Chapter Text
Mace always knew it was going to be a bad day if he woke up with a headache. When he awoke at 1:13 in the morning, head splitting apart like a hammer had been taken to it, Mace knew he was in for a rough one. He rolled to the side of his bed clutching the bridge of his nose, a low groan escaping his mouth. When he finally, blearily opened his eyes he winced at the onslaught of shatterpoints in his vision.
“What…”
A shockwave of power boomed through the temple, rocking the strong foundations and flickering the lights.
Mace jumped out of bed, his instincts honed for a threat that could have caused such a disturbance in the force. Pushing aside his strong discomfort, Mace summoned his saber and leapt out into the hall. He was greeted with several Masters exiting their rooms in a similar fashion to him.
“Master Windu,” Master Koon cried, his eyes wide with distress. “What’s happened?”
Mace grit his teeth. “Tread carefully, something is wrong in the force… Can you feel it?”
The shuddering of the Kel Dor’s shoulders confirmed Mace’s question. Mace crept forward, backed by several Jedi Masters. As they moved through the halls of the temple, it was obvious that the backlash had been felt by everyone. Usually when there is a disturbance, only those trained to feel such changes in the force had noticed. To see that some of the padawans were anxiously huddled around their Masters and the initiates wide awake in their creches was a surprise. It meant that whatever caused the intense disturbance in the force was strong enough to make even the most inexperienced of them feel it.
Creche Masters soothed their anxious charges as they nervously moved between groups of initiates. One Master had no reservations stumbling forward past the younglings to reach Mace.
“Master Windu!” she cried. “Come quick!”
Mace and the other Masters turned on high alert. “Master Ree, what is it?” Mace called as he followed her through the crowd into the creche for the initiates on the cusp of their padawanships.
“Something is wrong with Initiate Kenobi!” Master Ree exclaimed, leading them into the sleeping chamber where Initiate Kenobi was in the throws of a violent seizure.
The Masters swarmed around the youngling, orders being shouted as they attempted to secure the boy safely. Calls for Healer Che were made, however just as the healer arrived, Initiate Kenobi stilled.
The room grew silent for a second as they stared at the boy in fear. Healer Che quickly confirmed the boy was still alive, and they assisted Healer Che in getting him to the Halls of Healing.
As Mace followed Healer Che, the rest of the Masters began sweeping the halls for any signs of danger. Mace, however, knew that they would find none. After all, the amount of shatterpoints now surrounding Initiate Kenobi spoke of the disturbance that occurred originating from the very boy now resting in the Halls.
Mace pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Master Yoda will want to hear about this,” he grumbled. He just knew Master Yoda would cause him more trouble. He could practically feel the ulcer already forming.
There was too much.
The boiling heat of the lava searing against his body. The desperation at the knowledge of what would happen if he lost this fight. The devastation that he knew would follow should he win it.
His mind was in agony as it struggled to process all the new information.
Anakin… How could he do such a thing… How was he meant to bear it?
“No… no, please…”
His stomach rebelled at the sight… the stench… the coppery tang of blood in the air. Force, even the younglings had not been spared in Anakin’s mad march on their home. The sight of the younglings and padawans lying in heaps at his feet forced tears into his eyes.
He could feel hands on him, frantically moving him, pulling him. He could just barely make out the hazy voice of someone calling his name.
The screams of Padme echoed in his ears like a drum. He consoled her as best he could, desperately praying that the only connection he had left to his fallen padawan would live through the night. Beside him, Bail wept.
His body felt tight, coiled like a wire. Jerky movements he could not control rocked his body.
“They must be separated,” he said, the realization another devastating blow. How much more would he be forced to lose on this horrible, horrible day? “For their protection.”
A distinctly familiar force signature brushed against his. But… it couldn’t be…
The blazing heat of the Twin Suns beat against him. The gritty sand working its way into everything as he made his way to the homestead. If he could only do one right thing in this world, let it be this. The slumbering babe in his arms would be safe, even if it was the last thing he would ever do.
His body finally stilled, a marionette cut from its strings, and as the throws of another vision overtook him, he was sure that just for a second, he saw Master Windu.
“Not… possible…”
Luke finally coming to him, ready to do what he could never do. Never had he felt such regret at placing such a burden on him. Despite this, he knew that this was the only way to bring the galaxy back into the light.
He was moved somewhere… he could feel himself sinking into something plush. He was no longer in his bed chambers.
But wait, why was he in his bed chambers…? Wasn’t he in the middle of a fight?
He could see his past mistakes haunting him in the visage in front of him. It had been a long time since he’d seen his former padawan. He knew he would not make it out of this fight alive…
Everything was too painful. He couldn’t keep track of anything happening in between flashes of his life.
“Just hold still…”
He held still as Vader approached. He knew this was penance for his mistakes. He would accept his punishment, and hope to the Force that Luke would be able to finish what he failed to do. The red of the saber lit the room in a dangerous glow as Vader pounced.
Obi-Wan knew that this was how he would die.
He closed his eyes…
…and then he opened them.
Obi-Wan blinked slowly, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. Did he not just die a few seconds ago? Why was he seeing anything? Did Vader not kill him? What a torturous thing for his former padawan to do. Though, Obi-Wan always knew the hatred Anakin held for him was stronger than anything else he could possibly be capable of feeling, so it truly wasn’t that big of a surprise that he would decide to keep Obi-Wan alive to torture him.
He appeared to be lying in a medical suite somewhere. It looked vaguely familiar, like a memory he could just barely recall. Of course, that was impossible as Obi-Wan had never been to Vader’s star destroyer before this mission.
He moved to stand—he was not bound, surprisingly—but felt strangely weak. His body felt very sore and tired, as though he’d just run a marathon. As he slipped off the bed, Obi-Wan collapsed to the floor, his legs failing to support him, knees buckling under the force. Obi-Wan sucked in a surprised gasp, breath hitching in the back of his throat.
“...What?” he pressed his hands flat against the ground to push himself up, only to stagger back in shock. His hands… Why were his hands so small? He marveled at the tiny, smooth skin on his hands—not a trace of the familiar scars and calluses of a weary old man. The cold of the floor seeped through his robes, causing a delicate shiver to roll up his spine.
Using all the strength he could find, Obi-Wan pushed himself up, eyes flitting around the room to make sense of the place he now found himself trapped in. Obi-Wan was able to quickly confirm his earlier suspicions of being in a medical suite. The sterile equipment resting on carts shined against the harsh white light, and the bed he’d fallen from was a hospital cot. It looked eerily similar to the hospital cots at the Temple, and Obi-Wan pressed the back of his hand against his mouth to fight the wave of nausea that swelled at the thought.
Just as Obi-Wan attempted to pull himself up onto his feet, he heard footsteps pounding down the hall from outside. Fear struck Obi-Wan like a bolt. Vader was coming to torture him, his revenge finally realized for Obi-Wan’s disastrous failure.
Obi-Wan prepared himself, composing his face and tucking his hand behind his back to disguise the trembling. He would not give his former padawan the pleasure of seeing his fear.
The door slid open and in walked a ghost.
“Initiate Kenobi, what are you doing out of bed?” the specter cried. “Honestly, child, you’ve just had a terrible seizure. You must rest!”
Obi-Wan was stoic, his eyes set in a deep glare as he stared past the vision, searching for the man who he knew was here. The ghost frowned at him, her eyes filling with the same maternal worry that Obi-Wan knew was on her face the moment she died protecting the younglings.
“Initiate Kenobi?” she asked again. “Are you alright?”
Obi-Wan tilted his chin in defiance. “Where are you?” he demanded, refusing to be swayed by these apparitions. “What a cruel trick, my old friend, but you’ll find I’m quite immune to such taunts.”
The ghost looked just as confused as he felt. When he spoke he expected his voice, but instead he heard the voice of a youngling, high-pitched and scared. The ghost of the old matron of the hospital at the temple, Master Che, paled and called off into the hallway. Obi-Wan clenched his fists. Good, he thought. Let him come. I’ll be ready for—
Obi-Wan was, in fact, not ready for the man who walked in the room next.
To be greeted with the apparition of his old friend, Mace Windu, whom Obi-Wan knew perished in the fight against Palpatine was like a dagger to the chest. Obi-Wan staggered back, throwing his hand out in vain when he lost balance and once again crashed to the ground.
The ghost of his fallen friend cried out in alarm and reached forward, as if to catch him, but Obi-Wan flinched back.
“NO!” he cried, hands coming up to cover his face.
“Initiate Kenobi—”
“Why are you calling me that? What’s happening? How are you here?” Obi-Wan cried out, overwhelmed tears stinging at his eyes. He thought he could be strong; thought he could face his fallen padawan with a pride he’d long since lost to the sands of Tatooine. Despite his resolution, the sight of Mace standing before him broke him in a way he was not prepared for.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to pull himself together. It was as though his strange size also affected his emotions. He trembled, a strange sense of fragility overcoming him. He couldn’t bear this.
“Anakin…” Obi-Wan whispered, aghast. His body felt frozen, eyes wide as they darted across the different people in the room. At some point during his horror-stricken stupor, several other semi-familiar faces slipped into the room. And all of them had been dead for nearly two decades.
“Initiate—”
“How can you do this to me?” Obi-Wan wept, finally losing the battle for his composure. He knelt down, hunching tightly in on himself. His knees dug painfully into his sternum—they felt more knobby than usual—and he slowly fell forward, chin hitting the ground awkwardly, arm outstretched as if to grasp for some slim chance of survival. “How…? How…?”
He felt tender hands grasp at him. Arms. Shoulder. A hand at his nape caused him to flinch violently, shaking off the other hands that reached for him. Obi-Wan choked on another sob, the hand clutched at his chest moving up to hold his mouth closed. He couldn’t handle this horrific brand of torture, but he would sooner die then give Vader the satisfaction of hearing him break.
He was hyperventilating, he knew. He could feel it in the way his pulse seemed to jump. Sharp, pounding drum beats in his veins, wrists, temple. As he struggled to suck in a breath, he could feel the hands returning. Someone desperately pulling at his wrist, trying to free his mouth and nose. Another person tugged his shoulders, trying to uncurl him into a more comfortable position.
“—must breathe!”
“...Kenobi!... Initiate Kenobi please…. scaring us!”
His lungs began to scream at him, desperately calling for him to breathe but Obi-Wan couldn’t. Each time he opened his mouth to breathe, a ragged, hoarse cry escaped. He felt a sick nausea bubble up in his stomach, and it took less than a couple of seconds before Obi-Wan heaved.
The word was spinning, and the smell of sick only made him feel worse. With a hurried gasp, Obi-Wan finally brought his eyes up and was greeted with Mace staring down at him with fear. Obi-Wan frowned, eyes taking in something he’d missed in his earlier panic.
Mace didn’t look right… he looked almost… young. His eyes narrowed, scouring the face and body of the man that Obi-Wan considered his closest friend. In place of the heavy wrinkles and frown lines was smooth skin. Where Obi-Wan was used to seeing harsh and tensed shoulders, weary from the weight of the war and the senate’s expectations, Obi-Wan only saw concern and peace.
“Initiate Kenobi, breathe,” Mace said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. A softness that had been scrubbed away by the stress of wars. Obi-Wan sucked in a surprised breath. “You must breathe youngling.”
Mace knelt before him, eyes gentle, and offered him a hand. Obi-Wan was so confused. How could this be possible? Sure, if this was an illusion made to torture him then it makes sense that they would look off. After all, Anakin hadn’t seen them in nearly twenty years, and he wasn’t that close with Mace. Years of constant disagreements and resentment saw to that. And yet… how could this illusion look exactly like the people that Obi-Wan knew when he was a—
“Youngling?” Obi-Wan repeated, eyes wide. “Did you just call me a youngling?”
Mace paused, his head tilting with confusion. “Yes…?”
Obi-Wan frowned, eyes once again taking in the scene he found himself in. The strange smallness he’d been feeling since he awoke. The way everything looked suddenly larger than before: the cot, the counters, even the people. The way his body felt lighter, more pain-free than he could ever really recall.
Obi-Wan ignored the hand that had been offered to him, grasping the cot behind him and pulling himself up on shaking legs. In front of him was a small mirror that overlooked the basin used for sterilizing equipment and washing hands. He could just barely make out his side in the reflection. He staggered forward, pushing past the concerned hands reaching for him when he nearly fell, and all but collapsed into the basin.
He pressed an unfamiliar hand into the mirror, the glass cool against his thin fingers. With a hitched breath, Obi-Wan brought his eyes up, meeting the gaze of a small boy years away from maturity.
“How… How can this be?” Obi-Wan breathed, a hand reaching up to touch his cheeks. The boy in the mirror copied his action. The room seemed to sway. His fingers ached, white-knuckling the rim of the basin against the tempting call of gravity.
He was… He was a youngling.
“Initiate—”
“What year is it?” he spun around, interrupting whatever Master Che was about to say. Obi-Wan was sure he looked a mess, eyes wide and frantic.
“It’s… the nine hundred sixty seventh year in the Coruscantii Standard Galactic Calendar,” Master Che said slowly, her eyebrows furrowed so deeply it cast shadows on her face.
967 in CSGC… that would make it… 46 years BBY… which would make Obi-Wan eleven years old. A year and a half before his Initiate Trials were meant to take place. Two years before Bandomeer and Master Jinn would offer him his padawanship.
Obi-Wan, despite its impossibility, was in the past.