Chapter Text
“Stars, hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires.”
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The child was small and dirty, huddled around himself, and standing in such stark contrast to the jewels, riches, and gold that surrounded him.
He was like a rip in an elaborate painting or an unpolished corner in a brilliant stain glass, such a harsh picture amongst such frivolous beauty. His hair was matted and clothes torn and much too large for such a thin frame.
The child shuffled backwards, head bent forward and hiding his face from Qui-Gon, who could only look on in curiosity. Of all the things, he had expected to discover in Aleen, a small, battered boy tucked away in the Kingdom’s grand Treasury was not one.
His first assumption was the child had somehow slithered through the royal guard’s defenses, but that was quickly expelled. Aleen was located in the Mid Rim’s Bright Jewel Sector and known for its mining of fine and precious gems, the planet’s primary export, and the Treasury was constantly under heavy security as a result. The King was lavish and imprudent, a man who loved to flaunt his wealth and riches, but also loved to keep it all to himself, much to the detriment of his own people.
Qui-Gon, a Jedi Master, had been able to maneuver past the rather impressive defenses. He doubted a child—this child—was capable of the same.
The manacle and chain secured to the child’s ankle answered his question to the nature of the child’s presence.
A prisoner...in a gilded cage.
He had been sent to investigate rumours about the Aleena ruler’s alleged dabbling into illegal slave practices to help facilitate his jewel Empire. The long chain was magnificent itself, a sterling and polished silver.
Everything in the Treasury reflected such opulence and was kept in such order. Qui-Gon could see no reason for keeping a slave—a prisoner, a pet?—amidst such treasure.
The child took another step back, stumbling as his small feet slid across a few discarded copper coins. He tumbled without a sound, no yelp, no cry. The boy stayed there, curled in on himself.
Qui-Gon dared to move forward after a silent moment. “Hello there,” he said gently, hoping not to startle the boy further. His Force signature reeked of terror, and what a strong Force signature it was.
There was no doubt that this child before him was Force sensitive, and that certainly complicated the situation.
There was no response and no movement, only the persistent and prevailing feeling of fear. Qui-Gon attempted to make himself small, dropping to one knee before the child.
Up close, he could see how clearly the boy was battered. His skin was purpling and mottled with bruises, infected cuts littered his arms, and the soles of his feet were caked in dried blood. The tremble in the boy’s body was indicative of his fright, and Qui-Gon did his best to project calmness through the Force.
He listened to the sounds of the boy’s breathing for a long time, noting how the almost strangled gasps for air turned into hitched hiccups before finally settling into a slow—albeit unsteady—cadence.
Qui-Gon tried again. “Hello,” he greeted kindly. “I must admit I’m technically not authorized to be here, but I suppose you shouldn’t be here either.” The Jedi gestured to the chain. “How long have you been kept down here?”
No answer.
It didn’t deter him. Qui-Gon didn’t expect one.
He unlatched a packet of bacta gel from his belt and held out an open palm towards the boy. “You’ve got quite a few nasty cuts there. I can help,” he offered. He was once again not surprised when there was no movement, but he persisted. “They still need to be cleaned of course, but this should help for the meantime.”
After another long moment, “I won’t hurt you.”
The boy looked up, and Qui-Gon hoped he did his best to keep his expression as neutral as possible.
The child’s eyes were a startling crystalline green and blue mix, almost unsettling, almost inhuman. They shined brighter than all the glittering jewels combined.
Qui-Gon smiled, and the child must have understood the sincerity of his promise, placing his small arm in the Jedi’s open palm. The child’s gaze was unnerving, so Qui-Gon directed all his attention in applying the cool gel to the still open cuts. He took his time and was almost reverent with his actions, ensuring that he handled this fragile and sacred moment with the utmost gentleness.
When he took the boy’s other arm in hand, he offered his name. “I’m Qui-Gon,” he said politely. “What do you call yourself?”
He fleetingly wondered if the child even had a name or if he knew it for that matter. Qui-Gon supposed he was five or six standard years old, no more. He didn’t want to speculate how long the child had been held in captivity, but there was a horrifying possibility that this vermeil prison was all he had known.
He almost didn’t hear the answer for the name was spoken so quietly.
“Obi...Wan.” The words were stilted and rough for such a soft voice, and the pronunciation so strange and foreign, even for Qui-Gon who had been to distant, uncharted corners of the Galaxy and traversed through nearly forgotten star systems. He didn’t know if the boy's manner of speaking had more to do with his origin or by the chance that he often didn’t use his voice or hear others speak—or perhaps both.
Qui-Gon smiled again, daring to look again at those enchanting crystalline eyes. “Obi-Wan,” he repeated. “That sure is a unique name. Are you from Aleen?”
The boy shook his head. “Stewjon.”
Oh, Qui-Gon had heard of Stewjon before, in the context of myth and legend more specifically. He recalled tales of soaring cliffs and mountains that reached so high they scraped the sky. He had been told about high up lakes that reflected the night so vividly, you could practically swim amidst the stars. He had been told about a race of humans, so recluse and so ascetic, they were a dying breed. Dozens of fairy tales he had been fed about Stewjon that he was sure that the child before him must have been lying or had heard the stories himself and created a false, distant, and much more comforting reality for himself.
Qui-Gon hummed as he finished applying the bacta. Obi-Wan’s legs were still horrendously cut up; he would have to get more from his ship.
Then from the corner of his eyes, a bright glint appeared, stilling him in his thoughts. He turned, rising once more to his full height.
He could feel Obi-Wan’s curious gaze on him as he approached a half-opened chest not too far away. He could feel the strong thrum of the Force, and what he had assumed to be merely the presence of another Force-sensitive was something more. He flipped open the bejeweled lid of the chest and cursed.
Kyber crystals.
And dozens of them, all different shades and hues of greens, blues, and even purple.
He had never seen so many together except for when he was a youngling himself, sent to the ice planet of Ilum during the annual Gathering, a rite of passage within the Jedi Order, where they were sent off to find a crystal that sang to them and would eventually be used in the construction of their first lightsaber.
The caves of Ilum were as clear as ever in his memory. The darkness of the rock was decorated with a smattering of the crystals, an almost exact picture of a clear night sky. The Force had swirled around them like a storm, volatile and powerful.
Kyber crystals were clear before they became Force-attuned with a Force sensitive, but the ones collected here, within Aleen’s Treasury, were brilliantly colored, meaning that there was a Force sensitive collecting kyber crystals for the Kingdom...or they were stolen from Jedi.
Qui-Gon had an inkling that it was the latter.
He knelt down and plucked a kyber that was a color so shockingly akin to Obi-Wan’s eyes and shuddered.
Pain, sadness, loneliness.
He immediately dropped the crystal, mind reeling and heart hammering.
Kyber crystals often adopted the feelings and sentiments of the Force sensitive that had harvested said crystal, and these ones—all of them—spoke off such unbelieve despair and fear.
Qui-Gon needed to report this to the Council and immediately.
Kyber crystals were not just pretty to look at. They could be manufactured for limitless capabilities. The Jedi used them to power their lightsabers, but the potential of the crystals had yet to be explored for the Order was obsessively conscious of all the kyber crystal deposits across the Galaxy, even beyond Ilum. They were to be used sparingly and for specific purposes.
And the Aleen King had quite a few in his possession.
When Qui-Gon turned back around, Obi-Wan was back on his feet, a strange expression in his gaze.
“A-Are y-you...leaving?”
It took the Jedi a second to completely process the boy’s words and when he did, his heart plummeted.
Obi-Wan’s home was not here, not under the control and whim of a prideful and gluttonous King who used this child for whatever perverse purposes.
“I am, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon confirmed. With delicate fingers, he pocketed one of the kybers as evidence for the Council before unclipping his lightsaber from his side and igniting it.
Obi-Wan’s eyes swelled at the sight, and the green glow of the weapon illuminated the orbs so hauntingly, so beautifully.
“Would you like to come with me?”
There was no hesitation. The child nodded.
Qui-Gon slashed the chain, and Obi-Wan discovered the lightness of freedom.
As the freighter ship ascended, breaking past Aleen’s atmosphere, the holovoid of the Council shimmered to life.
“Master Jinn, successful your mission was?” Master Yoda asked.
In his peripheral, Qui-Gon watched as Obi-Wan wandered around the cockpit, hands politely at his sides but eyes wide in wonder.
Qui-Gon hummed, carefully considering his words. “To a degree, Master Yoda,” he said tentatively.
Master Yoda stroked his cane, green ears perking in interest.
“Explain will you?”
“I believe I have ample evidence of the Aleen Kingdom utilizing slave labor in violation of the Galactic Republic’s mandates. The Senate should now have the means to pursue justice accordingly. However, I have made two additional discoveries.”
Obi-Wan ambled out of the cockpit, no doubt on his way to explore more of the ship. Qui-Gon hoped he wouldn’t hurt himself.
“Kyber crystals,” Qui-Gon continued. “There was quite a collection of them, already attuned to a Force sensitive. I cannot make any conclusions if the kybers were being used for malicious purposes or in the construction of any weapons. If I had to guess...the Aleen King simply likes pretty and rare things. There is a possibility he did not know of the true nature of the crystals and was simply hoarding them.”
“A possibility the Order cannot entertain. Immediate intervention required is, not only by the Senate but also by the Jedi.”
The rest of the Council voiced their agreement.
“Another discovery there is, one that deeply troubles you.”
Qui-Gon sighed. He reached out into the Force, feeling for Obi-Wan’s signature. While the child’s Force signature certainly wasn’t the strongest he had come into contact with, it was most definitely the brightest, despite the fact that it was still clouded with an undercurrent of sadness and pain.
“A boy, a young Force sensitive boy kept in captivity by the King in the planet’s Treasury. He’s injured, malnourished, and—”
“Excuse me, Master Jinn. Did you say he was kept in the Treasury? I cannot fathom a reason for that,” another council member exclaimed.
“I cannot pinpoint a reason as well, and I am cautious to ask the child—Obi-Wan he said his name was—for an explanation. I’m more concerned about the child’s well being currently. He is strong in the Force, and I plan on taking a midichlorian count as soon as possible, but the abuse and neglect of this child is evident.” Another pause. “He has said that he is from Stewjon.”
The utterance of that word brought on an onslaught of fraught discussion and questions.
“That can’t be possible!” one council member shouted. “The boy must be delusional,” commented another.
Master Yoda demanded silence, and the remarks ceased. The old Jedi was pensive for a long moment.
“Trained in the Force, you believe this Obi-Wan should be?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Trained as your padawan?”
Qui-Gon pursed his lips. The departure and subsequent fall to the dark side of his former apprentice Xanatos was still a fresh wound. He had spent the past few years in virtual isolation, begging the Council for one mission after another, voluntarily taking the ones that required long deployments. He had told himself he would never take another padawan, his failure as a teacher clearly evident.
But the thought of Obi-Wan under anyone’s guidance besides his own felt unnatural, and the Jedi Master realized that it must be the Force pushing him in this direction, towards the child.
“Yes, Master,” Qui-Gon declared definitively.
Master Yoda nodded his head in assent.
“Much more to be discussed, we have. In the meantime, care for the child you must. May the Force be with you, Master Jinn.”
The transmission ended, and Qui-Gon began his search for Obi-Wan.
The boy was not too far away, merely pacing the belly of the ship. Obi-Wan paused at the sight of the Jedi, small fingers wringing together in anxiousness.
“Follow me,” Qui-Gon beckoned. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Helping Obi-Wan wash himself in the refresher revealed many things to the man. First, there was a chance that nobody had cleaned the boy for months. The level of grime was thick, and Qui-Gon would have to clean the shower afterwards. A hideous rash was working its way up the back of the poor boy’s thighs, a repercussion of sitting in one’s own waste for much too long. Obi-Wan’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, and Qui-Gon did his best to be reassuring.
Second, once the dirt had been scrubbed away—as gentle as possible, keeping in mind the still open cuts—it was like looking at a whole different child. Obi-Wan’s skin was pale, nearly translucent, and dusted with a constellation of freckles.
Third, Obi-Wan’s hair was not brown as he had first assumed. A deep cleanse of shampoo followed by some rather unfortunate snips to the completely matted parts of his hair allowed for the true color to shine through: a soft and light ginger hue.
Fourth, he was going to have to be much more gentler with the child than he had already presumed. The scars and injuries were abundant, and the soles of his feet so mutilated, that every step had to hurt. He resolved himself to carry Obi-Wan, if and when the child allowed, until his feet were recovered.
After dressing the wounds in more bacta patches and dressing Obi-Wan himself in one of Qui-Gon’s extra shirts (so large that it flowed past his feet), he could tell Obi-Wan was exhausted, swaying slightly and eyelids droopy with sleep.
He bundled the child in his arms, glad that the fear that had been so prevalent before had all but faded, only apprehension and uncertainty rolling in its wake.
A feeling akin to fondness bloomed in his chest as Obi-Wan nestled closer. Qui-Gon has always been hesitant with affection, but seeing the boy so starved for a kind touch, made the Jedi Master want to shower his future padawan in it.
As they passed through the corridor towards the lone cabin on the ship, Qui-Gon was forced to pause as Obi-Wan’s head perked up. He was attempting to get a good glance of the outside from the small view of a porthole window.
He’d almost forgotten. They had gone into hyperspace at the end of the holocall with the Council; the child must have never seen anything like it—glowing lines as they hurtled through space at amazing speeds. The novelty had quickly worn off for him, but seeing Obi-Wan’s expression had him once again thinking about how magnificent the picture outside was.
The two of them stayed like that for some minutes, simply watching, simply breathing.
When Qui-Gon heard little sniffles, he looked down in surprise to see tears welling up in Obi-Wan’s eyes.
“It’s okay, little one. You’re safe.”
But Obi-Wan wasn’t sad at the moment. He was experiencing an emotion he had almost forgotten: happiness.
Then, as if it were in slow motion, a lone tear escaped from the corner of his eye, rolling down a cheek, the light of hyperspace catching it just so that it shined like a pearl. The tear twinkled and winked as it hung for dear life on the precipice of Obi-Wan’s chin before giving up, plunging and clattering to the floor.
Qui-Gon’s eyes followed the descent, and the Jedi Master made his fifth discovery about the child.
A pink kyber crystal laid at Qui-Gon’s feet.
A kyber tear.
And if Qui-Gon didn’t believe his eyes the first time, more tears descended in a similar fashion, shining incandescently as they morphed into pink kyber crystals, singing of love and warmth.
Now, he understood Obi-Wan’s purpose in that gilded cage. The child himself was the greatest treasure, and his existence was predicated upon the ability for him to produce these illustrious crystals, no matter the cost.
He remembered a particular fairy tale, hailing from Stewjon, one about Force blessed children who were the stars incarnate.
Star children.
Obi-Wan’s training was a bit unorthodox. Padawans typically split their time equally between lessons at the Temple and lessons under the direct guidance of their Masters, but Obi-Wan’s situation called for more personal one-on-one training. Not only was Obi-Wan, who had actually been seven standard years old by the time Qui-Gon found him, behind in training, but his certain ability had to be kept under tight wraps, according to Master Yoda.
Most, like him at first, didn’t believe in many of the tales that came from Stewjon, and even if one did, star children were believed to have gone extinct, long before the Stewjoni people themselves did.
Which made Obi-Wan’s origin and presence at Aleen even more mysterious.
As a consequence of all of this, Qui-Gon learned many things about Obi-Wan and star children through the years as he trained the boy as his apprentice.
He learned how eager the boy was to please, do good, and be good.
He learned how that mentality and Obi-Wan’s own perceived failures sometimes resulted in...episodes—panic attacks, periods of not eating, and even some forms of self harm. Nothing too serious thankfully: scratching his skin and pulling at his hair mostly.
He hated the now imprisoned Aleen King a little more every time he had to coax his padawan to just eat one more bite or he was forced to pry those trembling hands from bleeding arms.
Despite these outbursts, which were usually reserved for when Obi-Wan knew he was alone or only when his Master was present, Qui-Gon learned that Obi-Wan was rather adept at concealing his emotions and retaining a calm and cool exterior.
Fellow Jedi frequently commented on how poise and professional his padawan was; he could only nod and smile.
Qui-Gon knew the façade only existed as a defense mechanism. Obi-Wan took the line, There is no emotion, there is peace, to extremes, knowing that if he allowed emotions to overcome him even for a brief second, his secret would be revealed.
There was a locked case in Qui-Gon’s quarters filled to the brim with Obi-Wan’s kyber tears, all meticulously collected and stored away from potentially too curious eyes.
Over the years, he also learned of his padawan’s ardent compassion and undying loyalty. He learned of his love for tea and meditation. His fascination with snow, his interest in plants and flowers.
In addition, through various ancient texts, Yoda’s sparse but wise quips, and sometimes simply through word of mouth, he accumulated information about the nature of star children, not only to satisfy his own curiosity but also gain a better understanding of who—what?—his padawan is.
A Force nexus was the conclusion. A phenomena in the Force where the power of the universe converged into one person, creating a wellspring of Force sensitivity, and in the case of star children, quite literally pulling star materials into them, allowing them the unique ability to cry kyber tears.
The birth—creation?—of Obi-Wan Kenobi was a one in a million, billion, trillion occurrence.
Then, Qui-Gon would be blessed to meet another child, brought into the Galaxy by another vergence in the Force.
“Anakin Skywalker, meet Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan shook the young boy’s hand, unable to stop the small smile that worked its way across his lips.
“Hi!” Anakin said cheerfully. “You’re a Jedi too? Pleased to meet you.” And then in the next second. “You have very pretty eyes.”
Obi-Wan thanked him and confirmed the fact that yes, he is a Jedi. He had gotten used to the compliment over the years, even though it still made him blush furiously on occasion. The blue-green of his eyes shone unnaturally, and many prodded him about it, asking and doubting that he was fully human.
Obi-Wan would laugh and brush them off; eventually they would let the topic rest.
The padawan followed his Master into the cockpit, leaving the boy alone to settle and stir up some conversation with Queen Amidala.
“You sure have a knack for finding slave children to train into Jedi,” Obi-Wan joked as Qui-Gon sat down to pilot them out of Tatooine and into hyperspace.
Qui-Gon didn’t laugh, only wearily glanced at the younger man. “I believe him to be like you, in more ways than one.”
“Like me?”
Qui-Gon nodded. “Anakin is a manifestation of the Force itself, brought into life by its power. You saw his midichlorian count, and now you’ve met him. Don’t tell me, you can’t feel it.”
Obi-Wan sat down in the co-pilot seat and pondered his Master’s words. Anakin’s midichlorian count was off the charts, and his Force signature overwhelming strong, but turbulent and chaotic as well.
“I feel it,” he agreed.
“I believe that he is the Chosen One.”
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at this. “How can you be so sure, Master?”
He finally laughs at this. “I was sure about you.”
Naboo became a place of Obi-Wan’s nightmares.
He watched Darth Maul’s bisected body plummet down the shaft, the red glow of his lightsaber fading and fading until out of sight.
Hate and fear swirled inside of Obi-Wan as he rushed over towards his Master, falling to his knees and cradling Qui-Gon’s head in his lap. He felt their Force bond failing, only connected by a fraying string. He desperately tried to hold on.
“Master, please,” he begged, his voice a horrible thing, pleading and begging for something he knew he couldn’t have.
Qui-Gon looked at him with all the warmth in the Galaxy, and the man somehow had the nerve to smile. A thousand words were spoken in that moment, a thousand memories shared between Master and padawan.
His Master stroked a careful thumb over his cheek, and Obi-Wan realized his eyes were welling with tears, the world around him becoming glassy.
“Obi-Wan,” he whispered, the name like a prayer on his tongue. “Promise me you’ll train the boy.”
“Yes, Master.”
“He is the Chosen One. He will bring balance...train him.”
Qui-Gon’s hand fell, and so did Obi-Wan’s tears. All the warmth in the Galaxy was snuffed out in that moment. A terrifying sob tore itself from Obi-Wan’s chest, and he felt a pain he hadn’t experienced in more than a decade.
Red kyber tears glittered upon the floor.