I’m sure you’re busy and likely have already gotten prompts to continue it, but more of the Obi-Wan as a Minister on Melida-Daan please? Whenever you get a chance!
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.
“No,” Daria agrees, because Obi-Wan is fragile today, “it doesn’t. But that’s not the point. The point is, the pin is in your hand. The ball is in your court. Obi-Wan has told you his story, and now it’s up to you to decide whether that story is good enough for you.”
