#melidadaan

The hospital is in ruins. It took years for them to build it and all it took was one bomb to destroy it all.

Obi-Wan runs his hand along the scorched walls. Everything was here. Bacta, bandages, medications, rations, beds, their only surgery droid. And now it’s gone. Just like everything they built, this fragile progress took years to make and hours to burn. It’s a reminder of just how precarious their position is. MelidaDaan has barely recovered. All it would take is a spark.

“It was definitely the Elders,” Mal says, breaking the silence that had fallen over the Council at the sight of the hospital.

“Do you know why?” Obi-Wan asks.

“I know you should still be in bed,” Daria says, raising an eyebrow.

He ignores her, continuing his inspection of their temporary base. Setting up camp in a bombsite might not be the most comfortable, but it’s hardly the first time.

“They want war,” Mal says, “They want us out of the way, off “their planet”, so they can go back to killing each other.”

Eris traces meaningless patterns in the ash that’s settled over their meeting table. Obi-Wan allows Daria to steer him into a chair. Nield hasn’t moved from the doorway, eyes scanning the sky for threats.

Fragile. Obi-Wan hasn’t thought of his fellow leaders, of himself, as fragile for a long time. But they are. They’ve barely healed from the war, and every bit of progress they make is snatched from them by disaster. It isn’t fair, but nothing is.

“What pushed them to act?” he muses, mostly to himself.

“The presence of the Mandalorians,” Jyfn says, “We’re getting ready to rejoin the galaxy, telling our story.”

Mal grimaces, “I hate to say it, but Jyfn is right. They would’ve done this anyway, but the Mandlorian delegation sped up their timeline. It’s lucky for us, we know they’re serious and they didn’t have enough time to plan. They couldn’t truly devastate us on such short notice.”

Daria snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. She hasn’t stopped hovering since Prince Fett carried him and Nari out of the hospital two days ago. Obi-Wan would be annoyed, but he knows it could be worse. He could have all of them hovering, fussing and being general nuisances. (He scared her, he scared them all. He was almost sure he was going to die and he would’ve done it gladly, but he’s sorry for the pain he’s caused them.)

“This wasn’t devastating enough?” Eris murmurs, “Three people died, hundreds more will. We don’t have stockpiles of bacta, replacements for machines, or anywhere to keep those who are sick and injured. And we don’t have a trade deal anymore.”

“Yes, we do,” Obi-Wan says.

At the same time Mal says, “They would have bombed the Fortress, and the school, and the food stores. We’d starve quicker than we'll die without a hospital.”

Daria kicks his chair, just enough to jolt him, “Don’t be stupid.”

“Whatever they want to keep this deal,” Obi-Wan says softly, “we must do.”

“Within reason!” Daria snaps.

“We don’t know what they want,” he places a hand on hers, “It could be nothing more than the story. If it’s my withdrawal from the Council, then we may have to do it. And if it’s my imprisonment or-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Neild says fiercely, whipping around to face them, “Don’t you dare finish that sentence Obi-Wan. We won’t just give you up. We can survive this.”

“Can we? Look around, Nield, we need supplies. Do you know they carry bacta just for bruises? What we consider lifesaving is their basic medicine. Even if Mal’s strike is successful, and the threat is dealt with, there will be other threats. And we will still be without a hospital. My freedom, my life, is nothing in comparison to what we could gain.”

“It is everything,” Daria argues, “There is a difference between casualties of tragedy, and willingly sacrificing one of our own in the hopes that strangers keep their word and give us bacta.”

She isn’t wrong, but neither is he.

Obi-Wan sighs, running a hand through his hair, “We must talk to them, at least. We can only distract them for so long.”

¬

There are lots of ways Obi-Wan can present his story. He is a politician, a warrior, and a storyteller. He can twist the truth however he wishes, and he might try if he weren’t so tired. But he is. Force, he is so tired.

He brings a cup to his mouth with a trembling hand, scalding tea leaving a quiet calm in its wake. Daria hovers behind his chair, a weapon on her hip. He was too tired to argue. The Mandalorians track his movements, helmuts tucked under their arms. It is almost uncanny that people so warm can quickly become so cold. So suspicious.

“Perhaps, you should begin by asking your questions?” Obi-Wan suggests softly, cup rattling against saucer as he sets it down.

They exchange a look.

“Are you a Jedi?” the Manda’lor asks.

Daria’s knuckles are white on the handle of her knife. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself and sends a soft pulse of comfort towards her.

“Another simple question that is more complicated than you realise,” Obi-Wan muses, wishing for Jedi robes for the first time in a long time, “I was once a Jedi Padawan, seven years ago.”

“And you didn’t think it pertinent information to share?” Ser Myles says.

“He doesn’t owe you anything,” Daria snaps.

Obi-Wan rests a hand over hers, “It wasn’t pertinent. I am not a Jedi, I never achieved Knighthood. And you seem to forget that any atrocities committed by ancient Jedi were repaid in kind. I have more reason to fear three trained traditionalist Mandalorians than you do a half-trained Jedi.”

The Manda’lor considers him, “And how did you end up a half-trained Jedi on a wartorn planet in the Middle Rim?”

“Chance, perhaps?” Obi-Wan shrugs, “Or the Force. My Master and I were sent here on a mission, to retrieve another Master. She was injured and needed immediate medical attention, but I refused to leave the Young. My Master was in love with her, and his judgement impaired. He repudiated me and told the Jedi I was lost. I imagine I’ve been presumed dead, and a funeral held.”

It is the bare bones of the truth, the story without the emotion. He is too tired to give them his grief today. Daria squeezes his hand in comfort.

“So,” Jango says, “You left the Jedi, to help fight a war? And they just let you?”

“My Master just let me,” Obi-Wan corrects, “Master Jinn was a difficult man, with a difficult past, but the Jedi raised me and loved me. The blame does not lie with the organisation as a whole. It was Master Jinn, given responsibility he shouldn’t have had by Master Yoda. don’t mistake my life as another reason to let your hatred fester.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Ser Myles says gently, as though Obi-Wan is fragile.

There is a universe, Obi-Wan is sure, where Qui-Gon Jinn was a better man. Or perhaps just one where Obi-Wan was more desperate for the future he was promised. In that universe Obi-Wan Kenobi would be just one piece of a larger puzzle. He would be a warrior, a peacekeeper, a Jedi.

In this universe, Obi-Wan is the only Force Sensitive on the planet. He is a politician, a peacekeeper, and perhaps even something of a warrior. He is many things but he hasn’t been a Jedi for a very long time.

Such things won’t matter to Mandalorians. It’s a shame really, he thinks, because he was really starting to like them.

His arms shake with phantom weight and sweat cools on his temple. The screams of children echo in his ears, threatening to drag him away into bloodsoaked memories. Despite it all, he can see the moment it clicks in their eyes.

“You’re a Jedi,” Jango says hollowly.

Not anymore, Obi-Wan thinks but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. Holding up large buildings with nothing but the Force and determination is not as easy as it looks. He’s running out of energy.

He takes a deep breath, “Call Daria, Prince Fett, she’ll be able to help you. Tevari, what’s happening?”

There’s a groan from somewhere behind him, “Evacuation protocol has started. All the babies are out, but the third floor is blocked off. And I’m… Obi I can’t feel my legs.”

He curses silently. The floor they’re on was the second until it became a pile of rubble. It was also their improvised NICU. So the rest of the floor has been cleared then, and it’s just him and Tevari here. Him, about to collapse, and Tevari, trapped.

A particularly shrill scream sounds from the floor above them and the rubble shifts with Obi-Wan’s flinch.

¬

Jango doesn’t know what to do in this situation, he just knows that people are dying and he’s staring at a comm. Minister Kenobi isn’t looking at them anymore. There’s someone else in the room with him, someone who sounds young and scared.

His buir swears, and snatches Jango’s comm from him.

“Minister Kenobi, what is the situation?”

“Bad,” Minister Kenobi wheezes, “There’s a fire spreading and the whole building is unstable. We need help. Call Daria.”

The connection cuts out, and Jango can’t be sure if it was interference or Kenobi just hung up on them.

“Buir-”

“You heard him,” Myles interrupts, “Call Minister Daria. There’s a hospital full of children that’s been bombed, and they need help. We can deal with the maybe Jedi problem later. Call Daria, Jango.”

Hands shaking, he keys in the code for Minister Daria.

¬

Daria wants to scream, to cry, to collapse on the floor and curl up in a ball. She can’t do any of those things, so she calmly directs the flood of people leaving the hospital and hopes Obi-Wan will appear among them. Daria was eleven when they ended the war. He’s been there, a guiding star and her best fucking friend, since then. She doesn’t want to see a world that doesn’t have him in it.

The Mandalorians are helped to evacuate the building, no doubt looking for Obi-Wan so they can- well she’s not sure exactly what they want with him.

After she hugs him, she’s going to kill him. How hard would it have been to include this in the brief. Hey Daria, the Mandalorians kind of really hate Jedi? Might want to watch out for that as well as the war stuff. See? Not hard! Idiot. She’s going to strangle him.

“If you have minor injuries please get checked out at the blue tent! More severe injuries will be treated in the green tents. If you are not injured make your way home and attend a check up in the morning. The situation is under control,” Herti says into their megaphone, “If you need help, Minister Daria,” Daria raises an arm, “and Minister Sergild will direct you. If you cannot find either of them, inform your evacuator of your needs.”

They’ve been making that announcement every ten minutes for the past hour.

“Minister Daria,” she jumps at the voice in her ear, “This young woman insisted she be brought to you first.”

Behind her, stands Ser Myles with Tevari in his arms.

She could try with relief, “Tevari, you’re okay! Obi-Wan-”

Tevari grasps her arms desperately, “He went further in, to try and keep it stable longer. He told me to find you. Obi says that he can keep going for at least an hour but-”

“He lies,” Daria says, “He always lies.”

The Mandalorian tilts his helmet in confusion.

“He can do it,” Tevari clarifies, “But it might kill him. It would definitely leave him in a coma. He’s injured, Daria, and it’s almost too much. He hasn’t had to do anything like this for ages. We have to find him.”

She nods, trying to be soothing, “It’s going to be okay, Teva. The evacuation is nearly finished, they’ll find him. It’s all going to be fine. Take her to the green tent, Ser Myles.”

Tevari’s hands fall away from her, eyes closing, “You lie too.”

¬

There is fire and smoke and Jango can barely see anything. There aren’t many people left inside, but the search for Minister Kenobi continues. Another injured child had reported he went further into the collapsing structure. (They’re all children, how can they all be children?)

A grunt up ahead draws Jango’s attention and he hurries forwards.

Minister Kenobi stands with his hands thrust into the air, knees bending and blood streaming down his face. There’s a child clutching his legs, and their terrified eyes find Jango’s.

“Help,” they whimper.