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batsutousaiTitle: What Have We Become
Series: Make a Brand New End
Fandom: Star Wars
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Alternate Universe, Time Travel Fix-it, character suffering from PTSD, jedi are terrible at all relationships, war flashbacks, angst, hurt/comfort, found family, jedi families, Qui-Gon's trying, Obi-Wan needs a hug, Feemor needs a hug, everyone gets a hug (eventually)
Summary: One of Feemor's greatest regrets, was that he never had the chance to get to know his brother-padawan, but the Force is willing to give him one more chance. And maybe, if he's lucky, he can finally make amends with his former master and save them all in the process.
A/N: Look, I really love time travel fics, especially the fix-it sorts. And while I've seen a lot of characters sent back in time, I don't think I've seen Feemor kicked back, and I, well, I love Feemor. (Okay, let's be fair, he gets a scene in one comic, so really I love his fanon representation, not his canon self, but why quibble over minor characters who we can do whatever we want with? XD)
Fic and chapter titles all comes from Daughtry's What Have We Become. Series title is from a quote with an uncertain origin (it's been said in various forms by multiple people): 'No one can go back and make a brand new start, but anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending.'
This starts shortly before Order 66, so there are a handful of clone OCs running around, and one of them kills Feemor. Warnings for anything and everything that entails, as well as the trauma that comes from spending three years in a war and losing...so many people. Feemor is not okay, but I promise he'll have support and hugs. Lots of hugs.
This fic is completed at five chapters, and will post every other day, with the final chapter going up on 21st April, for those who prefer to read all at once. (There's also a follow-up fic which will post two days after the final chapter. If you follow the series on AO3, you'll get an alert about that and any other additions. If you need an AO3 account, please feel free to let me know; I have plenty of invitations. ;)
Cross-posted to Archive of Our Own and LiveJournal.
"General?"
Feemor didn't have to check in the Force to know which of his men had come to find him; their comm specialist spoke with a rather distinctive whistling sound. "What can I help you with, Lieutenant?" he asked without bothering to look up from the requisition requests he was using to excuse the fact he was still awake. (So long as he had paperwork he could wave in their faces, Doc and Pomp would usually let his chronic insomnia go. At least for another night cycle; previous experience said he was approaching too many days in a row without proper sleep, which meant they would soon resort to underhanded methods if he didn't go to one of them, first.)
"General Yoda's on the line for you, sir," Whistle replied.
There was only one reason his great-grandmaster would be contacting him without other members of the Council—and Whistle would have said if it was more than Yoda—and Feemor was up and pushing past Whistle before he could stop himself, almost choking on the thick sense of not right that had been threading through the Force for the past two days, and making his insomnia that much worse.
The troll was awaiting him in the communications tent, his bearing far more relaxed than it had been when he'd comm'd to tell Feemor about Master Yan's death, and Feemor made himself take a deep breath, even as he bowed to the Grandmaster. "Master, is Obi-Wan–?"
"Well, Obi-Wan is," Yoda promised, and some of the weight on Feemor's chest eased. "Dead, Grievous is."
Feemor couldn't quite stop an amused huff. "Of course he is, because far be it for Obi-Wan to fall behind his padawan in the rankings." Not that he really expected his brother-padawan cared about the HoloNet rankings that were keeping track of which jedi unit had killed the most Separatists; he didn't need to have met the man to know that Obi-Wan Kenobi took very little pride in his achievements, especially when it involved a kill-count.
Yoda let out a mild huff himself, his ears twitching in that way that Feemor knew meant he was fighting a smile. "Over soon, this war will be. Excuses you will no longer have."
Feemor winced at the reminder—constant and getting less and less subtle as the years went by—that he still hadn't ever introduced himself to Obi-Wan. It was just...well, there had never been a good time. Approaching him while he was still Qui-Gon's apprentice had been out of the question—Feemor hadn't actually forgiven his former master for repudiating him until it was too late to make amends—and after Qui-Gon's death, it had just seemed a little too much to go up to his brother-padawan and say, 'I know you've probably never heard of me, but I was Qui-Gon's first padawan, and I'd like to have a relationship with you, now he's not here to sour things'. Anyway, Obi-Wan had had a padawan himself, one who'd needed a lot of hand-holding and managing, according to the Temple gossips, and then Wangui had died on her first mission as a knight and Feemor had needed to leave the Temple to mourn in peace. And then the war had begun and, well. War was no time to try and connect with the brother who likely didn't even know you existed.
"Good for you both, this connection will be," Yoda reminded him, his voice gone gentle.
Feemor swallowed against the reminder of all the suffering he'd seen over the course of this terrible war, of the things he'd been forced to do to protect his men and the battered and weary survivors that were left behind when the front-line forces had to move on to the next battlefield. He couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors his little brother had haunting his sleep—assuming he was any more able to sleep than Feemor was—especially since, between Temple gossip, HoloNet News reports, and Yoda's updates, Feemor had a pretty good idea of how much Obi-Wan had suffered.
"As soon as we're both back in Temple," he promised, and he fully intended to keep that promise; he hadn't been there for Obi-Wan after Qui-Gon's death, but he could be there now, could be the elder brother he should have been over a decade ago.
"Meddle, I will," Yoda warned, waving his gimer stick in Feemor's direction.
"And how, exactly, is that different from any other day?" Feemor asked in as dry a tone as he could.
Yoda's ears twitched with amusement, but before he could respond, a Vod's voice from his end said, "General Windu calling from Coruscant for you, sir. It's marked as priority aurek."
"May the Force be with you, Grandmaster," Feemor offered, knowing their time for talking was over.
"And with you, my great-grandpadawan," Yoda returned, and warmth swelled in Feemor's chest at the reminder that at least one person in his lineage was still willing to acknowledge him.
Feemor turned away from the projector as Yoda's image winked out, and found Whistle and his commander, Nehutyc, waiting for him, hope in their eyes. "Good news, sir?" Nehutyc guessed.
"Yes," Feemor promised, reaching out and placing a hand on both of their shoulders, the same way he'd always done for Ace and Wangui when he'd been especially proud of his padawans. "General Kenobi has killed Grievous; with both him and Count Dooku dead, it shouldn't take us long to end this war."
Whistle broke out into a wide grin and said, "That's great, sir!"
Feemor nodded. "It is. But it doesn't mean our job is done; far from it."
"Plenty of clean-up left," Nehutyc agreed, his voice far less grim than it usually was when he talked about how much work there still was to go.
Feemor inclined his head and gave both of their shoulders a quick pat—squeezing had no effect when his men were wearing armour, so he'd had to adapt—then withdrew his hands. "Exactly. But, hopefully, as the fighting dies down, some of the front-line troops will join us in the cleaning up and relief efforts, which should speed things up."
"Ret," Nehutyc muttered, clearly thinking far less of the peaceful capabilities of those Vode who'd spent the war fighting.
Feemor shook his head at his commander's pessimism, but didn't bother starting an argument over it; what would be would be, and Nehutyc would see soon enough that his many brothers were plenty capable of—and probably desperate for, based on some of the transfers they'd received over the course of the war—more peaceful actions. "I'm almost done with the requisition forms, if you wanted to help me finish them up, Commander?"
Nehutyc frowned, casting a quick, studied eye over Feemor, and then he sighed. "Do I need to get Doc, sir?"
Feemor barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I am fine, Commander," he insisted. And then, when neither Nehutyc nor Whistle looked convinced—Whistle's own expression had taken on that worried cast that Feemor suspected Pomp and Doc had been teaching his command personnel in an attempt to make him take better care of himself, or some such—he said, "It's too late in the morning to sleep now, but I promise I'll let them drug me if I can't sleep tonight."
"I'll hold you to that, sir," Nehutyc replied, and Feemor knew he would. "Let's see to those forms."
It didn't take them long to finish the requisition forms—not that Feemor had really expected it to—and they headed to the mess tent to get some breakfast after, Feemor allowing a fond smile as Nehutyc tried to be subtle about getting the men on KP duty to add a little extra rations to his tray. (He didn't think he had a problem with not eating enough, but Wangui had often complained that he'd let himself starve if someone wasn't there to mind him, and his commander and medics all seemed to be of the same mind, though they weren't quite as obvious about it as Wangui had been.)
Specs and Prince slid into the seats on either side of Feemor almost as soon as he'd sat down—across from him, Nehutyc's expression switched to that slightly pinched flat stare he seemed to reserve for his two batchmates—and Specs said, in that faux-casual voice he always used when he thought he was being subtle, "I hear the war might be over soon."
"How does it go again?" Nehutyc asked flatly. "Right, 'loose lips sink battleships'."
Specs immediately held his hands up in defence. "Don't shoot the messenger, vod."
Behind Feemor, a couple of Vode let out disbelieving snorts.
Specs turned to scowl at the perpetrators, and probably would have gone off on a rant about respecting superiors—as if he hadn't begged Feemor the first week of their working together to never call him captain again—but Feemor offered, "We can only hope, but with Dooku and, now, Grievous dead..."
"Grievous is dead, then? Not captured?" Prince asked, probably because it wouldn't be the first time they'd captured some ranking member of the CIS, only for them to escape.
"Dead," Feemor promised. "Ob– General Kenobi killed him."
Cheers and laughter filled the tent, and the Force seemed to lighten, just a little.
"Of course it was General Kenobi," someone said, pride in their voice, and Feemor couldn't say if that was because his men had guessed that he had some sort of relation to Obi-Wan, or just because his brother-padawan had always been at the head of the war and it was hard not to be proud of his bravery and strength.
"Let's not break out the celebratory drinks quite yet," Feemor suggested as the delighted noises around him started to taper off a bit. "It's not like we have a proper cease-fire or peace treaty quite yet, but–"
The Force screamed.
"General!" voices called around him, and Feemor thought he felt hands gripping his arms, his shoulders, even as he curled forward, gasping for what air he could draw in past the wave of agony, of lives ending and shredding icy darkness through the warmth of the Force.
Not for the first time, Feemor cursed Qui-Gon for teaching him to love the Living Force; war was no kindness for those who put too much focus towards the side of the Force that connected all living things.
From a distance, he heard a voice that was familiar in the way of those he'd often heard in HoloNet News clips were, say, "Commander, execute Order Sixty-Six."
Feemor made himself look up, unfamiliar with that order, and found Nehutyc pulling out his blaster and pointing it at him, his eyes curiously blank. "Wha–?" he started to ask, his voice sounding ruined to his own ears, like he'd been screaming.
The whine of a firing blaster and the flash of energy cut him off.
"Master?"
Feemor blinked his eyes open, and marvelled, for a moment, that he could. He'd been fairly certain Nehutyc's blaster had been set to kill, but perhaps he'd been wrong.
"Master Feemor?" the voice came again, one that had once been so precious to him, and he missed dearly.
He raised his head and had a brief moment to take in the familiar stacks of the Temple archive, before he focussed on his second padawan, Wangui. She looked young, younger than he could really remember her looking, her dark hair bushing out in a halo around her head the way she'd worn it when she was trying to emulate Knight Ekundayo Uzoma's rather impressive afro. (She'd had a terrible crush on the young knight, which Feemor had mostly understood—Ekun always had a warm smile for other jedi, and ze had a very charming accent that was easy on the ears—and while he'd been uncertain about the change in hairstyle, he'd found himself agreeing after watching his grandmaster's disgusted expression upon sighting Ekun; it might not be the jedi way, but he was allowed whatever forms of petty revenge against his master and grandmaster as he pleased, so long as the reasoning was kept to himself.)
"Wangui?" he heard himself say as if from a bit of a distance, drinking in the sight of her: The glint of bronze earrings he'd allowed her to get the year after he took her on, the short length of her padawan braid against her shoulder, the dark cord of a necklace she thought he didn't know she always wore half hidden under the collar of her tunic, the concern sparkling in her warm violet eyes. She was so very precious, his padawan, and he had no words for how very grateful he was to the Force for letting her see him again.
Because what else could this be, save some sort of Force-blessed vision? If it was true that they all returned to the Force when they died, of course he would be able to see her again.
Wangui let out the long-suffering sigh she'd mastered almost before her padawan braid was long enough to brush her shoulder. "If you're having trouble sleeping, you're supposed to go to the Halls, not find some boring book in the archives," she informed him, motioning towards the table he'd apparently been resting his head on.
"I wasn't–" Feemor started, even as he glanced down.
An inactive holobook was sat in front of him, the power conservation mode light blinking, letting him know it had almost certainly shut off after being left on a single page for too long. The title, written in unusually blocky Aurebesh type, was, How to Impress Gamorreans Into Not Killing You. The title suggested an entertaining read, but Feemor recalled it being excessively dry, and something that had, in fact, put him to sleep. He'd picked it out because one of his friends, Roimata, had been assigned a mission there and he'd wanted to know what she was getting into. (The mission had gone a little sideways, but she'd come back alive, if a little banged up.)
He wasn't completely certain why the Force would slot him into a vision—memory?—of this particular moment, but he shrugged to himself a bit and offered his padawan a wry smile. "Sorry?"
She sighed again, rolling her eyes. "You always are," she said, and at least she sounded more resigned than anything else. "Breakfast?"
His stomach let out a rumble of agreement, and Feemor marvelled that this vision let him feel hunger, even as he rose and agreed, "Yes, we had best."
"I am not the one who's always forgetting to eat," Wangui informed him a bit primly.
Feemor coughed to hide a fond chuckle as he picked up the holobook. "Ah, but that's what I have you for, my precious padawan."
Her cheeks flushed a dark plum and she ducked her head, clearly embarrassed.
It was utterly charming, and something she'd managed to train herself out of by the time she'd been knighted—likely because one of Feemor's friends had taken such delight in the colour of her flush—and he was unspeakably grateful to be seeing it again, unexpected a treat as it was.
He put the holobook away on their way out, nodding politely to Jocasta Nu as they passed her desk.
"Finally finished with your nap, Master Feemor?" Jocasta asked in that mild tone she used when she was resisting the urge to chew someone out.
Feemor winced. "I apologise, Madam Nu. I'm afraid the text I was reading was simply...too fascinating to put down."
Her raised eyebrow said she knew he was lying, but she didn't call him on it, leaving him to usher a quietly giggling Wangui from the archives.
They made their way to the refectory, collected some food, and split up, Wangui intent on a couple of her friends at the initiate table.
Feemor slid into the open spot next to Kei Kimura, one of his crèchemates, unmoved by the wide, slightly manic grin he had turned on where his padawan, Marcus Bitmoore, was rather obviously attempting to ignore him. "What have you done to that boy this time?" he asked mildly.
Kei glanced over at him without turning his head. "Nothing the little shit didn't deserve," he insisted.
Feemor very obviously rolled his eyes, then jerked into Kei's arm as Rún Ursu, another crèchemate, slid in next to him, her elbow brushing his arm in that way she'd always done to warn him she was next to him. (He'd not reacted well the first few times he'd suddenly found her next to him with no warning, and the casual elbow brush had been their compromise.)
Rún narrowed her white eyes. "You're jumpy," she said.
"Wasn't expecting you," Feemor insisted.
Her eyes narrowed further. "I told you last night I would see you at breakfast."
"Pretty sure she threatened to sneak into your quarters and wake you with a knife to your throat if you tried sleeping through it," Kei added in the sort of faux casual tone that meant he was trying not to sound worried.
"Ah." Feemor swallowed. "I...forgot?"
Rún straightened in her seat. "You forgot," she repeated, clearly disbelieving.
Okay, that was fair; Rún was a jedi shadow, and out of the Temple more often than she was in, which meant Feemor had never, not once, forgot when she was in Temple. On the rare occasions she was staying long enough to actually visit with her. "I–"
"Halls of Healing?" Kei suggested.
Feemor shoved his shoulder. "I'm not sick!" he snapped, even as he started to wonder what was going on. Rún had died four months before the war, but Kei had still been in the Temple last he'd known; if the Pantoran was here—in the Force, presumably—he should know about the war, same as Feemor. Shouldn't be surprised about him being a little jumpy, not when his last visit to the Temple had involved him drawing his sabre on his crèchemate when one of his pranks had involved a sound that was far too close to close-range blaster fire.
(Kei had apologised, profusely, and actually sounded like he'd meant it, for once. Feemor had spent two of his three days in Temple giving his friend the cold shoulder, before finally making amends two hours before he was due to ship out again, because they were the last two of their group left, and he couldn't stomach the thought of leaving things sour between them.)
"Eat," Rún ordered, motioning towards Feemor's tray.
Grimacing, Feemor ducked his head and did as ordered, certain they would haul him to the Halls if he resisted.
A strained sort of silence fell over the three of them, finally broken after almost five minutes, when Kei cleared his throat and said in a too cheerful voice, "I hear Jinn is due back in Temple this afternoon."
"Oh?" Rún said, a note in her voice that immediately made Feemor suspicious. "Such beneficial timing."
Kei snorted and the nasty twist to his smile reminded Feemor that his two friends had never been willing to let Qui-Gon's repudiating him go; Kei had even told him, after the memorial service they'd had in the Temple, that his greatest regret would always be that he'd never made Qui-Gon's life enough of a hell that he'd apologised to Feemor. "On multiple parts," he agreed. "He and his pretty little padawan apparently got caught in some diplomatic mess on Naboo, had to kidnap a queen or something."
"Why am I–" Rún started.
Feemor's fork clattered against his tray, falling from fingers gone nerveless as Kei's words registered. "Naboo?" he whispered.
Why? Why would the Force make him relive this day? This week? This was just...too cruel.
A cool hand pressed against his forehead. "You feel warm," Kei decided.
Rún snorted—it was no secret that Pantorans, like Umbarans, always ran cooler than humans, so he would have felt warm to either of them—and rested a hand on the bottom of his elbow, pushing gently up. "Kei, get the trays," she ordered.
Kei huffed, but didn't actually argue, which said a lot about how worried he was.
Feemor, feeling a bit numb, let Rún direct him out of his seat and towards the exit of the refectory.
"Master Rún?" Wangui called before they could leave the room, an uncertain note in her voice.
"Your master isn't feeling well, little one," Rún explained, her hand gentle on the middle of his back.
Feemor forced a smile for his padawan. "Go back to your friends, Padawan. I'll be fine."
She glanced up at Rún, clearly unwilling to believe him, and his Umbaran friend kindly promised, "I'll have you comm'd if it's something serious."
"Okay," Wangui agreed, before jerking forward and wrapping her arms around Feemor's waist in a hug.
Feemor flinched in surprise—it had been almost a decade since the last time someone had hugged him like that; Kei's hugs tended to come from the side, and almost always involved something nasty getting shoved down the back of Feemor's robes or rubbed into his hair—before wrapping his arms back around his padawan and hugging her tight.
"Purple one!" Kei called in a delighted tone as he joined them.
Wangui turned the most disgusted look in her repertoire on him, gave Feemor one last squeeze, then slipped away to rejoin her friends.
"Was it something I said?" Kei asked, turning an over-done wounded look on Feemor.
"Yes," Feemor replied, but his voice came out sounding a little too flat, and he saw Kei and Rún trade worried looks before Rún's hand pressed against his back to get him moving.
Feemor wished he could pay more attention to their concern, find some way to reassure them he was fine, but his mind was swirling with conflicting thoughts, like why he seemed to be the only one confused about 'current' events. Wangui and Rún knowing what was going on in the...vision? Force afterlife? That made sense, sure, they'd been dead for a while, probably been living this for a while. But Kei had still been alive before the Force screamed—their Force bond would have told him, if he hadn't been—and he'd seen Jocasta Nu when he was in Temple two months ago, so she'd likely been alive still. As had Obi-Wan, since Kei mentioned he would be in Temple with Qui-Gon.
Oh, Force. Did that...did that mean Obi-Wan had been killed? Had his men shot him, too? After finally killing Grievous, finishing off the last of the Separatist's battle leaders? Had it all been for nothing?
"Fee?" Kei called, his voice distant-sounding.
"Feemor!" Rún shouted, sounding panicked.
Feemor had a moment to realise the hallway was tilting, before everything went black.
He woke to the sound of rapid tapping, ratta-tat-tat-tatta, and didn't bother to open his eyes, just muttered, "Kei, I will stab you with whatever that is if you don't stop."
Rún let out an indelicate snort.
Wait, Rún?
"Back in the land of the conscious, my delicate flower?" Kei asked in that sickly-sweet tone that promised months of mocking.
Feemor forced his eyes open, glancing over at where Kei was sitting in one of the Halls' visitor chairs, then over to where Rún was relaxed back against the wall next to the doorway. "What...happened?" he asked. He remembered sitting down to breakfast with his friends, Kei telling them Qui-Gon was due back, Rún insisting he needed to go to the Halls, and then...nothing.
"You fainted," Rún said, her voice tense and her white eyes watching him with concern.
"Master!" Wangui's voice called out in advance of her stumbling into the room and rushing over to stand at the free side of his bed. Her eyes were wide and terrified, and Feemor didn't hesitate to grip the hands that reached out for him.
"Wangui, it's okay," he insisted, squeezing her hands. "I'm fine, I promise."
"Well, you're half right," Vokara Che said as she stepped into the room, a datapad in one hand and a capped syringe in the other. "Physically, you're in perfect health. Mentally—excuse me, Padawan Wangui," she said as she set the datapad down on the bed next to Feemor's legs and reached for his nearer arm, which Wangui let her take with only a brief hesitation, "your serotonin and adrenaline levels are a complete mess." She injected the needle of the syringe into the tap of the IV line Feemor actually hadn't noticed in his arm. Then she pinned him with a sharp look as she slipped the syringe into a pocket. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think the current dose of your medication is off. What, exactly, have you been doing, Master Feemor?"
Feemor stared at her for a moment, then looked around at his friends and padawan, taking in the concern in their eyes, the lack of awareness, and had to fight against a rush of disassociation. "What...date is it?" he asked hesitantly.
Rún and Kei traded sharp looks, even as Wangui uncertainly rattled off the date.
Two days before Qui-Gon's death, Feemor recognised a bit helplessly, even as he choked out a slightly shaky laugh. Was this some sort of Force-blessed vision? Or was this—impossibly—a second chance? Some sort of, of time travel.
Could he forgive himself if it turned out to be the latter and he didn't even try to save his master? "Kriff," he cursed.
"Master!" Wangui called, sounding torn between being offended and concerned.
He turned to Kei and demanded, "When is Qui-Gon due back in Temple? This afternoon?"
"Jinn?" Kei asked, wide-eyed and clearly shocked, though whether it was by Feemor's cursing—he'd been rather good about minding his language before the war—or the fact that he cared when his former master was going to be there, Feemor couldn't say. "I– Yes? They're supposed to be in system, uh–" he glanced at the closest chrono "–right about now, actually, but they're coming in on a non-Temple shuttle, and they've got people with them? So, it'll probably take a while to get clearance and they're going to have to park at one of the public bays."
"Diplomatic," Feemor corrected, shaking his head; Senat– no, Queen Amidala was who they returned with, as he recalled, which meant they would be landing on a diplomatic pad. And they likely wouldn't have to wait very long to get clearance to enter the travel lanes.
"Diplomatic?" Kei repeated.
"Master Feemor," Master Che cut in, her voice hard. "If you think, for a single moment, that I'm going to just let you stroll out of this ward after you didn't even know the date–"
"I had a vision," Feemor interrupted, trying his best to sound calm and collected, like the jedi master he was, but expecting he just sounded like an exhausted padawan desperate for his master. (Which was, unfortunately, not as far wrong as he wanted it to be.)
"You don't get Force visions," Rún snapped, pushing away from the wall and stalking over to loom over the end of his bed. "That piece of poodoo who trained you did so in the Living Force, not the–"
"That 'piece of poodoo' is going to die if I don't do something!" Feemor shouted.
The room was absolutely silent for a long moment that felt like an eternity.
Kei cleared his throat. "Fee, I'm sure it was just a, a nightmare of some sort. You just need some sleep and for whatever Healer Che gave you to run its course and everything will be fine," he insisted, a forced smile on his face.
Feemor looked between his crèchemates, the healer, and his padawan with a sinking feeling; not a one of them looked like they believed him. They all just thought it was a, a dream or something. Probably related to his karked up neurochemistry.
And maybe they were right? It was true enough that he didn't get Force visions, never had. If anyone in his lineage would have got a true vision of the future, it would have been Yoda. Or Obi-Wan. And either one of them would have been far more capable of doing something about it. He was just... Well, he was just Feemor, the repudiated member of their line. Even Xanatos and Master Yan, both of whom had Fallen, had been more wanted than he was.
He sunk back against the pillows and closed his eyes, feeling suddenly so very exhausted. "Yeah," he whispered. "You're probably right."
A relieved breath filled the room, and Feemor suspected it had come from more than one person.
"I'll let Master Jinn know you were asking about him," Master Che offered, gently patting his leg. "Do you want me to give you something to sleep?"
Feemor immediately shook his head, because he was more than tired enough to get to sleep on his own, and he preferred to only take a sedative when he needed one.
"Very well. The rest of you, let him sleep." She paused for a moment, then added, "Padawan Wangui, I'm certain you should be in classes right now."
"But my master–" Wangui started, fear in her voice.
"Needs to sleep," Master Che said in a soothing voice. "You'll do him no good by standing here and bleeding anxiety into the Force."
"I'll walk you to your class," Rún offered in a rush. "And I'm sure you'll be notified if anything happens."
"Of course," Master Che agreed.
Small hands curled around his own, and Feemor opened his eyes to offer his padawan a tired smile as he squeezed her hand. "Go to class, Padawan. I promise I'll be doing nothing more interesting than sleeping."
Wangui chewed on her lower lip for a moment, fingers twitching around his hand, before giving an uncertain nod. "Okay," she agreed, and reluctantly let him go, turning and walking over to where Rún was waiting for her.
"Knight Kimura?" Master Che asked, her tone pointed.
"Go work on whatever punishment you're plotting for Marcus," Feemor suggested, closing his eyes again.
Cool fingers wrapped around his wrist and gave a gentle squeeze. "I'll tell you all about it later," Kei promised.
Feemor let out a huff. "That poor boy."
Kei's snort was a little strained. "He gives as good as I do."
"Defence mechanism," Feemor insisted.
Kei's snort was a little easier that time, like Feemor's quick rejoinder had soothed him somehow. He gave Feemor's wrist another gentle squeeze, then let go. "I'll be back later, Fee."
"Joy," Feemor deadpanned, and was able to track Kei's retreat as much by his cackling as by his Force presence.
In the silence of his empty room, Feemor opened his eyes again and stared up at the darkened ceiling; someone had politely turned out the lights for him.
"A nightmare," he whispered to himself and closed his eyes.
In truth, he didn't know what it was any more.
It's the smell that hits him first, burnt flesh and decomposing bodies; clearly, the Republic team had been in too much of a rush to get to their next engagement to take the time to collect their dead. Or have any bother for the Separatist dead. (Just because their main fighting force was made of droids, didn't mean they didn't employ organics in their bases, Feemor had learnt, and the Republic had apparently bombarded this fort from orbit, which meant there'd been no time for anyone to evacuate.
Times like this, he wonders who the real villains are in this kriffing war.)
"Search for survivors!" he calls to his men, some of whom are already spreading out, kneeling next to fallen Vode and oh-so-gently removing helmets to check vitals and close the eyes of the dead.
"I've got one!" Prince shouts, waving from where he's kneeling next to a trooper in too-white armour, and Pomp and two Vode with a stretcher rush over to him.
"Into the rubble, General?" Back-Up asks as he steps up next to Feemor, nodding his helmet towards the remains of the base.
"I'm afraid so," Feemor agrees, and Back-Up lets out a long, overdone groan, even as he motions to where a small clump of newer troopers were huddled by the stretcher teams.
With the shinies—Force, that was one bit of Vode slang he really could have gone without picking up— following them, Feemor and Back-Up pick their way across the ruined base, carefully testing their steps before they move forward; one time setting off a minor rubble-slide by stepping in the wrong spot as a padawan had been more than enough to teach Feemor better, and he'd made certain all of his men also knew that danger.
Of course, the shinies didn't seem to have received the warnings, because one of them lets out a startled noise as rubble slides together, and Feemor and Back-Up both look back, Back-Up laughing upon finding the trooper fallen on his arse.
Feemor sighs at Nehutyc's second in command, and calls back to the shinies, "You'll want to watch your steps here; there's no guarantee everything is completely steady."
"Got that impression, sir," the shiny who had fallen replies as one of the other troopers steps over to give him a hand. "I'll be more– General!"
A body slams into Feemor's side as the whine of a firing blaster splits the air, and Feemor looks down, sees Back-Up taking the bolt that had been meant for him.
Except, when they've both hit the rubble, the sharp edges of broken stones stabbing bruises into Feemor's side, blasters firing over their heads as the shinies take out whoever had attacked him, it isn't Back-Up who is laying on top of him, but Obi-Wan, his blue-green eyes gone grey and lifeless.
"Save him," he chokes out, blood coating his lips, dripping down his chin and onto Feemor's robes.
As the little brother he'd never got to know dies in his arms, Feemor screams.
Feemor jerked up in bed, gasping in air and grabbing for a body that wasn't there.
Around him, the private room was dark and near silent, only disturbed by the quiet breaths of Kei, who looked supremely uncomfortable sleeping with his head tilted to one side and slumped down in the chair next to the bed.
Feemor forced himself to just breathe for a moment, let the new iteration of the old nightmare ease away, into the Force's familiar grasp. Back-Up's death had been one of the harder deaths for him during the war, because it shouldn't have happened. They'd been old hats at the search-and-rescue clean-ups by then, knew to keep their guards up when the area hadn't been cleared yet, but one shiny tripping had cost them one of the Vode he'd considered a close friend—far more personable than Nehutyc, Back-Up had reminded him of Roimata, serious and capable when needed, but more than willing to have fun when the work was done—and nearly his own life.
He stared down at the shadow of his lap, remembering Obi-Wan's eyes as he'd pleaded for Feemor to save him.
Save who?
Feemor let out a silent snort and grabbed for the IV line, carefully removing it with ease of long practise; he hadn't always been able to let Doc or Pomp pull the line from him when he'd been forced to submit to their care, and Doc had shown him the trick to it after the third time he'd ripped a wound in his own arm trying to get the damn thing out, grumbling the whole time about impatient jedi.
No, his memories of the war were no dream, and he wasn't completely certain it had been some sort of Force vision, either. Everything he'd ever read about Force visions—okay, he could admit that he'd gone looking as soon as he heard that Qui-Gon's newest padawan had precognition—suggested it was more of a feeling, or flashes of events, but what he'd experienced was almost fourteen years of memories, clearly defined and as complete as they could have been, collected through a single, mediocre jedi's observations.
He shifted carefully out of bed, glancing at Kei to make sure his friend was still sleeping. He wanted to take the time to change into the clothes that had been folded and set to the side for him—at some point between fainting outside the refectory and waking in the Halls, someone had clearly seen fit to change him into the thin patient robes the healers seemed to use as a preventative measure against stubborn jedi escaping when no one was looking—but there was a sense of urgency in the Force, so he slipped into his boots as quickly as he could, grabbed his lightsabre, and grabbed the robe that had been slung over the end of his bed—Kei's, presumably—shrugging it on as he slipped from his room.
Out in the hallway, he could hear the sounds of jedi in a controlled rush, and when he snuck past the main ward, he found it bustling with a mixed crowd of healers and initiates or young padawans, many of the younglings marked with small burns. He didn't see Wangui among the crowd, and he let out a quiet, relieved breath, and made his escape from the Halls with no one the wiser.
The Force's gentle nudges led him to the main entrance of the Temple, which was empty enough to make it simple to spot his master, brother-padawan, and the young Skywalker. "Qui-Gon!" he shouted, because the group was far enough across the atrium, he couldn't guarantee he'd reach them before they left the building.
His master turned at the echo of his name, his two companions following suit, giving Feemor more than enough time to stumble down the grand staircase and hurry across the open floor to where they had stopped. "Feemor," Qui-Gon said, sounding surprised.
Feemor grabbed for his bicep, half in need of a moment to collect himself after his rush, half to assure himself that Qui-Gon was really there, was alive. To his surprise, Qui-Gon reached back in return, gripping his shoulder in that familiar way he'd always done when he'd wanted to tell Feemor how proud of him he was.
Tears sprung to Feemor's eyes and he hurriedly blinked them back, swallowing down a lump of emotion clogging his throat. "Are you– You're heading back to Naboo?" he managed to choke out.
Qui-Gon sighed, the sound almost fond. "Kimura's still listening at keyholes, then," he guessed, his voice dry.
Feemor shook his head. "Yes, probably. But, Master, this time–" He shook his head again and raised the hand that wasn't holding onto his former master, only to remember it was holding his lightsabre and letting it drop back to his side. "I, I had a, a vision. The sith, the Zabrak, he's going to kill you."
Qui-Gon had opened his mouth at the mention of a vision, clearly about to question the legitimacy, just as his friends had done, but when Feemor had said 'sith', his eyes had gone wide and he'd stiffened.
"Master?" Obi-Wan whispered, sounding shaken.
Qui-Gon twitched, glancing back over his shoulder at his current padawan. "Ah. Obi-Wan, this is Feemor, my first padawan," he offered, his voice holding an edge of forced calm, and, judging by the way Obi-Wan's eyes went wide, Feemor wasn't the only one who'd been surprised by their master actually claiming him. "Feemor, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi."
Feemor swallowed what felt like decades of regret and offered, "Hello, little brother."
Obi-Wan seemed to shrink in on himself, eyes dropping to the floor.
Before Feemor could ask what was wrong—was Obi-Wan...shy? None of the stories he'd ever heard about his brother-padawan had even hinted at such a thing—Qui-Gon said, "The Council doesn't believe me about the warrior being a sith."
"Kriff the Council," Feemor snapped, and Qui-Gon's eyes widened in surprise again, his hand tightening on Feemor's shoulder. "The sith were never gone, they were just hiding. And by the time the Council pulls their collective heads out of their arses, it'll be too late. I'm not– I—we—can't lose you," he insisted, glancing at Obi-Wan, who was still staring down at the floor.
"We can't not go, Feemor," Qui-Gon said in a mild voice that shook, just a little. "Especially with a sith involved."
"No, I know that." Feemor took a deep breath, letting the wash of oxygen push away old grief. If the Council refused to believe Maul was a sith, they'd never approve of additional jedi being sent to Naboo with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan.
If only he knew how Qui-Gon had died, where everything went wrong. Presumably, Obi-Wan had told the whole thing to the Council, but the specifics had never been released to the Temple at large, and Yoda had never seen fit to share the full story of his master's death with him. And it wasn't like he could have asked Obi-Wan, not without revealing why the knowing mattered to him. (Not that he'd likely have had the heart to force his brother-padawan to relive the trauma.)
So, they couldn't trust in the Council to send back-up, and Feemor had already seen that no one was going to believe he might have some idea of future danger.
His hand tightened around his lightsabre, the ridges of the hilt digging into the meat of his palm. "I'm coming with you," he decided, and the Force hummed in approval.
Qui-Gon hesitated for a moment, clearly also sensing the Force's agreement, then glanced down and raised an eyebrow. "In patient robes?"
Feemor cleared his throat and refused to be embarrassed. "Kei and Rún weren't so easy to convince," he offered by way of explanation. (Not that Qui-Gon really had any stones to be throwing when it came to escaping the Halls.)
Qui-Gon sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "I have a spare tunic that should fit you," he decided as he withdrew his hand. "Let's go before we're late."
Qui-Gon took the lead, and Obi-Wan seemed hesitant to fall in behind him, so Feemor motioned Skywalker ahead—the poor boy looked so utterly confused, and as much as Feemor wanted to insist he remain behind in the Temple, uncomfortable with the thought of taking a youngling into a war zone, he was fairly certain that the boy had had something to do with winning the battle—and then fell into step with his brother-padawan. "Obi-Wan?" he asked quietly, leaning down a bit in hopes of catching a better look at his expression.
Obi-Wan peeked over at him, his mouth pressed into a tight line and uncertainty dulling his eyes. "I don't...want him to die," he said, voice so quiet, Feemor almost didn't hear him.
Feemor reached over and rested his hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder, the same as Qui-Gon had done for him, as he had done for his own padawans and the Vode who had served under him. "Neither do I. And I–" He hesitated, swallowing against decades of bitterness. "I don't know, if my coming will save him. But...I have to try."
Obi-Wan nodded and straightened his back, so the top of his head came up to just above Feemor's eyebrows, rather than level with his nose.
Feemor coughed, surprised, and when Obi-Wan shot him a frown, he admitted, "I always thought you were taller."
Obi-Wan's steps stuttered and he choked out, "I am not short! You're just...abnormally tall!"
Feemor couldn't stop a laugh, and when Qui-Gon—already having settled Skywalker into the taxi that was waiting for them—raised his judgemental eyebrow at them, the laugh turned into slightly hysterical giggles.
Obi-Wan's hand caught his elbow, steadying him. "Are you...okay?"
Feemor shook his head, because he'd spent three years in and out of warzones, got shot by his commander, and woke up in what, by all appearances, was his own past; he had a feeling he needed a few sessions with a mind healer, but he would settle for doing his best to keep Qui-Gon alive for a few more days. "It has been a very, very long day, little brother."
Obi-Wan's lips quirked, like he wasn't completely certain if he should smile at that. "I know the feeling," he offered.
Feemor leant over and knocked shoulders with the padawan. "Come on, before he resorts to the Force to pull us along."
Obi-Wan choked out a quiet laugh, his eyes bright with humour.
For the first time in two decades, Feemor felt like he and Obi-Wan Kenobi—Sith-killer, Negotiator, and member of the Jedi High Council—might actually become friends.
3-Never Thought You'd See the Day || 4-Looking Through Distorted Eyes
5-Now We Are What We Have Become
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