pantorans!”

Unfortunately for Kitt, Larep had been taller than him since puberty. A fact the kalleran frequently used to his advantage. “When its drank in moderation” the taller man chided. “Drink the water and you can have your caf tomorrow.”

They stood there for one long moment, both valiantly waiting for the other to break, only for Kitt to visibly deflate at Larep’s stern expression. “Fine.”

Reaching for the water, Kitt took a spiteful sip, and returned to his pile of bills.

The chair across from him screeched pitifully as his best friend took a seat. “Can’t those wait til morning?” Larep friend asked softly, gently.

Kitt merely shook his head.

His great-grandparents might have benefitted from Soh’s Endowment for the Arts, but every administration to follow chipped away at its funding until there was barely anything left. His family owned the building, but the building was old and showing its age daily. Between vendor fees, salaries, and property taxes, there was hardly anything left over for Kitt to try and give the show and their venue a much needed reboot.

Their gate had been slowly dwindling for years, long before Kit had taken over for his parents. Realistically, the Corusca needed more staff if they wanted to start turning a profit, even though Kit could barely afford the number of people it had. The meager funds he could offer for a crew member with minimal experience was nowhere near what any other circus was offering. Not to mention the last few reputable schools still in operation were far away from Coruscant, and definitely weren’t looking at a family owned circus.

He’d been trying, by the goddess, had he been trying. When he wasn’t attending to angry debtors or mischievous younger siblings, Kitt was posting fliers across the lower levels. Trying to find someone, anyone, who would be willing to give their circus a chance. To try and find some way to help boost their gate and keep his family’s legacy alive.

But nothing seemed to work, no matter how hard he tried. No one wanted to sign-up with a tiny circus that could only offer room and board on top of a measly amount of credits.

Larep was about to respond when they were both startled by a soft, yet distinctive knock, knock, knock.

It was faint, but Kitt would have sworn it sounded almost…hesitant.

With one last look shared between them, Larep got and opened the door.

There was a kid standing outside.

The first thing that came to Kitt’s mind was that the kid was tiny. Curls were barely hinted at in the gentle wave of their dusty hair, face splotchy and red. As though they’d been crying recently, and Kitt found his heart going out to the kid. They couldn’t have been that much younger than Juy or Jie, and despite the fact they’d grown up there, he certainly wouldn’t want his trouble-making siblings to be wandering around the Old District at this time of night. Alone.

Larep seemed to be on a similar wavelength, as the man crouched so he was at eye-level.

“Hey kiddo,” Larep greeted gently. “Are you alright? Can we call someone for you?” Antennae twitching in the way Kitt knew meant the other was deeply concerned. Larep twitched the exact same way when Kitt had consumed copious amounts of caf without any water breaks in-between. Or when the twins tried out a new stunt.

For all his gargantuan height and ridiculously muscular exterior, the kalleran truly was just a giant walking marshmallow.

Hesitating for a moment, big blue eyes going from Larep to Kitt, the kid pulled out a familiar flier. “I-I’m looking for a job.”

The room was poorly lit and a bit drafty, certainly nothing like what Obi-Wan thought he’d find in a circus.

Across from him, the pantoran who’d introduced himself as Kitt—same as the one the flier told him to direct his inquiries too—was pushing a stack of flimsi out of the way.

“So…” He started, eyes wondering over Obi-Wan with concern. Kitt seemed remarkably young to be a ringleader, deep grooves beneath tired golden eyes hinting at sleepless nights and lack of rest.

Everything about him screamed tired, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but wonder if that was simply the life of a ringleader or something unique about Kitt.

As the silence between them continued to stretch, he finally realized that the opening was for his name.

Kriff! Why haven’t I thought about that!? He couldn’t give his real name could he? What if the Temple was looking for him? Would they send him back? What if Kitt and Larep got in trouble for meeting with him?

Before he could work himself into a full panic, Obi-Wan said the first thing that came to mind. “Um…Ben…” He tried cautiously.

Larep seemed to pick up on his hesitation, though Kitt simply smiled.

“It’s nice to meet you Ben,” Kitt’s voice was warm despite the obvious exhaustion coloring it and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile in response. “As you know, I’m Kitt Pavi and the giant lug over there is Larep. He’s in charge of lights and sound.”

Larep waved.

“You’re looking for a job?” Kitt asked, head tilted in curiosity. From this angle, the dim light reflected off the bridge of pale gold across his nose. A holo on the desk showed Kitt with two younger pantorans—both maybe a few years older than Obi-Wan himself. Siblings probably, judging from their similar markings.

Obi-Wan nodded.

Larep and Kitt shared a look. “Ever worked in a circus?”

“N-no…”

Kitt nodded, as though he’d expected this. “Built stuff? Fix stuff…”

Fidgeting, Obi-Wan shrugged. “D-do model ship’s c-count?”

Another nod. “‘Course they do,” Kitt replied cheerfully. “Shows you can follow directions, and have an aptitude for finding where things fit.”

And…well Obi-Wan had never thought of it that way before. Master Vant had thought it frivolous, while his friends thought it boring. He’d never thought it might actually come in handy.

“Anything else you can do?” Larep asked from his place on the wall. After letting Obi-Wan in, the kalleran had offered him the only other seat that was available and had been leaning against the wall behind Kitt. Posture relaxed, though his antennae twitched every so often.

Obi-Wan thought for a moment, before offering another shrug. “U-um…I’m not sure.” This really wasn’t going very well, was it. “But I’m eager to learn, and I don’t complain and really I’ll try my best so if you could just—“

A calloused hand rested against his own, making him freeze. Kitt’s eyes were gentle as he regarded him. “It’s okay Ben,” he said. “We believe you.” The hand rested atop his own, and through the Force Obi-Wan could feel the concern and worry directed at him. Though it was also tinged with something softer.

Was this what having an older brother was like?

As a rule, Jedi didn’t have families. The closest they ever came was a lineage…but Obi-Wan would never know what it would be like to have an older padawan-sibling. Not after he’d aged out. Even if he’d accepted being reassigned, the Corps provided collective training to their members.

He’d never know what it would feel like…

“How old are you Ben?” Larep asked.

Swallowing, Obi-Wan looked down. “Old enough.”

It grew quiet after that, and Obi-Wan chanced a surreptitious glance up to see Larep and Kitt sharing another look.

“If I were to ask,” Kitt started slowly. Cautiously. “Would you be able to provide us with identification so we could set up an automatic credits transfer?”

Obi-Wan froze, which seemed to be the all man needed.

“I thought so,” he said softly.

Kriff! This was it. They were going to call the authorities! Barely a day away from Temple and Obi-Wan had already been caught out! This was just—

“I can pay you fifteen credits a week, payable on the last day of the month.” Kitt said, hand still gently resting atop Obi-Wan’s. “Room and board provided, though you’ll have to share with another member of our troupe. We’ll start you off as a general stage hand and apprentice you around the crew till you find something that fits.” His eyes were warm when Obi-Wan looked at him. “Sound okay?”

Swallowing, Obi-Wan checked the Force only to be met with a sense of rightness he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Basking in the feeling, he nodded. “Y-yeah.” Obi-Wan swallowed. “T-that sounds good.”

“So, these knobs control the runners and those control the set?” Obi-Wan asked, stylus posed to take notes on the battered data pad Larep had unearthed for him. Beside him, the kalleran hummed encouragingly.

Obi-Wan had been with the Corusca for a month now, and it was easier then he’d thought it be to fall into the rhythm of circus life.

His roommate, Drelle, a besalisk that was ridiculously graceful despite his gargantuan size, had welcomed Obi-Wan with open arms upon Kitt’s announcement that they’d be rooming together. Drelle spent most of his time practicing for his act, delighted at his newfound audience. Obi-Wan could only stare in awe at the myriad of patterns the man wove, batons and clubs flying through the air only to be deftly caught then launched again.

But since Obi-Wan was crewing and not performing, most of his time was spent working with a handful of the troupe who worked exclusively behind the scenes.

Mama Ovad had given him an appraising glance upon being introduced, before quickly sorting out a training schedule with a level of efficiency that would have made his crechemaster’s green with envy. Every morning, after making sure Obi-Wan had eaten, the lasat would ruffle his hair and drop him off with a different crew member.

Today, he was working with Larep.

“Now these are important,” the kalleran gestured towards a different panel. “Each one controls a different spot, depending on the act.”

Obi-Wan’s brows rose in confusion. “You mean each act has a dedicated spot?”

Larep grinned. “Yup!” He tapped out a command and the center ring in the middle of the theater turned bright yellow. “See how the yellow tinge illuminates the entire stage?”

Obi-Wan nodded.

“This spot should be used when the clowns are on stage, but we try to avoid it during transitions.” That made sense, wouldn’t want the audience to see the crew shift out the prop pieces, or the assortment of safety procedures each crew-member conducted before a performer took the stage. It would detract from the magic of the circus.

Larep punched in another few buttons before twisting a dial down. The light changed to a soft, warm white. “Any guesses as to which act would have this spot?”

Thinking about it for a moment, taking in the cozy, almost magical atmosphere the light made, Obi-Wan hazarded a guess. “Um…for Nac?”

“You’ve got it,” Larep cheered. Obi-Wan ducked his head, pleased he’d gotten it right. Everyone at the Corusca was so quick to provide praise, and the failed initiate soaked it up like a desert flower after a summer storm. “His light is in the 2700-3000k range and it really picks up on the pink tones in Nac’s skin, which makes his descent all the more magical.”

Nac Reza, their resident aerialist, had recently been practicing a new act using aerial silks and Obi-Wan was both frightened and mesmerized at the various loops and twirls the man was able to perform in the air without being force-sensitive. When asked how he did it, Nac had simply laughed. ’It’s all about controlling your core and knowing when to tighten or loosen your muscles.” Nac said. ”Same basic principal as yuj. I typically do a few flows in the morning if you’d like to join me.”

Which was how Obi-Wan, the initiate who’s crechemaster had despaired at his inability to meditate, started joining the aerialist’s tiny yuj group—composed of Oonreg, their head clown. Sithra, Nac’s older sister and the Corusca’s strongwoman. And Stogathy, an Alderaanian acrobat who’d joined the troupe the year before.

Obi-Wan was still sore from that morning’s practice, though he felt more centered than he had in years. Linking his movements with breath had brought a level of concentration he hadn’t known he was capable of and had drastically reduced the anxiety that seemed to hover in the peripherals of his psyche for as long as he could remember.

Blinking, he regarded the stage thoughtfully. “If there are lights we use to help an act,” Obi-Wan started slowly, “are there lights to avoid with a specific act?” Larep usually didn’t mind his questions, but Obi-Wan was still hesitant to ask. Afraid he’d annoy the older man.

Larep offered another cheerful hum. “That’s a great question,” Larep reassured. Tapping in a new command, the warm white light changed to a pale blue-toned one. “This would wash Nac out, as the cooler color would make the pink tones disappear but would actually help Kitt or the twins when they’re on stage.”

The Force sang with a sense of pride the other man directed towards him, and Obi-Wan ducked further over his pad.

“Most people wouldn’t think about that Ben,” Larep continued. “You’re a natural.”

Obi-Wan—Ben—smiled.

Ben was still reveling in the quiet pride that had resonated through the Force for the rest of his shift with Larep, when he stumbled upon a curious sight.

Gax and Noda were gathered close together, the zabrak’s horns carefully avoiding Noda’s face as they attempted to repair the ruffles on Fazzad’s motley with what looked like…glue? Further down, the selonian in question worried over a hole he’d made for his tail—though even from here, Ben could tell it was a little too high to be comfortable.

Now that he thought about it, most of the Corusca’s costumes were in various states of disrepair. Has the troupe been making repairs on their own?

Venturing closer, Ben inevitably drew the trio’s attention. Gax smiled, canines glistening in the dim light before Noda slapped the back of his head reproachfully. “What did I say about trying to scare the kid?” The dug asked, lower limbs crossed sternly over their chest.

Gax mumbled something under his breath, and Noda only shook their head. Fazzad chittered cheerfully in greeting, clearing a spot nearby with his tail and thumping it in offer.

Ben accepted the offered spot, watching as the three turned back to their attempted repairs.

Distantly, he remembered the Rodian theater classes Master Windu had offered as an elective a few years back. Ben hadn’t had any performance aspirations, but he’d enjoyed working on some of the costumes Master Windu had procured for their class. Had even earned a rare word of acknowledgement from the taciturn master for his skill with a needle.

He hadn’t worked on anything for a while, but…

“Um,” Ben hesitated, once again catching their attention. “…I could…I could see if I could…f-fix that for you?” Ducking his head at their surprised expressions.

It was silent for a moment, long enough for Ben to seriously think about taking the offer back before Noda interrupted his downward spiral. “You can sew?” The dug asked curiously.

Biting his lip, Ben nodded.

The clowns shared a look, before glancing at Fazzad questioningly. It was his motley afterall.

Joyful clicks and whistles echoed across the shared space before a furry paw affectionately ruffled the curls that had started to grow out from Ben’s extended leave from Temple.

“Thanks pup!” Fazzad said, furry face lit up with the force of his smile. “We clowns don’t really know what we’re doing, hehe. I’d appreciate the help.”

Noda sniffed derisively at the comment while Gax swayed dramatically, and Ben could only smile at their antics. Heart warm as he was once again accepted with open arms.

After being entrusted with Fazzad’s motley, which he was assured wasn’t needed for a while so Ben could take as much time as he needed, the boy planned out his next steps.

He’d have to try and dissolve the glue they’d been using first, but how badly would that damage the fabric? Thinking back, he was sure he’d seen Fazzad wear a red and green motley, in addition to the white one he’d been entrusted with. Did he have any others? How badly would it hurt the selonian if Ben messed up and damaged it beyond repair?

Glancing at the costume in thought, Ben bit his lip. Maybe a quick stop at the community trunk?

The trunk was a veritable treasure trove when it came to clothes or other odds and ends. The Corusca, thrifty by nature and more recently out of necessity, hated throwing anything away. Instead most of their castoffs were pooled together in a communal space incase someone else wanted it.

Rifling through its contents, Ben picked out a few discarded costumes with decent collars before finding a pale blue sweatshirt for himself, fabric worn soft with age and carrying the faintest hint of incense. Most—if not all—of his new wardrobe had been the result of similar digs through the trunk, and the former initiate couldn’t help but feel pleased at the riot of color he’d become. At the warmth and care that had seeped into the fabric. He didn’t have a gift for psychometry, not like Quin did but each time he put on a threadbare tunic, or a patched sweater, it felt like a hug. As though he’d always had a place here. As though he belonged.

With his materials sorted, it was time for his next stop.

Nac smiled as the door slid open enough to reveal Ben’s fidgeting self. “Ben! Please come on in,” the aerialist exclaimed. Ushering the boy inside the room he shared with his sister. “This is an unexpected delight! Can I offer you any tea? I think I’ve still got a tin of biscuits somewhere around here, unless Sitty managed to sniff them out of their hiding spot.”

As his host bustled around, Ben was guided into an empty chair before Nac set an old kettle atop a hot plate. “I swear you wouldn’t believe the sweet tooth on that woman,“ he muttered conspiratorially. Something about his face must have shown his disbelief—it was hard picturing the nearly seven foot strongwoman as someone with a sweet-tooth—because Nac laughed. “What can I do for you m’dear?”

As he accepted the warm mug, steam drifting in lazy spirals and carrying the faint scent of naris blossoms, Ben settled more comfortably in his seat. “I was wondering if I could ask a favor,” he asked.

Having settled across from him with his own mug, Nac’s smile softened. “Of course,” he said automatically. Not even bothering to hear what the favor was before agreeing. The pink-skinned man was always going out of his way to help, whether it was with a kind word or an extra-pair of hands whenever the crew needed it.

At his words, Ben relaxed. Tension he hadn’t known he’d been carrying gone with Nac’s easy agreement. He still wasn’t used to being able to ask for help, or at how easily it was offered. The instructors at the Temple had felt unapproachable, while Master Vant always seemed irritated.

It was a little easier amongst his friends. Bant was always ready to lend a helping hand. Garen would bemoan Ben’s look of befuddlement whenever their schoolwork approached anything resembling astronavigation, but would still help him calculate hyper jumps. Head rested companionably atop his shoulder as they worked. Quin hated schoolwork, doing everything in his power to avoid it, but was always there whenever Ben needed him.

Being with the Corusca felt like that. Felt like warm nights in the creche as his friends laughed and played. Felt like the time he’d gotten the highest mark in his Galatctic History class. Like Quinlan’s smile, and Garen’s laugh, or a hug from Bant. It felt like warmth, like acceptance.

Like belonging.

Blinking away surprisingly wet eyes, Ben remembered where he was. Nac was still waiting, face expectant but patient. As though he had all the time in the world.

Ben sniffed wetly. “Um,” he started, fingers tracing the rim of his mug. “I’m helping Fazzad with his costume,” he nodded towards the bundle of fabric beside him. “And I was wondering if you had any sewing supplies I might borrow?”

As soon as Ben mentioned the selonian’s name, Nac turned an interesting shade of red. Ben tilted his head. “O-oh.” Nac said, fingers coming up to play with an errant strand of his lilac-colored hair. He almost seemed…flustered. It was odd, as the zeltron always seemed to exude a quiet confidence. “Fazzad’s c-costume?”

Eyebrows rising at the uncharacteristic stutter, Ben could only watch in bewilderment as the usually poised man fluttered about the room. “I uh, I know there’s an old kit somewhere in here.” Nac said, head currently buried in a trunk as he searched for the aforementioned kit. “I inherited it from my grandma, though it’s a bit wasted on me.” His voice was slightly muffled, though Ben could just make out what the other was saying. “I’m really only good for the occasional patch job—ah hah!”

Wincing at the loud thunk as the back of Nac’s head met the trunk’s lid, Ben accepted the kit from an incredibly red zeltron. “Are you okay?” Ben asked.

Nac waved away his concerns. “Fine,” he said. Voice a bit strangled. His hand came up to rub the back of his head. “Y-you can have that, if you’d like. It’s just gathering dust with me.”

The box was old, sides worn smooth with use. A flight of birds was painted across its lid, color faded with age though Ben could still make out cheerful yellows and blues. “Are you sure?”

A nod. “Grandma would’ve wanted it to be with someone who could make use of it, and it’s doing no good packed away in a trunk.” Nac was still rubbing the back of his head, though now it seemed a touch embarrassed. “Um…let me know how it goes?”

Still confused by Nac’s actions, Ben quietly agreed. Unconsciously hugging the kit to his chest as he asked if the man needed an ice pack.

Mace Windu knew something was wrong when he felt a shatter-point he hadn’t known existed expand right in the middle of negotiations between the Rodian Cultural Ministry and the Republic’s Commission of Fine Arts. An inquisitive probe through the Force let him know it wasn’t related to his current mission, so the jedi master attempted to put it out of his mind.

There was plenty of time to examine it at a later date. Right now, his attention was needed elsewhere.

He was on a deadline afterall.

Getting both parties to make concessions in an attempt to reach a settlement had taken far longer than he’d have liked, but Mace still completed his mission ahead of schedule with at least a week left before he’d miss his chance at expanding their lineage.

He’d already submitted the appropriate flimsi-work. Depa had cleared out the last of her boxes she’d been storing in her old room. The bead he’d picked out, a colorful bit of hand-blown glass that was speckled with spots of yellow and green, was safely tucked away in his pocket. All he had to do was find the boy, and ask.

Mace knew he’d kriffed up when the afore-mentioned shatterpoint he’d been ignoring for the better part of a week, imploded.

Because apparently, four weeks before he would have aged-out and been officially too old to be taken on as a padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi had disappeared.

“Where the kriff is my padawan?” Mace asked. The tenuous control over his anger slipping as Docent Vant simply shrugged.

Finding a set of transfer orders made the day after his future padawan had last been seen, only to be retroactively revoked upon news of his disappearance, caused that control to falter even more.

To see that the orders had been signed by Yoda? To hear from Obi-Wan’s friends that the boy had been distressed at his inability to find a master? To hear Yoda had suggested, even hinted at, Qui-Gon Jinn taking him on? To learn from Depa that Jinn had openly turned the boy away, had made accusations that Mace’s boy might turn dark if he were trained?

All his tightly leashed control was let go, anger turned towards a more productive outlet.

Such as finding his kid.

Qui-Gon, expression tight as he answered his comm, relayed that he had not been aware Mace had submitted his declaration of intent. If he had, Qui-Gon assured, he never would have said what he had. Would have reassured Obi-Wan that he wasn’t the boy’s last hope towards knighthood. That a master had already expressed an interest in continuing his training.

The Force resonated with sincerity at the knight’s words, which meant that Mace needed to direct his anger towards a more appropriate party.

Yoda’s expression remained serene as Mace laid out his accusations, and the longer the older man retained his tranquility, the greater Mace’s anger at Yoda’s manipulations grew.

Finally, the korrun master turning away, Mace leveled one last parting question towards the order’s venerable grandmaster. ”Do you even care? Mace had asked. ”Do you even care that a child, who’s safety and wellbeing had been entrusted to us, disappeared? Or are you more worried about your precious Qui-Gon Jinn?”

That had been two weeks ago.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had been missing from the Temple for over a month now.

In his pocket, Mace’s fingers traced the bead that had been meant for his future padawan.

Where are you Obi-Wan? Mace wondered. Eyes reviewing the Temple’s security footage for the fifteenth time. Where have you gone?

The Force remained silent.

After soaking Fazzad’s motley in some vinegar he’d procured from Mama Ovad, Ben did his best to scrape off what he could from the clowns’ attempt at fixing it.

Once he’d managed to get most of the glue off, Ben went about removing what was left of the ruffles. Snip. Snip. Snip. The shears he’d found inside of Nac’s gifted sewing kit were old, but sharp. Grandma Reza had invested in quality tools when she was alive, and he thanked her for the foresight.

The last of the collar was removed with one final snip of the shears. With a bit of tulle salvaged from an old petticoat found in the community trunk, Ben began the next phase of his project. A day into his work, he’d figured out that it would be better to make a new collar from scratch, rather than try to attach a preexisting one. His previous anttempts had resulted in some comical failures, where the collar refused to sit right and would have ended with Fazzad receiving a mouthful of fabric every time he moved.

The sewing machine had been another find within Grandma Reza’s box. While it was older, far older than anything Ben had ever worked on, it was remarkably easy to figure out once he’d started working with it. Adjusting the tension control, Ben relaxed at the familiar thump, thump, thump, thump as he fed the fabric through the machine. Carefully gathering the material to create a ruffle, and reinforcing his final stitch the way Master Windu had shown him.

Pinning it to a piece of elastic, and then attaching the completed collar was the work of a few minutes, and Ben couldn’t help but look at the end result with pride!

Fazzad, expression puzzled, allowed Ben to grab some measurements with a ruler he’d borrowed from Ti, Sneedt and Rik—the trio of Jawas who made up the bulk of the Corusca’s running crew—so that Ben could complete the final part of his project.

It wasn’t too difficult to source a similar enough fabric for a patch on the selonian’s prior attempt at a tail hole. Ben wanted to try and provide as much of an additional seam allowance as he could for where he’d put the new exit, its place already marked with chalk based off Fazzad’s measurements.

Two days later, Ben returned the motley. I hope he likes it, Ben thought anxiously. Fingers running over the smooth fabric.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could sew?” Kitt asked.

Ben had been with the Corusca for a month now, taking to circus life as though he’d been born to it!

Oonreg had practically adopted him, the head clown making a point to check on the kid frequently. Larep was delighted in how quickly Ben picked things up, had even allowed him to run the lamp house with minimal supervision during one of their shows.

The twins had taken him under their wing, much to Kitt’s surprise. Juy and Jie had always been a force of nature, much to their parents’ chagrin and Kitt’s annoyance. To see their collective chaos channeled into nurturing Ben’s confidence, in showing him the ropes—both literally and metaphorically, Mama Ovad had been furious when she’d found them trying to coerce the younger boy onto a trapeze—it left Kitt feeling proud. Proud at the way his younger brother and sister were growing into compassionate young adults.

Across from him, the Corusca’s youngest member was nervously playing with his fingers. Head ducked low, eyes hidden by the riot of ginger curls that had grown out of the severe cut he’d sported when he’d joined up with them. Larep was frowning from his place behind the kid, eyes warning Kitt to reign in his excitement.

Several long moments passed as Kitt waited for an answer. Silence thick and suffocating as Ben continued to fidget and Kitt jonesed for a mug of caf. Indignant at being cut-off before mid-meal, Larep ignoring the pleading expressions shot his way with an ease born of having grown up together. Bastard.

Finally, finally Ben offered up a hesitant shrug. “Forgot,” he said. Voice shy.

Fazzad had been ecstatic at Ben’s work, Gax and Noda adding their own exclamations of wonder at just how good the selonian’s costume looked after the adjustments. Drelle had overheard and asked if Ben could help with a leotard that had grown a bit snug, while Oonreg had asked about a tutu. The twins were bouncing around the idea of having matching outfits.

Before the poor kid became overwhelmed, Mama Ovad had swooped in. Tucking him into her side like a kit as she snagged Fazzad’s motley before hightailing it to Kitt’s office.

Ben’s work was good. Like, ridiculously good. He didn’t think the motley looked this good in years, since his parents had purchased the outfit!

Tapping his fingers against a stack of flimsi thoughtfully, Kitt wondered at the possibilities. “If I were to give you a budget,” he began. Voice soft. Encouraging. “Do you think you might be able to make a new line of costumes?”

At the question, Ben glanced up. Blue eyes meeting Kitt’s gold.

Even though he was thrumming with excitement, Kitt tried to his best to put off a patient air. Knowing that if he came off as pushy or demanding, the kid might cry. And he definitely didn’t want Ben to cry, he was practically family at this point. But this might be just what the Corusca needs, he thought. Maybe some new costumes will draw interest back to the circus.

Ben bit his lip, clearly thinking and Kitt waited.

“I can try,” Ben said at last.

Kitt grinned.

Tholme had intended for their jaunt to the lower level market to be a pick-me-up for his gloomy padawan. But judging from Quinlan’s expression, their trip had the opposite reaction.

Quinlan and Obi-Wan shared a bond that went deeper than one between crechemates. Something more significant, more weighted, than even a master-padawan bond, though he doubted either of the boys had realized just how meaningful it was. It was common for an unexpected loss to have tangible effects between bond mates—most of Obi-Wan’s crechemates had suffered similar melancholies in the wake of the boy’s disappearance.

His padawan however, had been inconsolable.

And as days turned into weeks, with nary a word of where Obi-Wan had gone or if he was even still alive, that well of devastation grew deeper and deeper. Hollowing out the once cheerful boy, and leaving a solemn facsimile of his apprentice it its place. Tholme had only seen Quinlan like this once before, and nothing the jedi master tried had managed to get through the walls his young padawan had built around his heart. Nothing but a small, red-headed youngling with a dimpled smile and kind eyes.

Where are you Obi-Wan? Tholme thought, eyes keeping track of his padawan’s sluggish movement as they traversed the crowds. Who will be able to get through to him, now that you’re gone?

“Want to look at the weapons stall?” Tholme asked, nodding at a mirilian as the other being uttered sincere apologies at bumping into them. Quinlan didn’t respond, eyes downcast and hair hanging limply about his shoulders. He’d have to try and force the kid into a sonic at some point. “How about some food?” Tholme tried instead. “I think there was a stall selling some roast shatual a little ways back.”

That had Quinlan flinching back, as though struck and Tholme quietly cursed his own thoughtlessness. Obi-Wan had been obsessed with all things mandalorian for as long as they’d known him. It was only reasonable that any mention of the warrior culture would have his padawan thinking of his missing friend. “Quin, I—“

Whatever he was going to say was cut-off as his padawan seemed to perk up, head moving side to side like a venedlian sandmole emerging from its den. Eyes darting anxiously, desperately about the crowd. As though looking for something.

“Quinlan—“

But the boy had already darted off, slipping through the crowd with a nimbleness that had Tholme cursing even as he followed in pursuit. Something had peaked the boy’s interest and the sooner Tholme could grab his errant padawan, the sooner he could figure out what that was.

He’d only lost sight of him for a minute, waylaid by an overly ambitious merchant who’d tried selling him a plastoid cooking set, and had it not been for his familiarity with the boy’s Force signature, he’d have missed him entirely. Standing in front of a stall selling an assortment of materials and other sewing novelties, Quinlan clutched a bolt of fabric with a level of desperation Tholme hadn’t seen in weeks.

“Quinlan,” Tholme panted out, “what did you think you were doing running off like that?” As a shadow, he knew he shouldn’t have been as breathless as he was. But seeing his padawan run off, so closely after his best friend’s disappearance, had shaken the jedi master in a way he’d never felt before. Scared him, Tholme realized.

What if Quinlan had disappeared?

Swallowing, the jedi master started to plan out his lecture on what was appropriate behavior outside of the Temple District, when he took in Quinlan’s expression.

Despite the tears in his eyes, the kid was smiling. “He was here master,” Quinlan whispered. “Obi-Wan.” He breathed out the other boy’s name like a benediction. Like a prayer, and Tholme felt something in his chest squeeze painfully at the hope in his padawan’s voice. “He was here.”

Tan fingers stroked the bolt of red fabric with a kind of reverence the boy rarely displayed to anything, and Tholme knew that it would be coming home with them. It wasn’t even an question.

Agreeing to the price the stall holder mentioned without a thought, Tholme happily dished out the required credits. Adding on a hefty tip for the expression the fabric had garnered on his padawan’s face.

Tholme would do anything to keep that expression of hope on his boy’s face, after weeks of gloomy silence. Would do anything to keep that spark alive. And as the master guided his padawan back to their speeder, Quinlan’s fingers pale at how desperately he clutched at their first tangible clue towards Obi-Wan, Tholme quietly resolved to do everything in his power to find their lost initiate. To bring Obi-Wan Kenobi home.

“Tell us again Padawan Vos,” Master Windu requested. “Slowly this time.”

The master-padawan pair had called for an emergency meeting of the High Council upon their return from the lower levels. Quinlan’s fingers still wrapped tightly about the red bolt of fabric that had offered him the first clue towards where Obi-Wan had disappeared too.

“I felt him,” Quinlan started. His eyes closed as he remembered the warmth that trickled down the bond he shared with Obi-Wan for the first time in weeks. It felt like sunlight on his skin, like a tummy full of duran rolls, like a dimpled smile and kind blue eyes. “The bond…it was thrumming. Like it does when we’re close by.” Eyes still closed, Quin recalled how his heart had faltered at the ghostly touch, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him, like it often had since Obi-Wan disappeared.

But unlike the previous times he’d thought he’d felt something, the bond twanged. As though calling out to him. As though he was being pulled somewhere, and Quinlan was left with no other choice than to follow.

“And then what happened?” Master Windu asked, voice encouraging. Quinlan knew the taciturn master had a soft-spot for Obes and he couldn’t help but grin as he recounted the chase through the marketplace. The desperate hope that echoed through his bones and filled his chest at the thought of seeing Obi-Wan. Of finally getting to hug the kriffing moron who had disappeared without a word, not even bothering to leave behind a note so that Quinlan would be able to find him.

So that he would always be able to find him.

“He’d been there,” Quinlan stuttered. Fingers once again tracing the fabric. A warm red, shot through with hints of copper-gold. “At the stall. I could feel him.”

“While we can appreciate your certainty,” Master Mundi began, a frown across his wrinkly face. “We need something a little more concrete than a mere feeling.”

Beside him, Master Tholme loomed threateningly and the constipated looking jedi retreated. Quin spared a thought of gratitude towards his master. He knew he’d been…difficult…for the last few weeks. Had been listless and depressed. Rootless, with the loss of Obi-Wan Kenobi in his life.

But his master had been there. A warm and steady presence at his side. Coaxing him into the sonic when needed. Plying him with all his favorite foods to try and get him to eat.

Now he was supporting him once again, and Quinlan knew he’d have to let his master know how thankful he was. How much he appreciated the older man’s help.

“I knew he’d been there,” Quinlan continued. “So I tried to touch anything he might have stumbled upon. Tried to see if I’d catch of vision of Obi-Wan, so I could know for sure.” He nodded towards the bolt of fabric he refused to be parted with, dreads brushing across its surface. “I saw him the moment my hands touched it.”

“And what did you see?” Master Yaddle asked.

Licking dry lips, Quinlan focused on the images that had shot through his mind once his fingertips brushed against the fabric. “It was Obi-Wan.” He murmured. “He was there.”

“Was he with anyone?” Master Windu asked. “Was he hurt?”

Quinlan breathed. “There was a lasat with him. Big. Fur grey with age.” Another breath. “His hair had grown out, it was curly.”

A hand squeezed his shoulder, bond with Master Tholme echoing with calm reassurance. “What else did you see padawan?” His master encouraged.

“He felt…” Trailing off, Quin tried his best to try and determine what that emotion was. Anxious. Hesitant. Joyful. “…excited.” He finally settled on. “Obi-Wan felt excited.”

“Do you know what he was excited about?” Master Plo asked, his voice soothing through the vocoder.

But Quinlan shook his head, vision fading as Obi-Wan turned away. “No.” He finally breathed out. “That’s all I managed to get.”

“Take the word of an inexperienced padawan, we are?” Master Yoda finally asked. He’d been suspiciously silent since the meeting had been called to order. Expression brittle. “Wiser more experienced masters, failed they have.”

The rebuke had Quinlan swallowing tightly, hands shaking where they gripped the fabric. Obi-Wan was there. He knew it.

Master Tholme growled. “Quinlan has a level of psychometry unusual even for the Vos clan.” His master replied, voice even. “If you doubt his reliability, I ask you submit his vision before the Council of Shadows. They will substantiate his claims.” Silence echoed across the council chamber, and even Quin was surprised at the level of surety in his master’s voice. At his confidence in Quinlan’s abilities.

“Thank you Master Tholme, but that won’t be necessary.” Master Yaddle’s voice broke the pregnant pause that had settled across the assembly. Quinlan caught the sly wink the diminutive jedi master shot him before she regarded her colleagues. “Taking Padawan Vos’ evidence, we should direct our search towards the lower levels.” Her eyes met Master Tholme’s. “Were you able to collect any further information from the stallholder?”

Behind him, Master Tholme made a sound of acknowledgement. “She verified that there was a lasat and baseline human of Obi-Wan’s description earlier on in the day.” He squeezed Quinlan’s shoulder once again. “They paid for a selection of fabrics and other materials in credits, before leaving. She wasn’t able to confirm if the boy was Obi-Wan even after I showed her a holo, but she did say the lasat looked familiar. It might benefit us to interview the other merchants to see if we can get a lead on their identity.”

As the council discussed their next steps, Quin closed his eyes. Fingers once again tracing the grain of the fabric. Memories of a dimpled smile, of laughing blue eyes, flashed behind his eyelids. I’ll find you Obes. He promised, the Force resonating at the sincerity of his words. No matter what, I’ll find you.

Ben grinned at the haul he and Mama Ovad had brought back from their trip to the lower level market.

After talking it over with the rest of the troupe, and working on the theme of a new act with Kitt, Ben had been given a pouch of credits and an overprotective lasat stage manager to escort him on his mission. There had been dozens of fabrics and materials, ribbons and buttons, and cording that made Ben’s heart skip a beat as he pictured all of the different costumes he could create.

At one stall, a bolt of burnt red caught his eye. There were flakes of gold shot through the fabric, material cool against his fingertips and unbidden, Ben thought of Quinlan.

It would look pretty against the other boy’s dark skin, flakes complementing the golden qukuuf tattooed across his nose. He had often thought about his friends back at the Temple. Wondering if they missed him. If Bant had been taken on as a healer, like she’d dreamed of? If Garen had passed their last history exam, without Obi-Wan there to help him study.

If Bruck was still angry and scared, terrified of aging out and projecting it towards the others.

If his best friend was alright?

Mama Ovad had noticed the way he hesitated over the fabric, had probably smelled the salt of his tears even though Ben had done his best to breath through the sudden pain the memory of Quinlan’s laughter had brought. Hesitantly, he pulled on the thread that bound them together. Wondering if Quin would still be able to feel it? If they were still connected, despite the different paths they were on…

After a moment, Ben had placed the fabric back. It wouldn’t match the theme Kitt and he had agreed upon, and they were on a tight budget. The entire Corusca had pooled together their credits to help Ben outfit their new act, and he would do his best to make sure their confidence in him wasn’t misplaced.

His companion said nothing, though on the way back she’d picked him up like youngling. Allowing him to curl into her warmth, to hide the way his heart broke all over again as he was reminded of everything he had lost. Reminded once again that while his last few months at the Temple had been fraught with pain and heartache, it had once been home. Been a place where he had felt loved, where he had once thought he’d belonged. Mama Ovad simply allowed him to cry, hands steady as she balanced a tiny thirteen year old and their purchases. Her presence soothing and stalwart in the Force.

Blinking, Ben did his best to release the sudden melancholy through the Force. Breath measured and purposeful like Nac had taught him during their morning yuj practice. It was okay to be sad, he reminded himself. The aerialist’s words coming back to him. It’s okay to mourn my past. To mourn a future I thought was mine. Breathing in deeply, he held it for a count of four, before slowly letting it go. But I have a new home now. A new family.

He thought of Larep’s proud smile as he manned the lamp house on his own for the first time. Oonreg’s warm hugs. Juy and Jie’s mischievous personalities that hid their kind hearts. Kitt’s unyielding faith. Drelle’s easy acceptance. Nac’s gentle concern and Sithra’s jubilant laugh.

He thought of the clowns, Gax showing him how to tumble while Fazzad attempted to teach him the fine art of unicycle riding. Of Noda, who was always quick to defend him. Of the rest of the twin’s troupe of acrobats, who always welcomed him with a smile. He thought of Stogothy who had corrected his sun salutation during yuj, and of Mama Ovad who always made sure he had breakfast before getting to work. Of Ti, and Sneedt, and Rik who eagerly showed him all the different aspects of what it meant to be part of the running crew.

He had found something more important than the Jedi. Had found a place, a home, a community who had accepted him without reservation. Without hesitation.

Ben felt the threads that connected him to the Corusca thrum, his heart beating in tune with the myriad of beings who had become his. Exhaling one last time, he grabbed the roto-cutter they’d purchased earlier in the day. It was time to get to work.

“Sure you are, of this plan?” A familiar voice asked, stopping Mace in his tracks as he was about to leave. Depa’s presence beside him remained steady. Calm.

Mace closed his eyes.

Emotion, yet peace.

He turned around.

Master Yoda regarded him with a thoughtful look, hands clasped about his gimmer stick tranquilly. “Confident are you, if found, Kenobi will come home?”

As the weeks turned to months, Mace’s anger had threatened to carve him in two. Meditation didn’t yield the sort of serenity he needed to remain balanced. Speaking with his mindhealer, he realized it was because Obi-Wan’s disappearance shook more than his dreams of the future. It had shaken Mace’s belief in Yoda. In the Order.

It had made Mace look, really look at the initiates who were close to aging out. To lower his shields, and feel the anxiety, desperation and hopelessness that plagued them. To witness Initiate Chun’s very public breakdown three weeks into Obi-Wan’s disappearance.

To watch the usually self-assured boy scream inconsolably. Convinced Obi-Wan had disappeared because of him. As Vokara sedated the boy, Bruck confessed to how he’d bullied Obi-Wan and the rest of his creche clan. How he picked fights, timed just right so their crechemaster would only ever see the injured party retaliate. How he goaded, teased, and hurt so that no-one would see how scared he was. Terrified that he’d fail.

Docent Vant had taken one wide-eyed look as a child in her care broke-down, and promptly fled.

The Temple mindhealers had been slowly working their way through the creche. Speaking with the initiates who were close to aging out and addressing their anxieties. Providing the care and support their children should have been getting all along.

Master Yoda had always believed in testing their young. In allowing them to fail, a lesson every jedi had to learn. But at what cost?

Mace looked at this man who had guided the order for the better part of eight-hundred years and wondered if it had ever been to their benefit. More of their young aged out or were reassigned, fewer knights and masters able to take on a padawan. The Temple was still filled with light, but even Mace had noted how empty it was becoming. How small their creche grew with every passing year.

Was the order dying? Their way of life?

Something had to change.

“I think that when we find Obi-Wan,” Yoda raised an eyebrow in consternation. “He knows the choice is there.” Mace watched as the words resonated, watched as Yoda’s frown grew, and turned away.

Ben was just putting in the final few pins for Fazzad’s new motley, mindful of the selonian’s tawny fur, when an unexpected voice had him glancing up.

“Hey Benny, when you have a chance do you think I might borrow that leo?” Nac asked, gaze directed towards his pad as he walked in. “I want to see how it reacts to the silks so I can tell you if it needs adjus—“, amber eyes widened as he finally took in the sight of Ben and Fazzad.

Ben mumbled a greeting, words obscured with the collection of pins between his lips while the selonian chittered happily. Offering the aerialist a little wave.

Nac’s ears turned red. “H-hi, um Fazzad.” Even to Ben’s ears, the aerialist’s voice sounded odd. “I uh, didn’t know you’d um, be here.” He trailed off, eyes looking at anything other than the pair in front of him.

Fazzad laughed. “Here for my final fitting.” With his arms out, scrawny chest puffed up, the clown grinned. “What d’ya think? Ben’s amazing, right?”

If anything, the question caused the normally pink man to turn even more red. “Um, yes.” Nac cleared his throat. “Yes he is. You uh, you look g-good. I mean great, uh, but then again you always—“ He trailed off once again, Fazzad and Ben staring at him in confusion and Nac laughed nervously. “Um, right, I uh…I’ve got…silks…I mean practice…uh…” and before either of them could get a word in, he was gone.

Ben looked at Fazzad.

Fazzad looked at Ben.

Shrugging, he placed the last pin. “How’s that feel?”

Moving around, first left to right and then up and down, Fazzad gave an experimental twist. “Good!”

Ben wrote down the final adjustments he’d have to make, quietly hoping Nac was okay.

“Alright, so Stogothy will sneak past the rest of the acrobats” Kitt moved as he spoke. Hands illustrating his vision. “Once he’s done that, we’ll send in the clowns.”

The central rings turned a bright yellow, Oonreg’s troupe cheering! “As the clowns chase him around the ring, Sithra—“ the strong woman grinned even as she tied off the end of her brother’s braid. “—will then lift Stogothy and launch him into the air. Then the twins—“

Kitt glanced around. “Where are my twins?” He turned. “Where are you troublemakers!?”

A pair of giggles echoed from the wings, and Kitt glanced up. “Juy! Jie! Are you up there?”

Larep must have taken pity on him, since he shone a spot right where the twins performed their trapeze act and there, hanging on the bar, were his troublesome younger siblings. “Were you even paying attention?” Kitt groaned. He gratefully accepted the cup of caf Ben provided him, quietly declaring him his new favorite sibling.

“Of course we were!” Jie said.

“How could you doubt us?” Juy asked.

They tilted their heads, and Kitt silently wished he was an only child for the umpteenth time since his parents had plagued him with the demons he had the misfortune of calling family.

“Sitty does her thing,” Juy started. Sithra raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at the nickname.

“Stogs goes up,” Jie continued, ignoring her fellow acrobat’s huff of indignation.

“And then wham!” They finished together. “We catch him!”

Kitt offered them a baleful glare, before he continued to run through the act.

“Master!” Quin whined, pout firmly in place as his master pulled him back inside.

Master Windu had returned, and he needed to know if they’d found Obes!

“Patience padawan,” his master soothed. “Patience.”

With another groan, Quin allowed himself to be dragged deeper into their apartment. Patience sucks.

Mace passed out the pile of tickets he’d picked up earlier in the day.

“Tickets to the,” Ki Adi peered closer, “Corusca Circus?” The cerean master frowned, expression thoughtful. “Why do I know that name…” he wondered.

Yarael laughed. “Don’t you remember?” He asked. His head kept rolling back and forth, the quermian version of a smile.

Yaddle tilted her head. “It’s the oldest circus on Coruscant.” She provided helpfully. “Lina had them perform at that fair on Valo.”

Mace looked at her. “Lina?” He asked aloud, mind racing. “You mean Lina Soh? Chancellor of the Republic? Soh’s Great Works? That Lina?”

Yaddle hummed. “I think she even helped them buy the building they’re currently housed in with that endowment.”

Mace…didn’t know what to do with that.

“Tickets for circus performance, provided to us why?” Yoda asked, only to frown when one wasn’t passed to him. “Forgot me, you have.”

Mace raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe I have, master.” He said.

Before the old goblin could ask what he meant, Mace was already leaving. He needed to make sure Vos got one before the padawan hunted him down like the feral creature he was.

Finding their seats, Tholme did his best to settle the anxious padawan beside him. “It’s alright Quin.” He soothed, hands carefully running through his raven locks. “Master Windu has already spoken with the owner. After the show, we’ll get to meet the rest of the troupe.”

Quinlan bit his lip, fingers running thoughtfully over his qukuuf. Tholme waited.

“What if,” his padawan began, voice small. “What if Obes doesn’t want to come back?” He finally asked.

To me. Tholme heard the unspoken words, and the jedi master’s heart broke.

“You support him,” Tholme replied, just as softly. You love him, his mind whispered back.

Because loving someone meant you supported their decisions. Even when they hurt you. It meant allowing a person to grow into themself. Even knowing that sometimes, that meant growing up without you.

Because once you love someone, they remained a part of you.

As the lights flashed, prompting the few stragglers still standing to find their seats, Tholme sent a thrum of reassurance down their bond. Whatever happened, they would support Obi-Wan.

No matter what.

Ben adjusts the sleeve of his black sweatshirt nervously, reading glasses swinging from where they hung at the bottom of their bedazzled loop. It had been a gift from the twins a week into production, Juy commenting they’d noticed him squinting.

What if the audience didn’t like the costumes?

What if it was obvious they were made by a kid?

The Corusca were counting on him and—

A warm hand gripped his shoulder. Ben blinked, Kitt’s face coming into focus.

“You okay?” The ringleader asked. He was wearing his new costume. A tailored red jacket in a style Ben had seen used in the Corellian military, though the sequins were a personal touch. “Nervous?”

Ben swallowed. As an initiate, he’d been taught to release his emotions to the Force.

As a member of this troupe, Ben had been taught it was okay to feel. It was okay to acknowledge his feelings. It was okay to ask for help. He swallowed again. “I’m…” Taking a shaky breath, his eyes met burnished gold. “I’m scared.” He admitted.

Kitt hummed, expression thoughtful and Ben could only watch as the man who had provided him with a new home, a new family, a new purpose thought over his answer. He allowed himself to be uncertain, allowed himself to be vulnerable in a way the masters at the Temple rarely did. The initiate that was Obi-Wan Kenobi never felt further away from being a Jedi than he had in that moment.

“You know,” the pantoran began, “my parents said something to me on the night of my debut.” He waited until Ben caught his eye. “When you’re scared, the best thing you can do is face your fear.”

“D-did it help?” Ben asked. “Did it help your debut?”

Kitt snorted. “I crashed my unicycle into the front row.” He ruminated. Ben couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Kitt’s smile grew. “But I still got out there, and you know what?”

“Hmm?”

“I continued going out every night, and I practiced everyday.” He continued. “And eventually, I learned I was terrible at the unicycle but my baton twirling was excellent.”

Kitt gave him another glance, considering, before pulling him into a gentle hug. Grasp loose enough that if he wanted, Ben could get out of it. Ben allowed himself to be held by the person who’d treated him like a little brother. Allowed himself to accept the comfort freely given. “It’s okay if you’re scared,” Kitt murmured. “It’s okay if you try, and fail anyway.”

Ben’s breath hitched, chest shaking. But the other man continued.

“We’ll still love you Ben,” Kitt said. “You’re part of our troupe. You’re Corusca.”

Eyes filling with tears, Ben sniffled wetly.

“Understand?”

He nodded as best he could with his face buried in a swath of fabric. “I understand,” Ben whispered.

The house lights flashed on and off, and Ben reluctantly allowed Kitt to end the embrace.

“It’s showtime.” Kitt smiled.

And as Ben watched his newfound family take the stage, watched as Nac smiled reassuringly. As Sithra winked. As the twins patted his back and the acrobats gave one final cheer. As Oonreg ran a hand through his curls, clowns repeating the gesture, Ben knew that no matter what happened…

Everything would be okay.

A single spotlight shone upon a lone figure.

As they looked up, hat glistening with an oily sheen, the figure—a pantoran—smiled.

“Welcome gentle beings, to the Corusca Circus!” A sound of applause broke throughout the theater. “I, Kitt Pavi, your humble ringleader have scoured the galaxy far and wide, and found for you a most special entertainment.”

Ben was tackled into a hug by an enthusiastic besalisk, when one of the ushers rushed backstage. Running up to Kitt, the pantoran leaned in, listening carefully to the whispered conversation, while a frown broke across his face.

Clearing his throat, Kitt regarded the troupe. “It seems that we have some special visitors who’d like to congratulate us on tonight’s performance,” Kitt explained. Everyone cheered, Ben included.

Tonight had been perfect. The audience had delighted at the daring feats of Juy and Jie as they passed Stogothy between them. Their fellow acrobats tumbling in pursuit. Had been mesmerized by Sithra’s astounding strength, and awestruck at Nac’s preternatural grace.

They laughed at the antics of Oonreg and her clowns, been amazed as Drelle launched baton after baton through the air, catching and relaunching again and again. And through it all, Ben had gotten to watch his family come to life.

“Who are the visitors?” Noda asked, already smoothing down their tendrils.

Just as Kitt was about to answer, a flurry of activity near the stage door drew Ben’s attention. A familiar Force signature behind it.

He could feel his breath catch, and mindlessly heard Drelle ask if was okay.

But his attention wasn’t on the besalisk. Instead, his eyes were locked with a familiar shade of brown.

“Obi-Wan!” Quinlan cried.

Quinlan would like to say that he was cool and suave when his eyes stumbled upon Obes.

Unfortunately, he was anything but.

Eyes wet, the kiffar threw himself forward, intent on crushing that skinny twerp into his chest and never let him go. Tholme would just have to content himself with two padawans, because Quin refused to allow himself to be parted from the other boy. Never again.

“Obi-Wan!” He cried, drawing closer to the startled boy.

Right before he reached him, Quinlan was caught by a snarling besalisk. “What do you think you’re doing?” They asked, voice pitched dangerously low.

Around them, the rest of the troupe had gathered protectively around Obi-Wan’s frozen figure. His blue eyes locked with Quinlan’s.

The pantoran who had introduced himself as the ringleader stepped forward. “What is the meaning of this? What do you want with Ben?”

Before Quin could answer, Master Windu smoothly cut it. “Apologies ser, for our overeager padawan.” His eyes met the besalisk’s, until Quin was finally placed down.

He huffed, eyes still locked onto the silent form of his best friend, until Master Tholme carefully pulled him back.

Master Windu cleared his throat. “Several months ago, one of our initiates went missing,” Master Windu began. Dark eyes locked onto the tiny figure hidden behind a growling selonian and an irritable lasat. “We searched everywhere, but found no trace of him. Not until Padawan Vos,” a quick gesture in Quin’s direction, “stumbled upon an object the initiate had come into contact with.”

“What does that mean?” A pantoran teen whispered to the one beside her.

“Quin’s psychometric.” A frail voice replied.

Obi-Wan looked as though he’d seen a ghost, blue eyes filled with tears as he looked back at Quinlan.

Miss you. Quin sent through the bond. Miss you, please, miss you. Obes. Obes. Obes.

“Ben?” The ringleader asked gently.

Obi-Wan broke.

The Corusca listened as Ben revealed his past.

Revealed how he’d aged out of the Jedi Temple, how he’d been rejected by every master, had lost his last chance at becoming a knight. And how he’d been scared.

Scared at what his future would be. Afraid of what it meant, that no matter how hard he tried, his dreams would never come to pass.

They listened as the boy revealed his tear stained flight through Coruscant, how he’d trusted himself to the Force, only to come upon a flier. One that mentioned a job, that offered room and board.

He spoke about how scared he’d been, when Kitt had asked for his name. How worried, when he thought they might turn him away.

And then they listened as the boy who had become part of their family spoke about the acceptance he had found here, amongst the broken remnants of a rundown circus. How he had found something more important than the Jedi code, something worth fighting for. Worth dying for.

About how the boy who had once been Obi-Wan Kenobi, had found himself.

And as the boy cried in the arms of a kiffar youngling, the ghost of Obi-Wan Kenobi dissipated.

All that was left, was Ben.

“Perhaps we should take this somewhere else,” Ser Pavi suggested, expression guarded.

Mace felt as though he could breathe for the first time in months as his eyes drank in the sight of their lost initiate. “Perhaps we should,” he assented.

There were many discussions held that night, in addition to many hugs and tears.

But as Mace turned to leave, he looked upon the boy who could have been his padawan. “You have a home at the Temple little one,” he breathed. “No matter what.”

The padawan of his heart smiled.

“C’mon master, hurry up!” Quinlan groused, much to Tholme’s amusement.

His padawan had a bouquet of Ithorian roses grasped gently in one hand, the other wrapped securely in Tholme’s robes as the boy attempted to drag him along.

“You know,” Tholme started, amusement filtering through their bond, “flowers are typically given after the performance.”

Quinlan blushed, refusing to acknowledge him and all the jedi master could do was laugh.

“Hey Ben-ny!” Juy sing-songed, causing the boy to look up from where he was fixing the ruffles on Oonreg’s tutu.

“You’ve got a vis-it-tor!” Jie chimed.

Giggling at the twins’ antics, Ben gave the tutu one final stitch before Oorneg sent him on his way.

And as he accepted the arrangement of vivid blue flowers, golden qukuuf pressed against his brow, Ben allowed himself to think about the night where a scared jedi initiate decided to run away and reclaim his own future.

We did it. He whispered.

We did it.