Chapter Text
Obi-Wan thought his time on Coveway would have eased him back into the rest of the galaxy, but nothing really prepared him for the noise and hubbub of Coruscant. Anakin was somewhere between overjoyed and enraged with him, though he sobered when Obi-Wan apologized and explained he’d been badly injured as the source of the delay. The Council was in an uproar and Obi-Wan learned—to his secret guilt—that they’d sent two Knights to look for him in the sector in which he’d disappeared. There was paperwork, and a debriefing that felt more like an interrogation—which thankfully did not include the Chancellor—and physicals, during which a puzzled healer noted that not only had Obi-Wan’s injuries healed, but that he was in better physical condition than when he’d left. Obi-Wan told them a simplified version of how he’d crashed on Lotho Minor, and rebuilt his ship well enough to get to Coveway, embellished and obfuscated when necessary, and reiterated over and over that the holocron had been lost.
His story was accepted, finally, when he didn’t change it, and even if Yoda seemed a tad dubious, he didn’t voice it.
Obi-Wan dragged himself back to the apartments he shared with Anakin, to catch up on his derelict duties as a Master and a Jedi. He took special care to give Anakin extra attention in addition to the training they were behind on, sensing how afraid the boy must have been, and suspecting he must be feeling insecure. It was strange, how easily he slipped back into the rhythm of Temple life, as if Coveway and Lotho Minor were a distant and haunting dream.
A week after his return to Coruscant, he finally forced himself to address his electronic communications.
His message box was overflowing and it took him close to a day to respond to those messages which were still applicable, delete all the advertisements from companies that still managed to get ahold of his information despite him never purchasing from them, and generally get himself in order. He was clicking through mindlessly, deleting message after message, when a subject line caught his eye.
Durasteel Cagematch. No Weapons. No Mercy. Subscribe Today. Matches Weekly.
Obi-Wan frowned, re-reading the words. They weren’t terribly unusual in and of themselves, but the punctuation was singularly odd, and it didn’t read like the rare underground fight advertisements of which he’d occasionally caught sight during missions on Outer Rim worlds. Hoping he wasn’t about to unleash a virus on his console, he clicked the message.
Ben, read the opening line. Obi-Wan’s breath caught in his throat.
Ben,
The mountains here are blue, and the tea bitter. I think you would like it, it has a smoky aftertaste that reminds me of the packet you brought home from the market, that filled the kitchen with the scent of it.
I’ve found a place for the moment, to eat, and to sleep, and to practice. For now, it is enough, though I keep thinking of you. Pointless. I hope you are alive.
I’ve never written a letter like this. It seems a senseless exercise, and you should definitely delete it, but you once promised to talk to me, as much as I wanted, and I find it eases the nightmares, even to imagine that I might be heard.
I found a package in the market today. Two crystals. I bought them on the sufferance of our mutual friend. I think I can rebuild. One day I hope to show you their color. I haven’t forgotten your promise, or mine to you. Stay safe.
Love,
J.