Drifting

by Flamethrower

Title: Drifting

Author: Flamethrower (flamethrower@thedeadcat.net)

Archive: Just MA for now, since my site hath been broken. *sigh*

Category: Q/O, AU, ANGST-STICK

Warning: Non-specific cannibalism reference.

Spoilers: ...You know, if it weren't for the books still coming out, this would be a dead category.

Summary: Eleventh story in the Lonely Place `verse.

Series order: All ten parts to date can be found here, as well as on the Archive.

Feedback: Yep yep yep!

Thanks: to the folks who beta'd this piece - as always, you're all wonderful.

Classic Disclaimer: "Rob? That's a naughty word, we never rob! We just... sort of borrow."
"Borrow? Boy, are we in debt!"

His sense of time was utter garbage, but all he had to do was glance at a summarized HoloNet feed to keep up with the date. Exactly five weeks had passed since he'd tried his damnedest to die on Byss, and Palpatine's treason was still the topic of choice.

It had been four weeks since he had awoken that first time, destroying a bacta tank in a blind panic. Three weeks and three days since he had collapsed again, his liver announcing in no uncertain terms that it quit. The Healers had dithered about, keeping him alive while prepping for the surgery that would give him a new, cloned organ. It had been worth the bemused look on Healer Terza's face when he'd confided that this would be liver number four. (He'd been kind enough not to tell her that he'd been awake for every single procedure. Even Healers had limits.) Livers and stimulants were not good friends, but he'd needed to keep his awareness enough to avoid dying under the blade of one of Sidious's Hands. Sleep was counterproductive when you were surrounded by your competition.

Three weeks since he'd awoken in yet another blasted tank (he'd managed not to destroy this one), then dumped on a dialysis machine to make his body purge the remains of the drugs. Two weeks, five days, since he'd awoken to Bail Organa telling him that he had been issued a full pardon by the Senate.

He'd reacted... badly.

Bail would forgive him, he knew; that man just did not have it within himself to hold a grudge, and his cuts from the flying glass had been minor. Bail had drawn his dignity about himself like a cloak while giving him a terse "You're welcome," in farewell. He'd smiled in response. Being Chancellor was good for the man. Months ago Venge had funneled money into certain coffers, ensuring that the vote would be swayed by a definite percentage in Bail Organa's favor.

Two weeks since he'd awoken in a darkened room to find Qui-Gon Jinn staring down at him, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Before he'd had the chance to even contemplate words, the Jedi Master was gone again. It made him wonder if he'd dreamed the entire thing.

One week, four days, since he'd recovered enough to start walking unassisted, ridding himself of most of the tubes and wires that he'd been growling at non-stop while conscious. He'd had black spots dancing across his vision with each step, but it was worth it just to get out of that damned bed.

A week ago he had awoken with Master Yoda perched at the foot of his bed. The ancient Master wore an aggravated scowl, and his ears were drooping with exhaustion. Questions weren't necessary; his eyes told him everything he needed to know. There were black scorch marks decorating the walls, and in the corner was a pile of twisted, broken metal and plastic - the remains of his life-support monitoring equipment. After that he'd slept with an inhibitor slapped on the side of his neck without protest. One of the specialized inhibitors would have been better, as it took conscious intent to use the Force while wearing one, but he didn't dare ask for it. The Sith inhibitor had been easy to modify, when he'd found it years ago as a discarded project in Sidious's labs. He'd just never imagined using it for this particular purpose.

Last night Healer Terza had told him that he was to be released in the morning, and the Council wanted to see him the moment he stepped out of the Healers' Ward. At his request, a droid had delivered clothing from the Quartermaster's stores. His fingers had clenched soft, raw silk, and if his hands were shaking, the Healer had not made mention of it before bidding him good night.

In five weeks the galaxy had started to put itself together, just as he had strived to ensure. He wished he felt something, anything, about his success.

He wished he felt anything, period.

His hood up, he drifted through the Temple with the sense of Light and life surrounding him, and it couldn't comfort him. He wasn't meant to return here. The Council had to realize that, had to know that even if he were ever forgiven for his transgressions, this was not his home. Not anymore.

Qui-Gon Jinn rubbed his chin, tried not to scratch the stubble that was finally - finally -- starting to grow, and looked over at Adi Gallia. The other Master was shifting in her seat, her normally serene expression touched by impatience.

She met his eyes, smiled, and he realized that he had been shifting in his own seat just as much. Neither of them was prepared for this role any longer, if for different reasons, and they both knew it. Qui-Gon had accepted the Council seat out of a sense of responsibility for what he knew was coming, as well as in acknowledgement of his advancing age. With his seventy-fifth birthday, he had found his joints beginning to pain him, found it harder to push his body through the katas. Long years of missions and harsh battles had been catching up to him at last. War had kept him out in the field anyway, and he had worried on more than one occasion that his slowing reflexes were going to get someone killed.

Now he no longer felt those physical restrictions clamping down on him, and he wanted the hell out of this chair. He already had his replacement in mind, though he suspected that Quinlan Vos was not going to thank him for the nomination.

Today, of all days, though, was not the day to resign. Qui-Gon wanted to be present, even if it was a meeting he was both looking forward to and dreading. He steeled himself when Mace signaled for the doors to be opened, admitting a lone figure cloaked in dark brown.

It was strange to be walking through those double doors again. The last time he had done it, he had been seeing both the Council chamber and the darkened communications array in front of him. He'd maintained that contact out of sheer stubbornness, watching transparent Jedi Masters do their best not to cut him down where he stood.

Not that it would have harmed him, but he had worked hard to ensure that they wouldn't have known. Until Sidious had been forced to flee Coruscant, he'd been managing very well.

The sun was filtering in through the windows with the intense cheer of late morning, giving the room a glow that should have warmed him and did not. He lowered his hood as he walked to the center of the room, ignored the fact that his hands were trembling. Physical exertion, that was all it was.

He looked at each Councilor in turn. Adi Gallia was now seated to Mace Windu's right, occupying the chair that Micah Giett had held. To Adi's left... he dropped his gaze, not wanting to see. He knew full well the anger that awaited him, and was not prepared to deal with it. Not today. Instead he glanced left, to find Yoda in his customary place beside Master Windu. Next to Yoda was Luminara Unduli, and Ki-Adi Mundi followed. Yarael Poof's empty chair was next, and Saesee Tiin after. The rest of the Council was out of his line of sight, unless he wanted to turn around, or to look at the man seated next to Master Gallia.

Dimly he wondered what they were all waiting for, and then realized his simple, protocol-driven mistake. Old habits, he thought, bitter, and gave the assembled Council a stiff bow that Venge would never have deigned to bother with.

It was Yoda who broke the silence, gazing at Obi-Wan with sleepy, half-lidded eyes that didn't fool him one bit. "Obi-Wan," he began. "Well, are you?"

Some part of him that was both Obi-Wan Kenobi and Venge wanted to greet the Master's words with wry amusement. He was well enough to owe the Healers half of the principal treasury of Telos, considering how much equipment he'd destroyed while in their care. "I am well, Master Yoda," he said, his voice just above a whisper. Healer's orders, that - Healer Terza had given him a scathing lecture about letting her work on his tattered vocal cords have the chance to settle. He'd damaged them many times throughout the years due to Sidious's sessions, and wasn't nearly as optimistic as she was about their chance to recover. At least he no longer sounded like he had a throat full of gravel when he spoke.

Yoda gave Obi-Wan a mild glare, but he merely stared back. As far as his physical health went, the answer was true. "Under our jurisdiction, the Senate has placed you. Understand this, do you?"

He nodded. He was at the mercy of the Council, and expected no less.

"Know, we do, of your first year in the Sith's company," Yoda said. "Your injuries - you did not tell us of them, then."

"Would it have made a difference?" he countered, wondering what game the Council was playing. There was an undercurrent here that he did not understand.

"Perhaps," Master Windu spoke, giving him a calm stare.

"You told me to uncover the identity of the remaining Sith through any means I thought necessary," he replied, struggling to keep his voice even. He was not ready for this, either, he realized. For five weeks he had tried not to think at all, and now he was going to have to confront twelve years of deception head-on.

"That was before you killed over fifty thousand people!" Mace snapped back, his hand slamming down on the arm of the chair.

He did not jump. He had long practice in dealing with mercurial, violent tempers. That did not mean that his heart did not twist, that his stomach was not knifed by familiar horror and grief. He hid behind the formality of words. "To what are you referring, Master Windu?" he asked, voice as smooth as if they were talking gardening habits. The old Council intimidation games would not work. Strange how an act of temper soothed his nerves where calm serenity could not.

"We are referring to the colonists, crew, and Jedi aboard Outbound Flight," Adi Gallia said, pinning him with a stern glare. She was back in her element, that was certain. "You informed Master Jinn on Roxuli that you destroyed them."

"It."

"Excuse me?" Mace leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

He was hard-pressed not to smile. The Master who had taught him to mince words with the best of them had not caught his deliberate couching of terminology. "I said that I destroyed 'it.'"

A moment of silence, and then he heard that familiar, low chuckle. Everything within him froze as he heard his Master speak. "I can't believe I missed that."

Still he dared not look at Qui-Gon Jinn, even if the anger he had expected was not quite in residence. "You were... otherwise occupied."

"Indeed. Well, then. If you destroyed the ship, Obi-Wan, what became of its passengers?"

He closed his eyes. He'd boarded the ship as it entered the Roxuli system between hyperspace jumps. It had looked so harmless, drifting along in space. All six dreadnaughts accounted for, still attached to the hull of Outbound Flight. No one contested his approach, and that had been his first warning. Something had been wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. "I was... supposed to destroy it. Sidious did not want to miss a prime opportunity to kill nineteen Jedi, and knew that the loss of Outbound Flight would be bad for galactic morale. But when I got there..."

He could still see them, as he had gone from dreadnaught to dreadnaught. Men, women, and children, standing in place. No matter what he did to them, they did not speak, did not respond. Slack jaws, wide, staring eyes, expressionless faces. No thoughts. No spark of life beyond what was needed to keep their bodies alive. Fifty-one thousand souls, their minds wiped clean on the whim of a madman. Even the crew was the same, the ship on auto-pilot as it followed its pre-charted course.

He blinked and opened his eyes, realized that he was almost starved for air. He took a deep breath even as he registered that Adi had been calling his name. "I'm fine!" he snapped, when he saw her move as if to stand.

"What happened?" Master Windu asked, and this time his tone was gentle, and there was a kindness in his eyes that Obi-Wan could scarcely remember seeing.

"Master C'baoth happened. When he acted as the Order's liaison to the Chancellor's office, he spent a great deal of time in a Sith Lord's company. The Chancellor was very receptive, listening to C'baoth's ideas for Jedi control of the populace. It took very little effort on Sidious's part to push C'baoth into seeing the extreme reach of his own arrogance. Once Outbound Flight was beyond the range of subspace communication relays, C'baoth set about making his vision a reality. He wiped their minds. Everyone. Blank slates. He was working to turn them into his vision of what they should be - a people subservient to the Jedi."

He heard Shaak Ti gasp, heard Agen Kolar curse. From Yoda there was horrified anger. From Mace - just anger. "Lorana was right there," Adi whispered, her hand resting over her heart as she spoke. "She would have noticed something!"

"I do not know if C'baoth's latest Padawan-turned-Knight discovered her Master's actions. When I found the ship, all the Jedi aboard had already been slain by C'baoth. When I confronted him, he wasn't just Darkened. He was stark, raving insane."

He swallowed. It was the first time he'd been grateful for Sidious's teachings, for instead of crippling horror at witnessing the Dark powers that C'baoth wielded, the battle between them had been almost routine. "When I killed C'baoth..." he shook his head, trying to clear the image from his head. It wouldn't go. It never let him be. "He was the only thing keeping them alive. When he died, they died in the same breath. All at once."

He'd walked through the ship, step by step, searching for life, his jaw clenched, while horrified, angry tears ran down his face. When he'd found the blue-lipped baby still in his crib, that had been the last straw. He'd turned, running to the bridge of the massive ship, leaping over still bodies and trying not to see anymore.

He'd sent the blasted ship into Roxuli's sun. Mission accomplished. Sidious had been pleased.

"Why should we believe you?" Kit Fisto asked, and his cheeks and forehead were yellow, expressing shock. "This is... this is a terrible thing to be accused of, especially when the one you are naming is no longer capable of defending himself."

He considered that for a moment. "I no longer have any reason to lie," he said. "If you wish to view the events for yourself, I will show you." That part would be easy. His shields were as lousy as his sense of time.

Kit Fisto nodded but did not ask for admittance into his memories. They knew he was speaking the truth. The rest was unnecessary.

"I really do not wish to say this," he heard Saesee Tiin speak, his tone mournful. "But it is a dark, dark day when one of our own has committed an atrocity more horrific than anything Sidious visited upon us."

He wanted to argue with Master Tiin, and he knew that the others did as well. But what would have been the point? He had just told them that Sidious had only brought C'baoth's own beliefs, subconscious though they might have been, to the fore. C'baoth had already been carrying that Darkness around within himself. He'd even made his stance public, time and time again. Outbound Flight had been the Order's excuse to get the man and his unpopular opinions out of view.

The Councilors were looking back and forth at each other, communicating in silence. He knew it, but he could not feel it. He knew he was not Force-blind - the damage he'd caused in his sleep was testament to that. Yet even though he could not hear the currents of the Force, he couldn't bring himself to care. There was no point. He and the Force were done with each other. He had learned that on Byss.

"Why did you kill Master Giett?"

He snapped out of his thoughts to find Mace watching him. "What?"

"Master Giett. Why did you kill him? Certainly you had already proven you were more than capable of restraining Jedi Masters without harming them," Mace said, giving Adi a quick, pointed glance.

"I had no quarrel with Master Giett until he proved himself willing to kill a friend," he said.

"Forgive us if we doubt that, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon again, but his voice was gentle. "But we all know that he was the reason Sidious knew of your contact with the Council, and we have seen the evidence of that betrayal."

It took effort to speak, but when he did his voice was steady. "That is true. Micah Giett is the reason that I was beaten within an inch of my life. I bear scars from a lightwhip, a lightsaber, a vibroblade, and fingernails. I have been chained to a post and left to starve for days. Every bone in my body that can be broken by the hands of another was shattered. I have had my mind ripped apart, thoughts dissected, events used against me, words and oaths called into question. I have been raped more times than the infamous prisoners of war on Scaltheti. I have been subjected to every single variant of Sith torture Sidious knew of, and some that I think he made up as we went along. Despite all of that," he said, and forced himself to turn, to meet those beloved blue eyes, "my words are still true."

Qui-Gon was beautiful, and it broke some part of Obi-Wan that still wanted to hope that they had a chance. Smooth skin, unlined by the ravages of time and betrayal. Dark brown hair, with no trace of the familiar silver. And his eyes... Qui-Gon's eyes, if sad, were the same clear, deep blue that he remembered. "How is it that you can say that when even I still struggle with what Micah did?" Qui-Gon asked him.

He didn't even need to think about his answer. "Because I understand him."

They gave him a place to live.

It was in the Knights' quarters, far from the shielded cells where he had expected to live out the remainder of his days. The rooms were bare, ready to be furnished. Someone had promised that his things, in storage all these years, would be delivered once they could be located.

The rest of the Council meeting had passed in a blur. Some part of it was his utter willingness to stare at Qui-Gon, young and hale where he no longer was. The rest of it...

"Obi-Wan..." Adi's tone was gentle. "We have already subjected you to the harshest punishment there is among the Jedi for those who have Fallen. The light of the Force would have destroyed you, were you truly of the Dark."

"It is this Council's ruling that you behaved in an exemplary manner, considering the circumstances," Ki-Adi Mundi had proclaimed. "In the presence of more than two hundred witnesses, you acted upon the behalf of all to secure our future. You are welcomed back, Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, with all of your rights and privileges restored."

He'd stared at them, his hands clasped together, his head ringing with Ki-Adi Mundi's words. This was not part of the plan. He had never expected to wake up, let alone be welcomed back by the Council. This was unheard of - had they all lost their fucking minds?!

"What do I do?" he'd managed to whisper, dismayed to realize that he was staring at them with wide, distressed eyes.

"Anything you want," Mace had answered. When he'd given the Councilor a look of disbelief, Mace had amended his words. "Within reason, Knight Kenobi."

"Try to make sure it's legal," Adi had said, giving him a smile.

Now he was standing in new, empty quarters, afraid to step foot outside his own door.

"You will meet with a Mind Healer once a day, after noon meal."

"Your fellow Jedi have been apprised of your actions, that you were acting under our direction and with our discretion."

"Fuck," he said, before collapsing onto soft beige carpet and lying there, unwilling to contemplate anything else. He stared at faint, fuzzy threads of pale carpeting. In his line of sight was the kitchen, a cheerful place of white tile and honey-colored cabinetry that was waiting to be used. Behind him was the open door to a bedroom that still had plastic wrapped around a new mattress. The entire place was stark and barren.

His entire world was stark and barren.

He curled up around himself, shaking, and felt carpet scrape his skin raw.

"You're quitting!?" Mace blurted, lowering his glass as he stared at Qui-Gon in surprise. "We can't even decide who to give Yarael's seat to, and you're quitting?"

Qui-Gon nodded, enjoying the other man's discomfort. "I wasn't happy there in the first damned place, Mace, and you know it. I'm going back out in the field where I can do some blasted good."

"And you will be followed around by many people wanting to know the name of the clinic where you rediscovered your youthful vigor," Mace pointed out, this time swallowing the amber liquor Qui-Gon had given him.

He rolled his eyes heavenward, feeling the wind stir his hair. They were standing out on the balcony of his quarters, enjoying the cool night air. "I'm getting enough of that now. The fuss will die down eventually." Qui-Gon had invited Mace over to tell him of his desire to give up his Council seat, but now that he was here, Qui-Gon was glad of the company. Anakin had been gone from the other bedroom for almost a year. After eight years of Obi-Wan's company, followed by another eleven of Anakin's, he'd discovered that he no longer liked being alone. "I should warn you that Adi feels the same way."

Mace groaned, slugged back the remaining alcohol in his glass and reached for the bottle perched on the railing. "Force take you both. Please tell me that you at least have a replacement in mind."

"Quinlan Vos."

Mace gave him a twisted smile. "Quin is going to kick your ass for that."

"He can always refuse." But I don't think he will.

"All right. I'll talk to Adi, too. I hope she's got a replacement in mind as well, because that will save us a lot of trouble. I don't want another Coleman in my Council chamber, so we need to find a third solution, fast." Mace took another sip, and Qui-Gon watched, content to hold onto the first glass he'd poured himself more than an hour ago. "Interesting Council session today," Mace continued, and Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow at him.

"My friend, since the days when you and Xanatos used to conspire together in my living room, you have proven time and again that you are not subtle. Stop trying."

Mace grinned and leaned back against the railing, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "Fine. I would like you to share your thoughts of Obi-Wan with me."

That prompted him to take a large sip, feeling the Alderaanian brandy burn all the way down. "Honestly? I think I preferred Venge to that empty shell that stood before us today."

Mace's grin vanished. "You don't mean that."

He sighed and pressed the glass against his forehead, feeling the headache that had plagued him all day return in force. "No, I don't mean that. But gods, Mace!" At least Venge had been full of life. Obi-Wan had seemed dead. No better than the animated corpses he had haltingly spoken of, found aboard Outbound Flight. Lank hair, pale, dry skin, and empty, soulless gray eyes. Venge might have been darkened, but there had been presence in those amber eyes, even mischief. The near-terror in Obi-Wan's eyes when Ki-Adi had told him that he was restored to the Order, the trembling hands, his hesitant words... "It's like he's given up."

"I don't think it's that bad," Mace said, putting down his glass and staring out at Coruscant's busy skyline. "I think he spent over a decade planning things out to the last detail, and the achievement of those plans has been his only goal for a long, long time. Trouble is, he didn't plan for anything that came after. He's suffering from one hell of a case of inertia, among other things. It's why we've insisted upon the mind healer visits." Mace paused, giving Qui-Gon a searching look. "I know he avoided you at first, but there at the end he was looking at you like he was a drowning man and you were the shore."

He failed to hide a wince. "I know."

"You haven't spoken with him at all since he woke up, have you?" Mace asked.

He narrowed his eyes and finished the rest of his drink in one swallow. "Aside from the words exchanged during the Council session today? No."

Qui-Gon knew he was being studied and ignored it, focused on the mundane task of refilling his glass. He'd wanted to get rid of the Alderaanian press for awhile now - it was Anakin's favorite, not his. Tonight was just as good a time as any.

"You're afraid of speaking to him," Mace said at last, and Qui-Gon swore under his breath. Someday he needed to remind himself to hang around with less perceptive people.

When he looked up and met Mace's eyes, though, and found nothing but concern, he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "You're correct. I am."

"Fuck's sake, man," Mace swore, disbelieving. "Why?"

"If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't need to have this conversation with you," Qui-Gon growled, turning to stalk back into his living room, cool stone tile beneath his feet becoming warm, if abused, carpeting. He stopped and leaned against the wall, knowing Mace had followed him inside. "I have no idea what to say to him."

"You could start with 'Hello'," Mace suggested dryly, and Qui-Gon managed a soft laugh. "Anything could help. You and I both know that we don't have any real idea what we're dealing with, or what Obi-Wan is going through. He lived a nightmare. He played the part of a Sith. I don't know if there's enough therapy in the galaxy to help him cope with this."

Qui-Gon sighed. There was that. How did you help a man when the Order's policy for the last thousand years was to destroy anyone who spent that much time in Darkness? "Why did you do it, Mace? Why did you send him out there?" The question had lingered between them for a long time, but he'd never dared ask it before.

There was a long pause. "I didn't want to," Mace said at last.

"Why, then?" he asked, turning around to hear the answer.

Mace was frowning down at his empty glass. "Yoda was absolutely certain that Obi-Wan would come back. The troll did and does still believe that his time in Darkness will make him one of the strongest of us."

Qui-Gon thought again of that empty shell that had stood before him that morning. Some dark part of him whispered a truth that didn't bear thinking about - that Yoda was wrong. There was no returning from that. He frowned and shoved the thought away.

"On a more serious note... go speak to your Padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn. He's been treading water for a long, long time. I think he wouldn't mind being rescued."

Obi-Wan would manage to find him first.

Qui-Gon was in one of the lower level training salles the next morning, working through the ninth kata of soresu. This was his eighth repetition and he was swearing under his breath; every time he hit the middle of the form he was doing a movement wrong, and it threw the rest of the kata into utter disarray.

"You keep dropping your elbow."

He swore again and disengaged his lightsaber, turning to look at the shadow lurking in the doorway. "I am not."

Obi-Wan tilted his head and stepped forward, the room's light throwing his features into stark relief. He looked like hell, if Qui-Gon were to be kind about it. He had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was lank, refusing to reflect the light. Qui-Gon doubted the man had slept since escaping from Jale Terza's not-so-merciful clutches. "You are. Every time you get to the third butterfly pass, you're dropping your left elbow."

Sith take it! Qui-Gon scowled and looked away, knowing Obi-Wan was right. It was the same mistake he'd made on Naboo, when they had met up with Darth Maul for the second time. The blow to his chin had stunned him so much that he'd fallen and rolled, slipping down the side of the melting pit before recovering his senses and grasping one of the protruding nozzles with desperate hands. Obi-Wan had told him later that the Sith had jabbed the air where he had been a second before, a move that would have dealt him a fatal blow. Instead he'd merely had to endure the Sith's mocking laughter and lightsaber passes above his head, waiting for Obi-Wan to come and finish the battle. "I spent a lot of time training to avoid making that mistake again."

When he turned back, Obi-Wan hadn't moved. His expression was not as tumultuous as it had been during the Council meeting, but his eyes were guarded, as if he were afraid of the reaction his words would bring. "I do not doubt that. But you are working on creating new muscle memory."

He tried hard not to narrow his eyes at that, wondering if Obi-Wan had some motive for reminding him of this new body - and who was responsible for it. Then he shook his head; he'd viewed Obi-Wan's persona of Venge with less suspicion. He couldn't let his anger cloud his judgment, or he was not the Jedi Master others proclaimed him to be. "True enough," he said. Then Qui-Gon wished he could follow his own damned advice as his mouth betrayed him. "Why are you here?"

"I don't know," Obi-Wan said, lowering his eyes.

Drowning man. Mace's words were haunting him. He had to make some sort of overture, or they were never going to get anywhere. "Children pass down this hall quite frequently. Perhaps you should join me in working to correct that mistake, if only to preserve their innocent ears."

To his surprise, Obi-Wan shook his head. "I cannot," he said, still not meeting Qui-Gon's gaze.

He felt a brief surge of anger and suppressed it. "Why not?"

This time Obi-Wan looked up; he was smiling, but it was laced with bitterness and twisted his features. "It would be dangerous for both of us."

That startled him. Was he broadcasting his anger so much that Obi-Wan believed he would strike out against him? Then Obi-Wan continued, and his explanation shocked Qui-Gon to the core. "I can't focus enough to use the blade." He laughed, hoarse and caustic. "I can't even meditate."

"Have you spoken with Yoda?"

Obi-Wan shook his head in a brief, stiff movement of denial. "No. I am not taking this to Yoda."

"Why not? I imagine that he could help you." Better than I could, Qui-Gon left unsaid.

Obi-Wan pressed his lips together for a moment before replying. "Master Yoda is... grateful that I am here. It makes me uncomfortable."

What? "Why shouldn't he be grateful that you are here? He is not the only one," Qui-Gon pointed out, feeling uneasy.

There was stark, bleak honesty in Obi-Wan's response. "I would rather be subjected to the treatment that I deserve."

If he thought he couldn't be shaken twice in five minutes, he was wrong. Oh, so very wrong. "Why?" Qui-Gon whispered, aghast. This was not right. This broken shell was not his Padawan. The Force had been cruel, not kind, to let Obi-Wan survive Byss.

The question seemed to puzzle Obi-Wan. He drew his brows together, giving Qui-Gon a soft, bewildered look. "Wouldn't you? Want that, I mean?"

Gods. He strode forward and grabbed Obi-Wan's hands before the startled man could dance away from him, pinning him in place. "Obi-Wan," he began formally, "if you would seek my help with your meditations, it would honor me."

Obi-Wan swallowed, hard; Qui-Gon was close enough to watch his throat move, to hear the sound, to see the startlement in those wide, gray eyes. "If you would guide me in my meditations, I would be grateful," he responded, just as formal.

Without words Qui-Gon led Obi-Wan onto the practice mat, getting them both settled onto their knees. Qui-Gon brushed his thumbs over the scars that marred the backs of Obi-Wan's hands, allowing himself the brief touch that seemed to both rattle and soothe Obi-Wan. With that one moment of contact, he could sense the jagged, discordant place in the Force that was currently Obi-Wan Kenobi.

This was not going to be easy.

He started meeting Qui-Gon in that same practice room for morning meditation every day, striking a pattern that felt just as out of place as he was. The beginning of his day was the best, and the worst. He sat across from Qui-Gon Jinn, their knees close enough for fabric to touch but not skin, and wished over and over again that the Force had not seen fit to discard him. He was in hell, sitting in front of the one he loved more than the fucking universe and knowing that it was never to be.

Yet he could not stop himself from going back. Sitting with him, trying to re-learn how to calm his mind, to immerse himself within the gentle currents of the Light of the Force, was more than he had shared with Qui-Gon in almost thirteen years. He wanted it, craved it, even if he knew he was torturing himself with it. He'd quit the stimulants only to replace them with an addiction that was destroying him with more ease than ryll.

His days did not improve from there. He took his meals, what he could eat of them, in the communal dining hall. There were ration bars, and he could cook, if he hadn't forgotten how, but the dining hall suited his mood. He was followed by the whispers of a multitude of Jedi, and his sharpened hearing told him all. They discussed the tattoos that were visible. The scars on his neck, on his hands, and how they had gotten there. His eyes (like a Sith's eyes, didn't I tell you? Just flat and gray and he must have looked at Master Tachi with those eyes!) and his wardrobe were always up for discussion, even if he preferred nothing but the dark, solid browns now, nothing of his preference for beige - or black -- remaining.

They did not hate him, for Jedi did not hate. But they could shun him, despite the tale that the Council had told to all who would listen, and shun him they did.

He didn't care.

Some did not shun him, even if he tried his best to convince them that it was in their best interest. Master Windu and Adi Gallia wouldn't leave him the hell alone, and after they left his company he would find his cheeks wet and curse before wiping his face raw. Garen Muln was another, and if Garen didn't stop giving him the kicked puppy dog stare he was going to lose what was left of his mind.

What time he did not share with Qui-Gon or the whispers of angry Jedi, he spent in his quarters. Adi had given the bare quarters a glance and made sure he had furniture, so he would curl up on the new couch and stare at the door, or at the ceiling, or at the wall, marking time. What the hell he was marking time for, he couldn't tell anyone, not even his second Mind Healer.

The fourth day he'd spent with Qui-Gon, trying to learn how to meditate again, he'd made mention of the fact that he'd lost a Healer in record time.

"Oh?" Qui-Gon had asked, raising one eyebrow. "How did you manage that?"

"Healer P'lal decided to start out by comparing my old records to my current ones," he'd explained, fighting a mad urge to blush with shame. "She wished to know why I was now a vegetarian. I told her that she did not want to know." He'd paused. "She gave me a long speech about how she was my Healer now, and she couldn't help me if she didn't know everything, and that of course it was all confidential. So, I told her." This time the shame would not be fought off, and he'd stared at the straps on his boots with such intensity it was a wonder they didn't catch fire. "Healer P'lal has petitioned the Council for early retirement."

"I have always known P'lal to be a strong woman," Qui-Gon had said, his tone gentle. "What was so horrible that she would take such drastic action?"

He'd gritted his teeth so hard a headache had sprouted behind his eyes that didn't depart until that night's exhausted slumber. Qui-Gon was like P'lal. Qui-Gon would not be satisfied until he had an answer. His anger had faded, and at least he could spare his former Master the details that P'lal had earned with her grating insistence. "I was marooned on Deliath VI for a number of weeks without supplies. The femoris and gracilis muscles in my left leg are artificial."

When he'd dared to look up at Qui-Gon, the man had been bleached bone white. "When?" he'd asked, his voice mild, a far cry from the revulsion he had to be experiencing.

"A few months after Geonosis. One of the members of Sigma squad had good aim."

"Ah," Qui-Gon had said, still sounding far too normal. "That would explain it. When I saw you again, you seemed a bit..."

"Crazy?"

"I was going to say 'deranged'," Qui-Gon retorted mildly.

He'd smiled before he could stop himself. The expression, once unveiled, was hard to bury again.

He liked the new Healer much better. Master Healer Sheb'zalt al Lien. The reptilian Healer was easier to talk to, even if he was certain that he wasn't speaking enough to satisfy the Healers or the Council.

Of course, his medical records spoke for themselves, and even Sheb'zalt could be far too particular in his work. "When they put you back together two months ago, the Healers told me they found evidence of repeated penetrative trauma," he said one day, apropos of nothing. They were sitting in one of the private gardens, and he could hear the artificial shielding kicked up on high, feel the vibration through the ground. A wise precaution, that.

"Is that what they're calling it now?" he replied, watching a tiny brown bird dart from tree to tree, seeking bugs. Or nesting material. It was hard to say; none of the creatures that still dwelled on Coruscant followed a natural calendar any longer and had long lost the genetic imperative to watch for changing seasons.

"I'm just curious," Sheb'zalt said, fanning himself to cool his skin, for he could not sweat. They could have stayed in the man's dark, cold offices, but Sheb'zalt had insisted upon the gardens for their little talks. "You were a Jedi Knight. Surely you could have defended yourself."

He said nothing, feeling that defense would have been his obvious response.

"Or perhaps it was consensual?" Sheb'zalt continued, and Obi-Wan bristled.

"I assure you, Healer, there was nothing consensual about being chained into place and raped by that man."

"You sound so certain. Yet I know that you once subjected Master Jinn to the very same. Was it consensual then?" the Healer asked, his voice maddeningly calm.

He curled his hands into fists, nails tearing into his palms. "No."

"Hmm." Silent moment. "Then I suppose you are no better than the Sith Lord who did it to you."

"Do you hear me arguing?" he retorted, pulling his robe tighter around himself. Blasted wind.

Sheb'zalt regarded him coolly. "Surely there was a difference."

Need. Deception. Communication. Desperation. "No," he said again, setting his jaw. Reasons didn't matter. Actions mattered.

"If actions are what matter, then why does your destruction of the Sith Lord not exonerate you?" Sheb'zalt asked, hearing the thought.

He swore a blue streak under his breath and tightened his shields. "Because the steps that were undertaken to perform that final action were not the actions of a Jedi."

Sheb'zalt smiled. "The pledge of the Jedi for the last five thousand years has been to rid the galaxy of the threat of the Sith. You upheld that pledge. Therefore, you were performing the actions of a Jedi, Obi-Wan."

He bit his tongue and glanced up at the trees. The bird was gone, off to find safer territory. Smart bird. "He loved me."

"Qui-Gon?"

He shook his head. "No. I mean Sidious."

Silence. He'd managed to leave Healer al Lien speechless.

"He loved me, and I used that love to destroy him," he continued on, speaking brutal, hated truth. "What do you think of that?"

Sheb'zalt gave him a thoughtful look, resuming his fanning. "I think you used the means you had at your disposal to do what was asked of you."

He turned his head to stare at the Healer. "Does that make it right?"

"Do you want it to be?" Sheb'zalt countered.

He scowled. "Answer my question first."

Sheb'zalt scratched his eye ridge, half-closing his eyes in bliss as his scales flexed under his claws. "I think that there is a vast swath of gray that stretches between black and white, but it is one that we do not like to discuss. We prefer to pretend that it does not exist, even though we dwell in it every day."

He looked away. "I don't want it to be right."

"Then I will not say that you did the right thing. However, I think that you did the correct thing."

"Semantics," he said, shaking his head in disgust.

"Semantics sometimes equals sanity, Obi-Wan." When he looked at the Healer again, Sheb'zalt regarded him with half-lidded eyes, his tongue darting out for a moment to taste the air. "Was it a matter of semantics when you saved the life of Master Jinn?"

"The method presented itself."

"And now it is you who is not answering my question," the Healer replied.

"Yes. No." He shook his head and tried to burrow further into his cloak. "Perhaps it was both. I just don't understand why there has not been some..." Inquisition. "I am still surprised that I haven't been locked in a room and questioned at length about what I did to him. It is obvious from Master Jinn's attitude that... I'm sorry," he said, giving Sheb'zalt an apologetic glance. "I don't think I have the words for what I mean."

"You're seeing that Master Jinn is not appreciative of you having saved his life."

He frowned. That was the entire problem; appreciative was the word that he found inappropriate. "That is one way of putting it, yes."

"Master Jinn is in the minority on that issue, I assure you. I know that Master Windu has thanked you for keeping his favorite troublemaker around for a few more years," Sheb'zalt said, smiling. "As for your other concern, the Council was less concerned with your methods and more concerned with the results. To them, you saved a life in the middle of a near-impossible situation. Granted, the method was unorthodox, but a man is alive who wouldn't have been if not for you. There is no shame in that."

He didn't want to say that shame was not the problem - he was glad that he'd saved Qui-Gon Jinn's life. He just hadn't expected to have to live with the consequences of that choice.

He'd been spending his mornings with Qui-Gon for two weeks, and except for a few aborted moments, wasn't getting anywhere. He wasn't sure why, and from his obvious frustration, neither was Qui-Gon.

"Are you actually making an honest attempt, Obi-Wan, or is this some base ploy to spend more time in my presence?" Qui-Gon asked him, opening his eyes and pinning him with a glare.

Phantom pain lanced his chest, made him feel hollow, but he clenched his jaw. Qui-Gon was right. That was all it was, now. Just a ploy to stay, to feel like he had half a chance of belonging. If he was going to connect with the Force again, it would have happened by now. He'd tried. The Force had other ideas. "I am sorry to have wasted your time," he managed to say in return as he stood, not even a hint of a tremble in his voice. "Thank you for making the attempt to help me. I am... honored."

He fled as quickly as dignity allowed, and if he thought he heard Qui-Gon calling his name, he chalked it up to his imagination.

That set the tone for the entire day. When he tried to break his fast during the midday meal in the dining hall, a teenager with long coils of dark green hair walked up to his table and sat down in front of him.

He glanced up, confused. No one shared a meal with him here save Mace and Adi. This was new. He didn't like new. The girl had fair skin, with a smattering of orange freckles across her nose, and her eyes were like Luminara's -- piercing and so blue they were almost indigo. A short stump of a Padawan braid was separated out from the rest of her hair, hanging behind her ear. "I think you're lost," he said, his tone as frosty as he could manage. He was not in the mood for speculative conversation, or a young Padawan looking for gossip fodder.

"I'm not lost. You're Obi-Wan Kenobi." It was not a question. When he didn't respond, she continued. "My name is Jeila Vin. You don't have a Padawan."

For a moment he stared at her. Him? Have a Padawan? The idea was absolutely ludicrous. There were no apprentices in the future of someone like him, someone so damned blind to the Force he couldn't even lift a fucking spoon! "Go away, please. I am in no mood for company."

"Yeah, I can tell," she drawled, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "I'm looking for a Master. Mine was killed in the war."

"I'm sure you can find a Master with much more savory connotations than I am sure to bring you," he managed, glaring at this impudent damned child. As if any member of the Council with half a brain would allow him a student, even if he were capable - or inclined - to take one!

"Not so much," she said, shaking her head, her expression serious. "Many Jedi Knights and Masters were killed in the war, and lots of Padawans, too - but there are a lot more orphaned Padawans than orphaned Masters. There is talk of making Master/Padawan teams to take up the slack and try to rebuild our numbers, but right now it's just talk. Also, I don't want to share. It's a character flaw, my Master said, and it would take the right kind of Master to cure me of it. I think that's you."

Oh, for- He gritted his teeth and counted to ten. "Who was your Master? They neglected to teach you even the basics of diplomacy, Padawan Vin."

She smiled - smiled - at him as she answered, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. "My Master was Siri Tachi."

Dammit, Siri, back off!

I can't do that, Obi-Wan. I have to know why you would do this. You can't just betray us all like this!

Tachi, put down the damned lightsaber or this will end badly!

You've gone rogue, Obi-Wan! Worse, you've gone Sith! You know I can't put down my lightsaber. You wouldn't, either!

Don't make me destroy you!

I'm not making you do anything. It's your choice.

He was blind. This was a memory he didn't want, the friend he'd been unable to escape from or to subdue. There were others, of course, but none of them had been his friend. None of them had cared about him. He'd just been another target.

Siri shouldn't have been a target.

He ran from Jeila's sad but stupidly understanding gaze. He ran past uncaring eyes and startled whispers and pelted straight through the outer gardens, skirting the Thousand Fountains' pond and nearly tripping over a Mon Calamarian Initiate who looked far too much like dead Bant Eerin.

He didn't stop until his lungs seized and he crashed behind a bush in a ragged, untended corner of the far gardens, and only then did he just lie there, panting for breath. When he managed tight shields, he turned his head and screamed into soft, forgiving earth and wished that the Force Light had burned him free of existence.

Like it had Sidious.

Qui-Gon left that evening's Council meeting with a sense of accomplishment. Quinlan had stuttered and muttered and sworn, but he'd accepted the seat, and Qui-Gon was free of the obligation. Quinlan's Padawan, sharp tongue that she had, would now learn the art of diplomacy out of self-defense. Padawan Tano certainly hadn't shown any sign of learning it in the field.

A flutter of brown caught his eye, and he walked towards it, a sharp feeling of deja vu haunting his steps. Obi-Wan was standing at the far railing that overlooked Coruscant's sky, and the setting sun made his copper hair seem alive again, and the light was kind to his abused, scarred skin, making him seem younger.

The last time they had stood together on this balcony, Anakin was being tested by the Council. He had been testing Obi-Wan's patience. There had yet been no arguments between them. No Sith. No distance. No war.

"Obi-Wan?" he called, not wishing to intrude if he was not wanted. After his poorly chosen words of that morning, he would not blame the man. He was still kicking himself, wishing he hadn't opened his damned mouth. He couldn't have rid himself of Obi-Wan more expertly without using a thermal detonator to blow a physical canyon between them.

Obi-Wan half-turned to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and his hands were trembling on the railing. Something had happened, more than just his idiotic stumble during the morning's meditation. "Master Jinn," he whispered back. "I hear you've ditched the Council."

He managed not to wince. Master Jinn, Obi-Wan had called him. Only in his darkest moments had Obi-Wan referred to Qui-Gon that way. His heart full of dread, he approached the railing and stood next to his still-beloved former Padawan. "They're glad to be rid of me, I'm sure."

"You elected Quinlan Vos to replace you. Mace let it slip," Obi-Wan explained, at Qui-Gon's raised eyebrow. "No, I do not have access to some hidden remaining bit of Sith spyware inside the Council chamber. I think Quinlan will give them more difficulty than they could ever expect from you."

He repressed a smile; that was one of the reasons he'd decided on Quinlan. The young Master would keep things interesting. "Anakin has asked about you. He says Naboo is nice, Padmé is glowing, and that everyone is fretting about the early surgery for the twins, even though they've proven to be healthy little beasts."

Obi-Wan nodded, his eyes on the lines of distant sky traffic. "He sent me a missive as well. The surgery is to be next week. I'm sure he's looking forward to being a father." His hands flexed on the railing. "I know that Adi has named An'ya Kuro to the Council. Have they decided on Master Poof's seat?"

"No," Qui-Gon admitted. This was not what he wanted to be talking about, but at least they were talking. It was more than he had hoped for. "They have gone through a multitude of names, but no one feels right."

"I think that you should suggest to the Council that they consider Padmé Amidala for the position."

Apparently Obi-Wan still maintained the ability to leave him confounded. "A non-Jedi appointed to the Jedi Council? What kind of reasoning is behind that notion?!"

Obi-Wan half-smiled. "Three reasons. The first - she is not Force-blind. Her midichlorian count is high enough that she would have been a Jedi if her parents had not refused to give her up for training. The second is that she will not be willing to give those children up for training, and trained they must be. If she can be here with them, it will ease the transition for both her and the children. She is retiring from the Senate with their birth, and her loyalties would no longer be questioned."

"What's the third reason?" Qui-Gon asked, curious. The first two reasons were sound, but they would not have been enough to sway the Council of old. They were not even enough to sway this Council, and it would be the least hidebound collection of Jedi the Order had seen for one hundred years.

"Recognizing the history of the Jedi," Obi-Wan said, his voice soft. The sun gave life to his eyes, reflecting the blaze of evening light. "The Jedi did not always hold themselves so apart. They used to hear all voices, not just their own. Senator Amidala would bring the voices of others to the attention of the Jedi."

It was sound. It was sensible. It would be a miracle if it happened. Then again... he glanced at Obi-Wan. Miracles were indeed possible. "What was it like?" he asked, and once again damned his treacherous mouth. That was not what he had intended to say.

Obi-Wan did not pretend to misunderstand him. This question had lain between them for far too long as it was. "When you died, I wrapped myself around your spirit and held onto you with my life." He lowered his head. "It was the worst temptation I have ever faced."

Qui-Gon blinked, startled. "I would have... thought that the action itself might qualify."

Obi-Wan glanced at him, that familiar puzzled expression back on his face, before looking away again. "No. It... I held you, and I could feel you, feel all of you. For the first time in years, I was not alone. I could have held you like that forever, left that place, abandoned Sidious to his fate. There were enough Jedi present that they could have killed him. They might have even succeeded in making him stay that way. I wouldn't have to care. I would never have been alone again."

"But you did not," he said, and much of the bitter anger he felt left him, disappearing like threads of smoke in the wind. He was a fool, the worst kind of fool.

"No. I made a different choice."

He found himself nodding, thinking about twelve years of life apart. This was not the man he was used to, no. But it didn't have to stay like that between them. "We all make choices," he mused.

The last rays of the sun disappeared behind the skyline, leaving Obi-Wan's face in shadow. "Good night, Master Jinn," he whispered, stepping away from the rail and departing with the whisper of cloak on tile.

"Good night, Obi-Wan," he replied.

Like the fool he was, he did not realize that Obi-Wan was saying goodbye.

There was no immediate decision. He'd left the gardens and returned to his own quarters, and after he palmed the door open he almost walked into a pile of boxes someone had left in the doorway.

He scowled and picked up the piece of flimplast lying on top of the pile. Knight Kenobi, your things from storage have been discovered at last. -Quartermaster Tanak el Dram.

He tossed the flimplast to the ground and touched the seals on the first box, frowning. His Force-sense might be shot, but he knew tampering when he saw it. He'd been trained for it, knew how to infiltrate the best locks and seals and leave no trace behind.

Whoever had done this had not had such training. The naked eye showed no signs of wear, but he knew that these boxes had been opened while in storage. Possibly it was by the Council, trying to uncover clues as to his motives, wondering why he had stopped contacting them.

He didn't think so, though. He had a feeling that Master Windu, as talkative as he had been of late, would have told him. He ripped the seal anew and flung the lid aside, and a cold lump settled into the pit of his stomach.

Everything inside had been destroyed.

He pressed his lips together, his eyes hot, his throat closed, and picked up the box, scattering its contents on the floor. Shredded flimplast, destroyed flatpics, cracked holocubes and scratched data disks. The second box yielded the same - clothing that had been torn to shreds, and if he wasn't mistaking the smell, someone had voided on his things. No big loss, that, as none of it would have fit him any longer... but this was a work of vengeance. Someone with hate in his heart had done their best to destroy the evidence of Obi-Wan Kenobi's life.

Padawans, perhaps, that saw him as the reason they were now Masterless? Masters, who saw him as the reason that they no longer had Padawans? Knights who had lost lovers?

He dumped the contents of the third box, feeling his face growing hot, and found more destroyed life. Mission mementos, things gifted to him by friends. Little things had graced his room as he had grown older, no longer with a taste for models and games. He'd liked simple things with simple lines.

He picked up the shattered remnants of a ceramic jar that a girl on Wayland had given him. A vessel for the dead, she'd said, to carry with him. It was the place for tears and memories, to store both until it was time to free them.

He cut his hands on the delicate shards as he finished crushing the jar in his hands. No grief to free, no memories to share with the wind. The girl had died in his arms after giving it to him.

The last box was flung against the wall, and its contents flew free to fall onto the couch and the carpet. He saw a glimpse of black and halted, horrified. No.

He lurched forward and dug through the pile, pulled out a black, lifeless shard. "No," he moaned, no longer conscious of speaking aloud. "No, no, no, no..." He smeared blood over the stone as he turned it over and over in his hands, searching for a hint of light, just a spark. The riverstone Qui-Gon had given him on his thirteenth birthday had been shattered. Dead.

He screamed and began tearing through the rest of the detritus, tracking blood across that pale, perfect carpet as he scrambled to find the rest of the pieces. There were three in all, split along unseen fault lines. They had gone to a lot of trouble to break this stone. They would have known what it had meant to him.

He bent double, keening his grief into the carpet as he clutched the broken, lifeless pieces to his chest. No home. No hope. No future. He was not a Jedi. Given what he had been asked to do, he wondered if he ever had been. "You lied, Master," he whispered, knowing he would never be heard. "You were wrong." It seemed that he could endure anything... except surviving.

When he could breathe, he took the remains of the riverstone to the 'fresher, washing them and his hands, bandaging the cuts so he wouldn't mar the stones further. Then he left a message for the Quartermaster. The room would need to be cleaned, as it was about to become vacant, and never mind the mess on the floor. It could be recycled or incinerated as el Dram thought fitting.

He grabbed the least marred piece of vellum from his destroyed collection of expensive paper and found a stylus that worked near the comm unit, writing out a note with hands that shook. That done, he wrapped the stones in the vellum and tucked the package away into a pocket of his cloak.

When he faced Yoda in the ancient Master's quarters an hour later, he was met with sad, knowing eyes and drooped ears. "Certain, are you?" he whispered, his gnarled hands shaking as he patted Obi-Wan's knee.

He swallowed and forced back down another wail. He wanted this to be home. He didn't want to be Venge. He didn't want to hate himself. "I am certain," he said, and with gentle hands he grasped Yoda's wrist and placed his lightsaber into the Master's tiny palm.

He should have seen it coming, and he cursed himself for his blindness. The crumpled vellum on the kitchen table was louder than any explosion, and Qui-Gon crossed his quarters on unsteady legs as he forced himself to march forward, to touch that innocent-seeming piece of paper.

He unrolled it, felt three heavy rock shards tumble into his hands. He whispered something, not even sure what he said, for he recognized the stone. The paper momentarily forgotten, he held up one of the shards and saw no spark, no sign of the life within. His senses told him that the rock had been broken long ago.

His heart heavy and aching in his chest, he picked up the parchment and found the still-familiar formal scrawl of words. This is all that I have left.

It is yours.