#mostly gen

——

The Council exits the Chamber of Ceremony in murmured chatter, leaving only the pair of former Master and newly-graduated Knight. Obi-Wan looks to his student, now a grown Jedi, with such pride in his chest that he cannot help but smile. Anakin is flushed and grinning ear-to-ear at him, bathed in the streams of early afternoon light that flow freely through tall windows. For a fraction of a second Obi-Wan wonders what it feels like to be Anakin right now. What it feels like to be knighted by your Master’s own warm hands and have them squeeze your shoulders as you think of a good gift-wrapping sentence to give them the severed braid in your hand.

Anakin fiddles with the golden cord of hair, twists it between his fingers. He has never been able to hide his fidgeting, and it isn’t as though Obi-Wan minds. It’s not quite proper, yes, but it is harmless. And quite endearing, although Obi-Wan would keep this remark to himself.

“Shall we walk back?”

Anakin nods, and shuffles closer to him as they traverse the hallways. Silence is barely noticeable between them, silken as a spring breeze and warm as a morning kiss. Anakin’s hands are firmly tucked into his sleeves, where Obi-Wan imagines he’s still wrapping and unwrapping the Padawan braid around his fingers. Obi-Wan stops himself before he could start wondering to whom Anakin is going to gift it. A Padawan’s severed braid is the most cherished, tangible remnant of their apprenticeship; the physical embodiment of their will and wits; the culmination of years of blood, sweat and tears. It is no small matter to decide who to entrust it, and it is often the case that a newly-knighted Jedi would place it in the hands of their former mentor as a token of gratitude and a treasured memento.

It is a privilege to be able to do so.

But, evidently, it is by no mean a mandatory practice. Some former Padawans do give their braids to their closest friends. Legends even have it that one old Master was known for having encased her braid in amber, like a pendant, and put it around the neck of her beloved varactyl. While uncommon, it isn’t unheard of that a former apprentice gave their Padawan braid to someone other than their Master. It is ultimately the decision of the individual fresh Knight, and they have no obligations to disclose the destinator of their braid nor the reason therefore. It should be keenly noted that not receiving their former apprentice’s Padawan braid does not reflect a failing on the part of the Master.

So Obi-Wan tells himself, when Anakin never comes to him with the golden braid.

It has been months after the ceremony, and he still wakes up some mornings wondering why.

He shouldn’t. It is utterly unbecoming of a Jedi to be so mired in such small matters. He knows better than anyone else that Anakin, his apprentice, his student, his friend, and often his mission partner, does not owe it to him. The fact that he is not Anakin’s first choice only means that somebody else has been cherishing Anakin better than he did. That is not, strictly, a Master’s failure. A personal failure, perhaps, but such a line of thoughts is unbearable and so opposed to the Code that Obi-Wan has little choice but to forfeit it. Moving on and living in the present is the only way, especially for a Jedi Master of his station.

And if he cannot, if the buried wounds fester and ache on lonesome starless night, then he has only himself to blame.

——

“Knight Skywalker… Skywalker!”

“I’m sorry,” Anakin dodges a hapless stranger who’s caught in the chase. He hops towards the stairs. “I need to go. I swear I’ll be back by this evening!”

“You have never kept that kind of promise in your life!” The healer who’s chasing after him is breathless and exasperated and, well, angry, although anger is unbefitting of a Jedi. “Knight Skywalker, come back here!”

“Sorry!” Anakin yells, without much thought, climbing over the spiral stairway’s railings. He drops himself down. Air reels through his hair as he free-falls, and he lands on his feet, only mildly aching where his shoulder has just been bandaged.

The ground is a little dented, but that’s not his problem.

He dashes across the corridor and catches a lift tube before the healer can send someone after him. Usually, this is where they give up - no use wasting so much time and effort on a runaway patient when there are plenty others in need - and Anakin is fairly sure this time it is the case too. He just has to be safe. He needs proper time, this time.

Because Obi-Wan has just gotten back to the Temple, and Anakin is finally ready.

He can just follow his Master’s light - he can do that even when they’re separated on an unknown mountainous planet covered in perennial fog, much less here in the Temple where the Force sings in their veins. He runs so fast he’s nearly gliding through the air, feet barely touching the ground. Obi-Wan’s signature beckons him in the most innocuous way, their bond glowing despite the conclusion of his apprenticeship about half a year ago. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t done what all former Padawans are meant to do; although Anakin doubts the dissolution of a decade-long mental link is as simple as giving away one piece of yourself. He’s going to do that now, in any case.

(He hopes that doesn’t do anything to their bond, really.)

The door to their quarters slide open and Anakin hurries in, already smiling to feel Obi-Wan so near. Obi-Wan’s pack is still on the couch, and his shuffling in the kitchenette can be heard all the way from the main door. Anakin makes a beeline for it.

“Master,” he greets, so sure that Obi-Wan has also picked up on his presence that it surprises him a little to see Obi-Wan turn around slightly wide-eyed as if unaware. Still, his Master nods with the subtlest smile under his whisker and a tilt of the head. And then immediately he furrows his brows.

“Anakin, those are infirmary robes. Did you just—”

Anakin cuts in; there’s no time. “I have something I need to give to you.”

Obi-Wan stares at him for a blank moment. “Is it something so important that you felt the need to cut your own treatment short for?” He gestures, eyes already intent on the bandages peeking out from under the too-loose vee of Anakin’s tunic.

“It is.” Anakin nods firmly.

He bids Obi-Wan to stay and wait and disappears into his bedroom. He’s kept it in a little leather pouch with suede drawstrings; dark and nothing elaborate, but sturdy and waterproof. He would have embroidered it if he had the time; although, if he thinks about it, it might be better this way, purely practical in a way that Obi-Wan would have appreciated more. Anakin’s not sure, really. He is working himself into nervousness and he needs to get out of this room before his courage fails him in the most crucial moment.

His Master is still standing in wait in the middle of the living room by the time he returns. Briefly Anakin wonders why Obi-Wan doesn’t take a seat; but there isn’t any time to question that now.

(Maybe if Anakin is any less distracted by the fluttering in his stomach, he would have noticed Obi-Wan’s hands bunched beneath his great sleeves, the way he always does to hide his own anxiety.)

He positions himself before Obi-Wan, almost stilted with his sudden compulsion for solemnity. He blinks, and smiles, and he thinks he has whispered Here it is, or he might’ve only thought the words and hoped Obi-Wan heard them too. Either way, he opens the pouch, gingerly pulls out the item. He takes Obi-Wan’s hand, and presses into it a bracelet.

A bracelet made of Anakin’s braid.

Gentle light sheens on the golden cord. Strung onto it are a few Japor beads that has taken Anakin quite some time to find. They rest snugly against the old bands - red, for piloting, and blue, for mechanics - that Obi-Wan has tied on with his own hands years ago. The ends of the braid are secured with lightsaber-steel caps and connected to a clasp. It lies serenely against the valley of Obi-Wan’s palm, almost glowing in the early afternoon sun.

Silence. Anakin peeks at his former Master’s face from under his lashes, chewing the inside of his mouth. He’ll be the first to admit that he has gone the unusual route. He can already imagine some other Master calling it frivolous, even. Not that he cares. He doesn’t care about anybody’s possible comment or side-eye at this moment, or ever. Just Obi-Wan’s.

And Obi-Wan’s eyes are wide and his lips are parted, but that is about it. Although surprise has never shown itself so blatantly on Obi-Wan’s face, it’s still such an understated display. Anakin’s bravery is slowly seeping down the drain, his heart thumping madly all the way to his trembling fingertips.

“I, uh, I made it,” he says, just to say something. Obi-Wan’s lashes flutter as if he is only blinking himself awake then. Anakin swallows thickly, and continues, “I figured that, um, this way, you could wear it if you wanted to. You don’t have to wear it, of course! You can keep the pouch. I mean you can keep it with the pouch. Keep it in the pouch.” Anakin winces, tripping over his words. “I’m not going to take it back, it’s still my Padawan braid which you—”

“Thank you, Anakin.” Obi-Wan smiles, and Anakin freezes. His Master’s warm hand with all of its familiar calluses closes around his own, squeezing around his knuckles in a clear display of affectedness. There’s that flush across Obi-Wan’s face too, tinting his ears pink.

“You’re welcome. Sorry it took so long.” Anakin grins, even as the corners of his lips wobble and his eyes sting because Obi-Wan is unclasping the bracelet right then and there. He intercepts. “Here, Master, let me put it on for you.”

So he takes Obi-Wan’s hand and he rolls down the undertunic sleeve a little bit; he secures the braid around his Master’s wrist and he pulls the sleeve above it, safely concealing that part of himself on Obi-Wan’s person. He pats the spot and can’t bring himself to pull away.

Obi-Wan doesn’t, either. He leaves out a moment before speaking up so tenderly: “Anakin?”

“I just…” Anakin struggles. He lingers in the liminality between apprenticeship and knighthood even as they stand as equals, tethering himself onto the former Master with whom his bond still shines. “I need a moment.”

Obi-Wan holds his, and now both of their hands are linked together, fingers upon fingers, closing around each other like layers of mutual protection. Their hands are about the same size now, aren’t they? There was a time when his whole spread hand would fit into Obi-Wan’s palm like a tiny starfish, no more. Anakin brushes a thumb over this one scar on the back of Obi-Wan’s hand. He can’t remember who saved whose life that time. It’s not like there is a difference, anyway.

“...So do I,” says Obi-Wan, so quietly. Something wavers in his voice and glistens in his eyes and Anakin can see it. Anakin sees it all.

——

His mother kneels down in front of him crib and holds her stomach and prays to something, anything. Her boy has ancient eyes, and she knows what that means. Don’t take him away from me, she whispers to the dark.

He is named something different – something to soften the hard edges, something new. His mother takes pains to shape him into something without guilt. Whatever you did, she whispers into his hair, It does not define you. There is a sad knowing in the lines of her face every time her son takes a stick and draws a perfect circle in the ground. He scratches words in the dirt that mean nothing to her, in a language (languages) that she could never comprehend.

Essek’s (second) mother loves him, and is terrified.

He grows. He grows tall, with dark skin and pale hair. He listens to the stories of old and does not falter:

The Mighty Nein, some whisper.

Essek’s eyes glow with old, deep knowledge.

“This is not you,” his mother says, desperate. She clutches onto his forearms and digs her nails deep into his skin. “You are my son. I brought you into this world.”

The boy nods. At night, every night, he quietly washes off the blood.

The world knows what the Kryn do, the way their Beacons burn light and life into barren landscapes. Essek’s mother has never met one before, but she has seen the funeral procession of a madman. It glittered bright atop a wooden platform, flanked by six individuals and a ghost. The wizard had been painfully tall and stooped half his height, the halfling quietly holding his hand. They are aged, and wearied, and terrifying. Essek’s mother never wants to see them again.

Essek grows taller, and taller, and taller, until his mother barely reaches his collarbones. He is only fifteen, but she has to push him down to stare into his eyes. She knows the evil the Kryn bring. She knows what they have done to her boy. She will not let them take him away from her.

“This is not you,” she says, and he nods, every time. There are puncture marks dotting his arms and bruises along the soft slope of his muscles. They aren’t in a bad way, but they aren’t very well off, and Essek goes out every day to daydream in numbers and chop wood. “Whatever anyone tells you, you are my son. Mine. I will not allow anyone to take you away.”

He nods. He is a good boy. He always does what she tells him to.

.

Essek wakes up on his sixteenth birthday and throws up.

He settles against the sheets for a long moment, vomit painting down his front, body shaking. His mother is in the next room over, humming quietly to herself. Essek strains his ears, but she doesn’t seem too upset, so he allows himself a moment of quiet reflection.

Here it is, he thinks. There’s almost a relief to it. Here is my weight.

He gets up. He changes into clothing that does not stink. He bundles up his bedsheets and takes them outside to the river, careful not to let his mother see as he slips past the door. Essek has gotten good at these kinds of things, over the years.

Essek settles against the bank of the river and struggles to keep breathing.

(He is dead).

(He is dead).

(He is dead).

What is the last thing he remembers?

Yesterday. Shivering underneath the covers of his bed, waiting for his mother to fall asleep so he may do the same. She has grown….intense, over the past week. More so than his previous birthdays, which had always been accompanied by cake and a thick, rolling sense of terror.

What is the last thing he remembers?

Caleb Widogast, glowing in fire.

Essek allows his lips to curl into a smile. He lifts his face towards the sun and bathes in the light. Underneath his skin, something itches. A knowing. This is not for you. Essek finds himself trembling under the onslaught, but can’t quite bring himself to go back inside. In his house, there are – were? – countless parasols of every shape and colour. All gifts. He remembers Jester Lavorre – he remembers Jester Lavorre – coming over and going onto his roof and snapping them all open, to make a giant tent. He had loved those parasols dearly.

The knowledge that they are no longer necessary makes acid swill hard in his stomach.

It is for the best, Essek decides. There is a chance they may no longer even exist.

“Aldan,” his mother calls. Essek feels a jolt of unfamiliar fear pass through his stomach, and he takes a moment to settle it. It has been a long time since he has felt anything this strongly.

No. It had been yesterday.

(No. It had been sixteen years ago).

Breathe, he tells himself. The thought is absurd.

Essek gets up and turns towards their house. They have no neighbours – there might have been people, once, but his mother had moved them somewhere quiet and out of the way. He wonders about that, sometimes. What the world would have been like for Aldan, had Essek not existed instead.

“Coming,” he says. He leaves his sheets soaking against their small dam and walks towards the house.

His mother is shockingly pale against Essek’s own, darker skin. He has never met his father, to his knowledge, but he wonders sometimes. She is short, hair translucent and eyes a milky white. She takes his face into her hands and stares into his eyes.

“My boy,” she says. Essek’s skin crawls. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, mother,” Essek says.

“Come, I have prepared breakfast,” his mother says. She grabs his wrist and drags him roughly into the kitchen, positioning him down onto the seat. In front of him is a plate of buttered toast, bacon and eggs. Essek’s stomach rolls.

“Thank you, mother,” Essek says again.

He does not know where they live. His mother had been very careful to keep all knowledge of their whereabouts from sweet, sheltered Aldan. My good boy, she says.

“Go on,” she says. She sits down in front of him and doesn’t look away. “Eat up.”

Essek eats up.

.

At night – for years now – Essek has dreamed of a scruffy wizard with the kindest eyes in the world.

Even before he remembered Caleb’s name, he knew his face. There are scars lining every inch of his body, face drawn tired beyond age. Essek remembers smoothing down the wrinkles with his fingers, remembers curling up against his side and shaking.

You are not absolved, Caleb Widogast tells him. But you are loved.

That’s all Essek has ever needed, really.

.

At sixteen years old and one day, Essek gets up early and leaves.