Chapter Text
44 BBY, Bandomeer
Xanatos du Crion looked out over the landscape of Bandomeer, waiting.
It was a disgusting planet, but ultimately one that had its purposes and served it well. The corruption ran rampant even without his interference, only barely affected by the constant, watchful Jedi presence on planet. The AgriCorps. Home to the rejected Jedi, the unworthy.
He sneered at the thought, raising an idle hand to rub against his scar. The unworthy suffered less, it seemed. He’d paid the price thrice over for his talent, his aptitudes. His unwillingness to repay the manipulation and demands of the Jedi back in gratitude and faithful service. As if the Jedi on the Council weren’t any less corrupt than the slavers he’d taken control of here, if in a slightly different way.
At least these slavers didn’t kidnap babies and brainwash them.
Thoughts of the Jedi always made him sick. His years with them had taught him many things, but most importantly, it had taught him how to hate. Had taught him that they valued no life above their station in the galaxy and their reputations, and even the so-called mavericks or rebels to the Jedi way always fell into line with these ideals.
The Jedi didn’t understand love or family, how could they? They weren’t allowed to know it.
But they tried anyway, didn’t they? a small voice at the back of his mind reminded him, flashing through images of a tall, long-haired man helping children out of rubble, that same man’s heartbroken expression when Xanatos had chosen his real family over the man who had… the man who had raised him.
He didn’t care about you, he reminded himself firmly. He let you burn.
That’s why he deserves to burn, too.
The plan had always been to kill Qui-Gon Jinn, to take revenge for that night, all those years ago. To prove him wrong. Xanatos was strong enough, he was smart enough, he was…
It occurred to him suddenly that he was good enough without the Galactic Senate or the Jedi riding his ass for murder. This wasn’t something he could cover up, not with that kid running his mouth to anyone who’d listen. Not with the Galactic attention about to be on Bandomeer.
No, he must burn!
But why now? His hand moved to rub at his forehead. He needed to kill Jinn and get this over with, the whole situation was giving him a migraine. Thoughts ran together a bit. The world felt a little hazy, until…
Dragging his hand down over his face, his nail hitched on the tough scar tissue, the spark of pain enough to clear his mind. That intense desire to kill Jinn, to get it over with now, it was… It wasn’t all his own. Unwittingly, his mind went to the shadowy figure who’d promised him so much power. Sidious. It wasn’t impossible that whoever this was was messing with him. Using the bombs had been a suggestion from him.
Qui-Gon Jinn deserved to die. For all the pain he’d put Xanatos through, he deserved to burn. But Xanatos deserved to know that the revenge was of his own doing and not under the influence of some sleemo. Xanatos had plenty of time to make sure that the murder would be perfect, not mired in this slavery and mining scandal about to break out on Bandomeer. Determined, he pulled out a datapad and deactivated all of the bombs in the mining facility. They would be discovered but wouldn't kill the tentative Master-Padawan duo that raced towards him.
Xanatos would free his mind of whatever influences lay upon it, and then he would come to kill Qui-Gon Jinn.
With a swish of his cape, Xanatos du Crion slipped into the night, readying himself to finish this battle another day.
28 BBY, Tanaab – 16 Years Later
Tanaab was a beautiful planet, in Feemor’s opinion, and his opinion counted for rather a lot considering how many planets he had seen at this point. It wasn’t just the physical beauty, although the rolling fields and gorgeous skies were certainly lovely. The peaceful ambiance that he had so desperately sought after the whole Xanatos affair seemed to be in abundance here, and Feemor woke up every day more grateful than the last that he was undisturbed out here, able to soak in the serenity the Jedi were famous for.
He'd always known that he wasn’t a Jedi meant for wild adventures. With Qui-Gon, he’d done his fair share of crazy stunts and negotiated impossible truces and seen the most exotic sights and Force, it was exhausting. That wasn’t the life for him. He’d taken solo missions as a young Knight as well, and realized he had an affinity for the agricultural arts that filled him with an incredible sense of fulfilment on one particular mission to Felucia. It wasn’t too long after that he was overseeing the AgriCorps on the Outer Rim, banishing all drama or excitement from his life.
Well, banishing most drama and excitement. The only piece he allowed into his home – or, more accurately, had a standing invitation to his home – was his brother Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi. The new Knight had needed a refuge that Feemor was all too happy to provide.
The two had grown very close after the Naboo thing. They’d spoken infrequently over the years, but shortly after the completion of his first mission, Obi-Wan had come to Tanaab to recuperate a bit and had become a regular guest since.
Feemor had a lot of calm, quiet mornings. This was not to be one of them, and he knew it from the moment his door chimed.
Obi-Wan was at his doorstep, covered in bruises. This was not… unusual. Unfortunately. Feemor had slapped bacta patches on Obi-Wan’s wounds many, many times. A small cut on his cheek was dripping blood into his beard and the dark circles under his eyes were not, as it appeared at first glance, black eyes. Just exhaustion. This would have be cause enough for concern on its own.
Obi-Wan, however, was not alone. He had brought three individuals of varying degrees of unusual with him.
Xanatos du Crion wasn’t a common visitor, but Feemor wasn’t terribly surprised to see him there. The classically handsome but scarred brother Padawan who had caused their lineage so much trouble had come to Tanaab a few times, but Feemor believed that Xanatos thought the farming planet beneath him. While the very-probably-Obi-Wan-induced visits were memorable, they weren’t so surprising as to be concerning.
The cause of the potential trouble was looming behind them, one of the tallest men Feemor had ever met, and for a moment, Feemor refused to believe his eyes. Probably would have continued refusing to believe his senses if not for the Force gently whispering in his ears, prodding gently at the remnants of an old training bond.
Qui-Gon Jinn was on his doorstep, hand on the shoulder of a pre-teened, nondescript child.
They hadn’t seen each other or even spoken in years. Decades, even. The last they had spoken was just before Xanatos’s Trials, on one of Feemor’s rare visits to Coruscant to accept a new assignment from the Council. Then, he had gladly accepted the opportunity to visit with his former Master and brother Padawan. The next he heard of either, Qui-Gon had disowned all of his Padawans and Xanatos was considered a Darksider and, well… That was that.
The ghost of this man and his disavowal had chased Feemor from the Jedi as a whole, even more than his inherent desire to be away from society. He had slipped into the sort of life many viewed as a punishment or demotion with a sigh of relief, and not just due to the decrease in people who had heard the stories. Farming was his calling. The Force sang to him through every green shoot, whispered to him with the wind.
He listened hard for it now, desperately grappling for serenity, patience, and the strength to not punch Qui-Gon Jinn.
Putting the issue aside for now, Feemor turned to Obi-Wan, eyebrow raised expectantly.
“I’m sorry about this,” his brother Padawan apologized, rubbing sheepishly at a particularly vivid blue mark on his jawline. “We need a place to lay low.”
“Everyone we know is trying to kill us,” Xanatos explained tersely. He kept glancing over his shoulder, avoiding looking at their former Master.
“Not everyone,” Feemor sighed, pulling the door open farther.
Obi-Wan gave him a tired smile as they all entered.
His table didn’t seat five people, he reflected idly, but he had enough food to feed them all and that was the important thing.
The child, he assumed, was Anakin Skywalker. Anakin seemed the least bothered by whatever was going on, and Feemor could tell right away that he was going to take a shine to this kid. Despite appearing unbothered, he had the bright spark of intelligence shining in his eyes, and Feemor knew that Anakin was going to be an asset to the Order one day.
Xanatos didn’t appear overly bothered either, if a little paranoid, although that was just Xani pretending he knew everything and could take everything in stride. Feemor could sense the apprehension rolling off of him in waves, and it was mostly directed towards the man they had both called Master at some point. Xani didn’t like to seem vulnerable anyway, but showing any kind of weakness to Qui-Gon would be a massive blow to Xani’s pride.
Their former Master looked horribly awkward. It wasn’t the size of the room or the furniture – Feemor being taller than average himself meant that nothing around was small – that was keeping him from ease, but rather the company. All of his Padawans, three of which he had disowned, were sitting around him, and it had to be terribly uncomfortable, which Feemor silently and secretly relished.
Last he’d heard, Obi-Wan was going to Korriban to poke around and see if he could stir anything up. What had happened to bring this group together? Once he’d seen his silent, brooding guests into the living room and promised them tea and snacks, Feemor snagged Obi-Wan’s arm, dragged him into the kitchen and closed the door.
“That is Anakin, right?” Feemor wanted to make sure before they moved on.
“Yes, that’s Anakin. I am terribly sorry for dropping everyone on your doorstep like this, but if I had to spend one more day stuck in the middle of Xani and Qui-Gon’s angst, I would have really gone to the Dark Side.”
Obi-Wan looked absolutely exhausted, pushing to his breaking point, so Feemor pulled him into a hug, his heart fit to burst. “No apologies, little brother. I love hosting.”
“You’re such a liar. You hate company,” Obi-Wan laughed wetly into his shoulder. He was shaking slightly. From stress or exhaustion or emotion or all three.
“I love hosting you,” he countered, grinning even if his brother couldn’t see it. “And I can’t say I mind Anakin.”
Obi-Wan stepped away a little, looking a little steadier. “And what about the other two?”
“They’re going to be sleeping in the barn,” he quipped, making Obi-Wan laugh again. He let Obi-Wan pull away, but kept an arm around his shoulders and directed him to lean against the counter. “There, better. Now, can you tell me what’s going on?”
Obi-Wan partnering with Qui-Gon Jinn wasn’t just odd, it was something Obi-Wan had sworn to never do again. Feemor remembered all too well his ex-Master’s tendency to go all or nothing – in trying to save someone new, Qui-Gon had neglected to consider those for whom he was already responsible, and had broken Obi-Wan’s trust irreparably.
It was sort of funny; Feemor could live with what Qui-Gon had done to him as a new Knight. Despite the situations being similar, he couldn’t condone what Qui-Gon had done to Obi-Wan. Feemor didn’t think it had been intended maliciously, but he kept himself on Tanaab so he wouldn’t have to test his ability to stick to the Code. He’d seen Obi-Wan upset over it one too many times to be able to play nice.
Seeing them working together was very troubling. It also took Feemor’s right to punch Qui-Gon on Obi-Wan’s behalf if Obi-Wan had decided to play nice.
“I will give you the full story later, but… The short version is that Qui-Gon and Anakin got kidnapped by Cutter and his pirates so I rescued them. We landed on Yavin 4 so I could meet with Xani and they could negotiate transport back to Coruscant, but we were ambushed. We got attacked on two more planets before coming here. This was the only safe place I could think of, and –”
“You don’t need to explain why you came. You’re always welcome here, Obi.”
He sighed miserably, shoulders heaving. “I'm afraid we’ve brought danger to your doorstep.”
“I’m a Jinn Padawan. I can handle it.” Feemor squeezed Obi-Wan tighter. “How are you feeling? How was being on the Cutlass again?”
“I am… Force, I’m so fucking confused, Feemor.” He leaned against Feemor as much as he was leaning against the counter, and Feemor rubbed his arm as he continued speaking. “Being back there was… overwhelming, to say the least. It was ironic, in a way. There I was, rescuing Qui-Gon Jinn from the cell in which I spent a desperate month and a half, hoping beyond hope he would save me. He never came for me, but I came for him. Gods, Feemor. He’s like a drug. I thought I had stopped caring, but the moment I saw the suspicion and doubt written all over his face at the sight of me, my heart broke all over again.”
“Oh, Obi.”
Obi-Wan forced a dry, brittle laugh. “We ought to start on the tea if we want to prevent Xan murdering Qui-Gon.” He didn't take his head from Feemor's shoulders.
Feemor wanted nothing more in the universe than to hold his little brother closer and never let go. They could have a few more moments, surely. A few more moments for Obi-Wan to leave down his walls and just relax, just let Feemor take care of him. “Xan won’t kill Qui-Gon, Obi. Are you sure…”
“Feemor, if I stop to have my emotional breakdown right now, we’ll never get anything solved.” His voice was firm where his posture was not, but regretful. A little resentful.
Feemor was Jedi enough to acknowledge that he was also a little resentful of the universe at large. He wanted nothing more than to keep his family safe, but it seemed he wasn't allowed that.
“Okay,” he agreed simply, giving Obi-Wan one last squeeze before moving away to get the kettle, pointedly not making a big deal of it. “Grab the tea, will you? Any idea who attacked you?”
“None,” he sighed, shaking his head in frustration as he opened the cupboards. His shoulders were tighter, now. Back to business, whatever his personal feelings. “The red or the green?”
“Both. You know Xani only drinks green these days.”
Obi-Wan snorted, setting the tins on the counter with shaking hands. “He’s a tasteless heathen.”
“How would your attacker have found out where you were going?” Feemor asked, glancing over from watching the water levels in the kettle, trying to surreptitiously supervise.
He picked up on it, and gave Feemor a flat, unimpressed look that did nothing to hide his anxiety. “We informed the Jedi Council of our intended destinations beforehand. Our assailants stayed on the ground, which was odd, but we were never on a planet for more than an hour or two before they showed up. My ship’s communications aren’t particularly well protected, but it would require a degree of dedication and time that there really wasn’t between attacks.”
“So it has to be… Someone on the Council?” He frowned, closing the lid on the kettle. “They may be ass-backwards shitweasels, but that’s not really their style.”
“You're right, Feemor. The situation is very odd.”
Feemor didn’t speak for a moment as he placed the kettle on its stand and turned it on. “The transmissions may have been less secure on the Council’s end. Or at least widely accessible," he suggested. He knew that his knowledge of slicing and other tech-related things was severely lacking unless it involved plants in some way. Obi-Wan was always cleverest when it came to those kinds of things.
“Fair point.”
“Next step is figuring out motives. Anyone you or Qui-Gon annoyed, or even Xanatos… Hey, you don’t think…?”
“No, I don’t think so. He was too surprised.” Obi-Wan sighed, rubbing idly at his beard, which Feemor knew hid a small scar from his short tenure as a slave in Xanatos’s mine. “And if we sat around trying to make a list of the people Qui-Gon pissed off, we’d be here at least a full cycle just writing down names.”
“Then we’d have to find their next of kin because chances are that they hate Qui-Gon too.”
They exchanged a look of exasperation, a familiar feeling bordering on fondness surrounding their former Master’s tendency to solve the problem first and consider ramifications afterward. They stood in brooding silence for a long moment.
Obi-Wan's hands hadn't stopped their gentle trembling, although his shoulders were less tight. Feemor would have given anything to take this burden from his little brother, but he knew that Obi-Wan wouldn't allow him to even if it was possible. He would never allow someone to suffer for him, and while it was one of his more annoying traits, it was also one of his most admirable. Feemor cared for him a great deal, and this was one of the many reasons why. No matter what path Obi-Wan's life had taken, he was inherently good. No matter what the Council or the Jedi said, no matter if the entire galaxy was against them, Feemor trusted in Obi-Wan's character.
The kettle whistled suddenly, startling Obi-Wan enough that he knocked one of the mugs off the counter. “Fuck me sideways.”
“Language, Obi-Wan,” Feemor scolded idly, catching it with the Force before it hit the floor. He glanced over at Obi-Wan in continued concern. The jumpiness was never a good sign, although Feemor wouldn't have described anything today as a good sign. In fact, all signs indicated that the shit was about to hit the fan.
“Language, Obi-Wan,” Obi-Wan mocked, and though Feemor couldn’t see him, he didn’t need the Force to know that he was sticking out his tongue.
Fortunately, Feemor had his brother at his side. Together, they had weathered many shit storms with various consequences. They could weather this, too.
Snickering softly, Feemor poured the water and Obi-Wan added the leaves, exuding amusement and as much contentment as could be found in the situation. They stared at the steeping tea together for a moment.
“Time to face them again,” Obi-Wan said, suddenly morose.
Feemor chuckled again, patting Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “You’re Sith, Obi-Wan. What have you to fear?”