Chapter Text
Obi-Wan Kenobi had seen quite a few performances-gone-wrong.
There was the time in the college when the fire alarm went off midway through, because the percussionist was smoking during his fifty-six measures of rest. There was the time a trombonist smacked another player in the back of the head with his slide, knocking her unconscious right before her solo. And then there was the time that Obi-Wan himself, the principal cellist, had fallen asleep in his chair during his spotlight in Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1.
And then there was now . To which all other disasters paled in comparison.
Now—the time the conductor got arrested in the middle of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus.
The audience was absolutely still, the music filling the performance hall with sound and a feeling of grandeur. It was a majestic piece—Valorum, the conductor, led the orchestra in dynamic swells as the choir dramatically proclaimed hallelujah through the hall. Obi-Wan glanced down at his music. He had the piece memorized anyhow—spending 14 hours a day playing the cello tended to have that effect—but it didn’t hurt to look.
And when he looked up again, he saw them—police officers crossing the stage. In the middle of a concert .
His eyes widened as they approached Valorum. Yanked him down from the conducting stand. And handcuffed him, right there in the midst of centerstage.
They led him off yelping and protesting.
Obi-Wan Kenobi was the principal cellist of the Philadelphia Orchestra—the highest-ranking member of the cello section, in one of the most prestigious musical ensembles in the world. And for all his experience and expertise, this was not among the things he was prepared to deal with.
But here’s the thing about being a professional musician—you don’t make it that far without being just that. A professional.
And so if the soloist passes out moments before her solo? The second-chair player takes over, someone offstage calls a medic, and the orchestra plays on.
If the electricity goes out and the concert hall goes completely dark? The players rely on memory, and the orchestra plays on.
If the conductor steps a little too far back off his podium and falls off the stage?
You get the idea.
And so now, as Valorum was led from the hall practically kicking and screaming by a group of disgruntled law officers?
The chorus sang haaaallelujah! Obi-Wan thought whaaaaat the hell?
But still he lowered his gaze back into the music stand and fixed his posture and moved on to page seven.
And the orchestra played on.
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“So that happened.”
The audience had left the concert hall—well, fled was perhaps a more accurate word—leaving the musicians to finally erupt in their stifled disbelief. Satine was leaning forward, and Obi-Wan could feel her eyes on his face. She ripped her music from the stand and stuffed it into the folder.
“What do you think he’s in for? And gee, couldn’t they have waited until the end of the concert?” she said. “For heaven’s sake, it’s not as if he was going anywhere.”
“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said, almost more to himself than to her. “Perhaps it’s a mistake.”
Satine’s eyebrows went up. Around them, musicians were moving about in disarray, the sound of voices only growing. “Doubtful. Pretty sure they don’t make an arrest until they’re certain. Especially such a public one.”
Obi-Wan hummed and slid his own music into the case. Beside and behind him, the rest of the cello section was doing the same. As principal player, he was supposed to check in, make any necessary announcements before dismissal. But given the circumstances, he’d just waved them off, murmuring he supposed he’d see them tomorrow. And it’s not as if there was anyone to dismiss them, anyway.
“Maybe he’s a Russian spy,” Satine was continuing, eyes lighting up. “I’ve heard stories like that, haven’t you? Olympic coaches or world-class musicians, people who can travel internationally and get into elite places…could be espionage.”
“Oh, please.” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “And you’ve always called me the paranoid one.”
She scoffed, reminding him of another Satine he once knew.
“Well,” he said. “In any case, I guess we’ll be needing a new director. I don’t suppose you’ll finally be putting that Conducting degree to use, Madame Maestro?”
She shot him an irritated look. They’d both gone to Curtis Institute of Music, constantly butting heads as the two most promising undergrads in Cello Performance. But after graduation, Satine had pursued graduate studies in Orchestral Conducting with aspirations to be the Maestro of her own ensemble. And Obi-Wan had landed here—first chair, first try. Satine still hadn’t conducted an orchestra.
“Better watch out if I do,” she snapped back. “Or else you’ll find yourself sitting a little further from the front of the ensemble, shall we say.”
She nodded toward the back of the section—where the slightly less skilled players sat, though at this level it hardly mattered. Everyone was exceptional. Still though—Obi-Wan was rather pleased with his slot as number one.
He rolled his eyes again as Satine packed her cello away and gingerly zipped the case, before stalking away with the click of high heels and no real wave of farewell.
Some things never change.
Now that his attention wasn’t glued to Satine, Obi-Wan found himself soaking in the energy of the rest of the orchestra. With the hall empty and the Maestro having vacated the podium, most were milling about and talking in increasingly loud tones, their speculations only growing. Obi-Wan packed his own cello away and tried to tune them all out.
His eyes found the empty seats of the audience quickly, once he’d zipped his case. And though he’d seen the sight a thousand times, still it made him pause—Verizon Hall seemed to stretch on endlessly, the height and breadth of it feeling eternal. He’d spent many a day sitting in this very spot, once he’d successfully auditioned for the orchestra, and still more long before that in the audience seats himself. It was easy to forget, for many people, the difficulty of the climb once you’d reached the summit—the journey from out there to up here.
But not for everyone. Not for Obi-Wan.
He tucked his music into the zippered pouch on the front of his cello case—Bach’s first Cello Suite, as they were performing this week—and stood from his chair. The rest of the musicians didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon, instead favoring the gossip that floated from section to section. But Obi-Wan had no patience for such things. Whatever there was to know, he’d learn it tomorrow at rehearsal as always. He lifted the cello onto his back and slid on the shoulder strap, and was two paces toward the stage door when he found himself abruptly tumbling across the floor.
He didn’t quite fall—thankfully, with the cello on his back—but he did stumble a good three feet, smashing into a music stand on his way. It slammed against the ground, sending the poor violist’s music everywhere, and Obi-Wan murmured an apology as he steadied himself against a chair.
And then he turned to see what he’d stumbled upon.
“So sorry! My bad! Just, ah, don’t mind me, I um—”
The man— nearly a boy, really, my goodness —was crouched on his hands and knees, some two feet back from where Obi-Wan had tripped. Beside him was a trumpet case. And in his hand was…
“What on earth are you doing ?”
The man rose to his feet, dusting off his knees. “Sorry,” he said again. “I was just chasing a sound. You got in the way, I guess.”
“I got in the—excuse me, hold on. Chasing a—”
“—sound, yeah. With this.”
He held up what looked like…an old-fashioned tape recorder. Obi-Wan huffed in amusement.
“Yeah, there was this noise coming from the back of your cello case—the wheels turn when you walk. See?” The man went around behind Obi-Wan and spun the wheels on the bottom of his cello case. Obi-Wan stepped quickly out of range.
“I beg your pardon—”
“—and they just make such a neat sound. Could be exactly what I’m looking for as the aux percussion of my next demo…”
The man was rambling on, using his hands to speak as the tape recorder flailed around within them. And though Obi-Wan did take another step back, some weird part of him found this…endearing? No. Amusing, perhaps. He pushed the smile pack from his face and tamed his expression.
“You’re a composer, then,” Obi-Wan said. “You’re writing music?”
“ Building music, is the term I prefer,” the man replied, grinning. “I record sounds from out on the street, the subway, you name it. And then I sew it all together. Like putting together all the broken pieces. Gives a whole new meaning to street music, you know?”
Obi-Wan nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure he did. The stage was starting to empty now, and the man’s voice was getting louder—people were starting to turn. Obi-Wan glanced over his shoulder, toward the exit. Would it be rude if he just…?
“Anyway,” the man continued. “Um…”
His voice trailed off, as if he were waiting for something. Obi-Wan stared blankly for a moment before coughing dryly.
“Oh! Ah, forgive me, I’ve been rude,” he said, stepping slightly forward again and extending a hand. “I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi—”
“Principal cellist, yes, I know.” The man’s eyebrows raised as he smiled. “Everyone knows. Well, everyone in classical music.”
Another cough. “Ah.”
“I’m Anakin Skywalker. Second trumpet.”
Now Obi-Wan raised another eyebrow. “Believe it or not, I know, too.”
“Well,” Anakin said. “I guess reputation precedes most of us in this line of work.” Obi-Wan nodded. “So, come on. You know Maestro Valorum better than the rest of us—well, better than me, anyway. So what was that all about? What did he do?”
Obi-Wan’s eyebrows dropped. “And why should I know?”
“No—I…wasn’t implying you were involved,” Anakin said quickly. “Well, maybe I was. I don’t know. Do you know something?”
Obi-Wan’s sputtered protests were interrupted as someone tapped the microphone. They both whirled around. And there, taking the conductor’s podium, was the conducting assistant—Mr. Palpatine.
The remaining musicians turned at the sound, and a general hush fell across the stage as Palpatine tapped the mic again, clearing his throat. “I’m sure you all have some questions,” he said. “Though I’ll admit I’m just as in the dark as most of you.”
The phrase hung heavily in the air— most of you. As if there were some in their present company who might not be entirely unaware of the reasons for Valorum’s arrest. And suddenly Anakin’s suspicion didn’t seem so ridiculous after all.
Palpatine cleared his throat again. “It appears that Maestro Valorum was allegedly involved in some…questionable legal activity. Until further notice, he will not be directing this ensemble.”
Murmuring filled the hall, a dull symphony of its own.
“I wish I could share more. But until then, we will proceed with the program. I will be stepping in to conduct, obviously on a temporary basis,” he continued. “Rehearsal tomorrow as always. Goodnight.”
The dismissal was brief, and rather curt—at least Obi-Wan thought so. He didn’t know Palpatine well, not anymore. But he knew enough to explain the tightness that suddenly sprouted in the pit of his stomach.
“So more people were involved!”
The boy was practically whispering in his ear, so close was his head to Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Obi-Wan yanked back, dusting his blazer.
“We don’t even know what they were involved in . Let’s not go speculating—”
“That’s exactly what someone who’s involved would say.”
“Oh, hush—”
Anakin laughed, so Obi-Wan knew he was at least partially kidding.
“He's a nice guy, though. Palpatine,” Anakin continued. “He went to Curtis. Same as you, right?”
Obi-Wan just nodded, still fighting the sour in his stomach. “He was the same class as my father.”
“Your father was a musician, too? Damn,” he replied. “Guess that stuff really does run in the family.”
Obi-Wan tried to keep his face blank as he nodded. “In any case, I don’t know him well. I’m not as privy to the inner workings of the orchestra as you seem to think.”
Anakin looked sheepish. “I didn’t mean to accuse. It’s just wild, you know? It’s not every day the conductor gets arrested. And I can’t help but want the full story, don’t you?”
Obi-Wan let a puff of air from his lungs. If only this Anakin knew.
Obi-Wan had spent the better part of his life chasing the full story .
Just a different story than the one before him today.
“I’ll make it up to you. You headed anywhere after this?” Anakin said. “It’s almost happy hour at Dirty Frank’s.”
Obi-Wan couldn’t help wrinkling his nose. “Isn’t that a dive bar?”
“Yeah, man. That’s kind of the point.”
Obi-Wan almost laughed. Laughed ! What was it about this guy? “Regardless, I can’t, but thank you,” he replied. “My Wednesday nights are otherwise occupied, I’m afraid.”
“Another time, then,” Anakin said, then seemed to pale. “Wait, Wednesday?”
Obi-Wan’s smile faded slightly. “Yes. Why?”
“Shit. Wednesday! ”
And then, quick as he’d appeared, Anakin was grabbing his trumpet case from the floor and stuffing the tape recorder in his pocket, then bolting across the stage. He disappeared into the wings, a flurry of long hair and long legs.
“Wait—Anakin?”
Another voice came from behind Anakin—Obi-Wan turned to see Padmé Amidala, principal violinist. Concertmaster. He nodded a bow of respect, but she wasn’t looking. Her eyes followed Anakin out.
Beside her, Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “I suppose he had somewhere to be.”
“Suppose so,” Padmé said. She sighed. “I just wish I knew where.”
Obi-Wan gave her a tight, quiet smile. They were friendly enough, both leaders of their respective sections. Enough gossip floated his way to know that she and Anakin were together in some capacity, though Obi-Wan had never made an effort to learn the details. He stayed out of people’s business that way. But still, he felt like he knew Padmé to a slightly greater degree than he did most others in the orchestra. Except, of course, Satine. And so the smile was genuine.
He was about to excuse himself when Palpatine came by, arms full with stacks of musical scores. He stopped before them, and dropped a set of scores into Padmé’s arms and more onto the music stand nearest to Obi-Wan.
“Distribute to your section,” he said, already rounding the row of chairs and away. “Have it ready for Monday.”
Obi-Wan nodded, still tight-lipped. He stuffed the scores in his case and bid Padmé goodnight, leaving her there on the empty stage.
His stomach never settled.
The air was chilly for October—sometimes it seemed the heat hung longer in Philadelphia than anywhere else. The temperature was always hit-or-miss this time of year, and Obi-Wan remembered many an October he’d spent running to school in shorts and a t-shirt. Now, his coat was buttoned to his chin.
Outside the Kimmel Center, Obi-Wan turned the corner into the alley. There was always the chance it wouldn’t be there—this was the city, after all—and so he found himself relieved to see the bike leaning up against the brick wall, chained to the pipes each time. Obi-Wan unlocked the bike and rolled the chain up, shoving it into his pocket. He wheeled the bike out onto Broad Street. And with the cello securely on his back, he pushed off with one foot and started through the streets of the city.
It was dark, and the traffic lights and cab headlights flashed by like fireworks. The city at night was a musical piece of its own—all honking horns and yelling names and the occasional street performer catching stray bills from tourists after the shows. He thought briefly that maybe that Anakin kid was onto something—capturing sounds from the street to write his own music. To build music, as he’d claimed. Obi-Wan found himself shaking his head at the thought.
Silly boy, he thought. You can’t build music so much as you can build air. It’s something that funnels through you—you can’t create it or destroy it. It just is. We are merely the channels through which it comes to others.
The journey felt quicker tonight, with Obi-Wan lost in his thoughts of arrested conductors and tape recorders and college maybe-friends. It wasn’t long before he was biking across the South Street Bridge, cold wind biting his face, and pulling up to the familiar gates in the darkness, the city seeming to fade behind him.
The Woodlands Cemetery.
He got off his bike at the entrance, walking it in the rest of the way. The grave wasn’t far beyond the fence, but even just a step inside felt like entering a new world—the greenery, the silence, and the darkness made it feel separate from the city altogether. He wheeled his bike down the first pathway, eyes scanning each headstone without even needing to. He knew the way.
“Hi, Dad.”
Obi-Wan laid his bike down beside the old familiar grave.
Here lies Qui-Gon Jinn.
He dropped the cello case from his shoulder, setting it gently onto the grass. He knelt beside it, the dampness of the grass wetting the knees of his trousers.
“It’s been a wild day,” Obi-Wan continued. “Too bizarre to explain, really. If you were here, I don’t even think you’d believe it.”
Qui-Gon Jinn was silent. He always was. But there were times, like this one, when Obi-Wan swore the silence spoke back.
Try me.
“Well, Valorum got arrested, for starters.” The air rustled the leaves, and Obi-Wan pulled his coat tighter. “Satine’s still gunning for my spot as principal. And maybe for my head, in general,” he continued. “Oh—and I might have made a friend.”
To that, the silence seemed to change. Who ? it questioned.
“He’s a bit odd. As most musicians are,” Obi-Wan said. “He… builds music.”
At the sound of it—the craziness of it all—Obi-Wan almost laughed. But suddenly his throat was tight, and his eyes were hot, and he was afraid he might not laugh at all, but something else.
“Anyway,” he said, centering himself. Blinking hard. “It’s Wednesday. New repertoire. And I think you’ll like it. We’re playing the Saint-Saëns No. 1. And your favorite Brahms sonata, too.”
He reached into the front of his cello case, producing the scores.
“Satine’s not pleased to hear me playing that one again—we both played it for our final juries one year in school, and she’s convinced the only reason my scores were higher was because—”
Obi-Wan realized his voice was rising in volume, and was suddenly acutely aware that this was a public place, and he was…well, talking to himself.
“Well,” he said. He unzipped the cello case in full, pulling the instrument from inside. Then, he sat back on the rock that faced the grave and dug the cello’s endpin into the ground, securing it there. “I suppose I’ll just begin. You always did say I talked too much, instead of just letting the music speak for itself.”
He leaned backward, feeling the stone seat beneath him, eyes fixed on the grave. Between his fingers, the bow trembled slightly.
“Thanks for always listening.”
And so in the darkness of the cemetery, guarded by invisible stars and city streetlights, Obi-Wan Kenobi performed for an audience of one.
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He lived in Rittenhouse. Just a few blocks from the Curtis Institute of Music, from the famous park of Rittenhouse Square. The rent was expensive—but Obi-Wan could afford it now. Though sometimes he forgot he didn’t have to carefully budget his meals anymore, stretching every dollar and every can of soup to last one more day, watering down the broth just to fill the bowl.
A few feet from the staircase, Obi-Wan got off his bike and pushed it the rest of the way, then carried it up to the doorstep. He wished he could just leave the bike chained to the railing. But the land-lady was already generous enough to let him play the cello at all hours of the day and night—he didn’t want to push his luck. And so each night he dragged it up the stairs to the second story, and stuck it out the window onto the fire escape. And every morning he dragged it back down again.
Except tonight, as he jingled his keys toward the door…
Obi-Wan hesitated.
He had the oddest sense that he wasn’t alone. That he was being watched.
Satine hadn’t been entirely exaggerating about his paranoia—at least in some ways. But in this case, on the streets of Philly at night, wearing a suit with an expensive instrument on his back, it was probably justified. He glanced once over his shoulder, keys held taut between his fingers now.
But no one was there.
At least, no one he could see.
Just my nerves, he promised himself. It has been quite a day, after all.
He turned the key and started into the building, beginning the long trek up the stairs with a bike and a cello. But still, when he opened the door to his apartment and locked the door behind him, he heaved a sigh of relief.
Obi-Wan put the kettle on and set his cello down by his little music studio, then circled back to pull out the new repertoire. Though they’d just finished a set today, he’d need to have the new music prepared to perfection by tomorrow—such was the way of a professional musician. He figured he could get a good four hours of practice in before bed, late as it was.
He sat at the stool and pulled the cello from its case, taking a moment to clean the endpin of the dirt and grass from the cemetery. But as he went to pull the new music from the front pocket, something else slid from among the scores. A sheet of paper.
A note.
Obi-Wan lifted it from the floor and took it into his hands. Which started to shake at the sight of the text, scribbled in slanted ink.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.