Master Apprentice Archive JAOA - Breathing Room Quick search:

Pairing: Q/O

Rating: PG-13

Series: JAOA

Category: AU, Drama, HC

Summary: Letting go is hard.

Spoilers: Not really - possibly for the series.

Archive: m_a, SWAL, WWOMB and JAOA - anybody else just ask.

Feedback: YES please! It keeps my plot bunnies fed and healthy.

Ambience: Schoenberg - Transfigured Night

Notes: Many thanks to Black Rose for letting me play. Many thankyous and chocolate Jedi to Lori, for getting this kickstarted after I'd stalled, and giving Anakin a voice. She really deserves co-writing credit on this one. Thanks are also due to Kivrin and to Mark.

The full text of the poem that is referenced is at the end.

[This is telepathy] and /these are thoughts/.

Disclaimer: George Lucas is god and owns everything... except this weird permutation which is just for fun and I doubt he'd want it. All JAOA-specific things belong to Black Rose. The poem belongs to me, but I'm not making any money off it.

JAOA Page: http://digitalmidnight.net/garden/jaoa.html

JAOA - Breathing Room
Year of the Republic 24,983
Gail Riordan, 2002
wander@rathriordan.org

/"You must let go of him. You must let him breathe on his own. He can now. Truth."/

Obi-Wan Kenobi paced the main room of his - his and Qui-Gon's and Anakin's - quarters. Frustrated. Anxious. Angry. Afraid.

/"No."/ A raw, scraped whisper, immense effort, rejecting the biomech, months ago. "No" again, mere minutes past, dissolving into a tearing cough, yet holding on. Those 'no's still made Obi-Wan flinch in terror.

The reed-thin, sedge-colored healer had spoken gently to him a week ago, sharply this afternoon. As sharply as the edges of grass hir hair reminded him of. An image his Master ought to have found amusing, but hadn't. Had turned his head away and tightened his face in a not-quite-frown around the breather. The breather he, Obi-Wan, had made necessary.

/"You must let go of him."/

Pacing was doing him no good. His thoughts were tumbling, chaotic, and movement was not giving them order or helping him focus. He raked a hand savagely through his hair - only long enough to be a nuisance, not long enough to be graceful - and threw himself on the couch. The frame protested with a soft creak. He was abruptly and fleetingly glad that Anakin wasn't in the room. The boy didn't need to witness this too. No, his apprentice (how could he have an apprentice? He was still Qui-Gon's apprentice - but no, he was a Knight now, Padawan no longer) was with Master Cho-rhiyth, learning about kitchen gardens and vegetables. The three of them were almost the furthest apart they could be, in the Temple. Sith.

/"You must let him breathe on his own."/

"How? How can I!?" He found himself almost shouting. The words echoed in the room, reflected off the wide expanse of window, bounced and settled into the muted colors of the rug. "Great," he muttered, "now I'm yelling at myself." Obi-Wan let out a gusty sigh. "How do I let go? I cannot lose him. Not now." /Not ever..../ Restless, his hands worried at the sofa cover, twisted the fringe of the throw. His own breath was harsh and fast, his throat tight. It seemed like such a simple and logical solution when he had thought of it.

The stillness was too much. He had to move. Abruptly Obi-Wan pushed himself up and strode across the room, stopping equally abruptly at the window. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, staring blankly at the glittering panorama spread out past the edge of the balcony. Somehow the familiar view, the smooth texture of the glass beneath his palms steadied him, allowed him, finally, to center himself. He made himself breathe deeply, evenly, with deliberation. Not quite in meditation, but soothing nonetheless. /Breathe. Just for yourself. Why do you still persist in breathing for him as well? Why can you not let go?/ Holding himself motionless, the window cold against face and fingers, he worked to examine his feelings. Frustration, anxiety, anger, fear. Why would just the idea of moving, of changing their quarters to be nearer the healers cause such a reaction?

And why had he reacted so badly to that swift and rasping 'No.'?

Qui-Gon wasn't supposed to speak aloud, not yet. His throat and vocal cords were still too fragile, recovering slowly from the long, necessary violence of tubes and surgery and life support mechanisms. From the Sith-damned neural block. >From too recent & barely defeated respiratory infection. But that 'no' had been spoken aloud, reflexive, forceful, even Forceful. And immediately followed by a cough that Qui-Gon had tried vainly to suppress. A cough that had made the monitors warble and brought attendants running, pushing Obi-Wan out of the way as they worked to ease the wracking spasms. Oxygen, Force-support for both heart and laboring lung, physical support at shoulders and head to keep the airway unobstructed.

Even as he - terrified, burning with shame and shock and, yes, anger - had been being roughly tugged off into a corner, out of the way, a part of his mind had been taking notes, observing every detail of what they were doing, in case he ever needed to do it himself. And another part had been insisting 'No'? What do you mean, 'no'?!

Master Healer Pir!c had been the one pulling him away, the flat grey-green ribbons that grew on hir head quivering and stiff with outrage. "Let go. Let them do their job, foolish one. Attend to what I say." Vigorous words, sharp and cutting, underlain with righteous force and drawing his gaze reluctantly downward to piercing brown eyes. "You are too close. You hold too tight. And this is the result." Long pale fingers poked sternly at his breastbone and he realized that his own lungs were stuttering with the effort not to cough. "You must let go of him."

/'I will do as I must, Obi-Wan'/ The memory of those oft- repeated words echoed in his head. And Qui-Gon would, even in pain, weakness. Even when it meant conflict with those he loved.

"You must let go of him." Pir!c repeated. "For his sake. For your sake. For the youngling's sake. You must let him breathe on his own. He can now. Truth."

"But...."

"No buts. Let go."

The commotion around the sleeping couch had subsided, only one being left, adjusting the mix of the breather. Making sure it was placed as comfortably as possible at mouth and nose.

The breather. Oh Sithhells. /My fault, myfaultmyfaultmyfault.../

A sharp jerk at his elbow and another poke at his chest. "Stop that. Guilt grows no grass." Startled, Obi-Wan had looked down again at Pir!c, who continued firmly, "Now, I give you three minutes to say good even, and you will go away. Meditate. Sleep. Eat with your Padawan. I do not wish to see you here again until third hour tomorrow."

The healer had only pulled him a few feet away. Two strides and he was back at Qui-Gon's side, all too aware of the lines of pain and exhaustion marring that so-loved face. Of the breather his actions had made necessary. He thought he had been trying to lighten things with his 'sedges have edges' comment, referring to the healer's hair as well as hir words,but in retrospect he wasn't sure but that it hadn't been a barb rather than a joke. Qui-Gon hadn't said anything, had looked away, and something in Obi-Wan had started to gibber again. His chest hurt. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to have to walk all that long way back to empty rooms. He didn't....

[Obi-Wan.] His Master was dredging resolution up from somewhere very deep. The yammering had quieted at the resonance of Qui-Gon's voice in the Force, and Obi-Wan had made a fierce effort to center himself and attend. [Better. I ... must rest. But we will speak of this - all of this - tomorrow.] One of the big hands stirred a little against the sheets and Obi-Wan had felt the Force caress his cheek, felt his eyes sting as the gesture was repeated. So little strength of flesh, so much of Force, of spirit. [Now, go home, beloved. Do as Master Pir!c bade and take some care of yourself.]

"Yes, Master." His own voice was reduced to a strangled whisper. He bent and brushed a kiss on the high forehead, pressed another to the silvered temple. [Sleep well.]

[Hush, love. I will sleep when you are home.]

And he had forced himself to leave, emotions still in turmoil, before the healer could return and drag him out.

He had felt every step of the walk as a tug at his heart, as if going into exile.

Obi-Wan became aware of himself again, surfacing from his memories of earlier, holding to that last image. /Exile? Exile? Why would I - do I - equate our quarters with exile?/ He turned his back on the slowly darkening sky, leaning against the window, feeling the hardness of the glass supporting him. Getting dark. Ani would be back soon. It was exile because Qui-Gon was not here, would not be here any time soon. Oh.

Home for Obi-Wan was people, Qui-Gon in particular. Anakin had added himself to that short list over the past months, and his sense of 'extended family' (a strange concept, really, for one creche-raised) included Master Ylian, and Yoda, and one or two others, like Bant and Igel. The Jedi Order itself. When he thought of those people, more often than not he realized, he remembered them in these rooms, in this place that had been a physical point of stability for the last almost-fourteen years as Qui-Gon had been a personal one. Quarters that had been his Master's for more than twice that, for longer than Obi-Wan had been alive. Home as a place.

He looked around the at the room before him, seeing through the lens of Qui-Gon's perspective. The worn spot on the sofa-arm, the comfortable slouch of the cushions that spoke of rest, and reading, and quiet conversations with three Padawans, and now a fourth. (Just this morning he had sat on those cushions and explained to Anakin that no, he didn't need to worry any more about breathing deeply in the gardens, his systems had acclimated nicely to the higher moisture content of the air, but if he did feel anything funny while there he should certainly let someone know. Filling in for the real Master. For Qui-Gon, who hadn't breathed wet, green garden air since ... well, since. And wouldn't, not for some time yet.)

Books on the shelf, hardy ferns that thrived on air and light. Every item, each possession was freighted with meaning, with memory. This was a place to come back to, to hold on to.

His thought slid back into more recent and well-trod channels: they were so far from the medical wing. So far from each other. So far from help. And all the things could be moved. New memories made.

The Knight's meditative breath faltered, and he slid down the cool glass until he was crouched on the floor, curled around the sudden blossom of pain under his breastbone. Qui-Gon's pain, not his own. He breathed through it, willing it away from both of them with an effort. Physical distance certainly made no difference there.

Some degree of separation no longer an option, but a necessity. He recognized the truth of what the healer said, the danger of the distressed rattle reflected in and increasingly affecting his own systems. He just had no idea how to go about breaking the link, or how to deal with the cold, paralyzing fear that were he to let go, they would all be lost.

Pushing the thought away with the fear, he picked himself up off the floor. That was more than enough food for meditation and discussion. Right now he should be thinking about food for a hungry young Padawan, and, he realized with some surprise, a hungry Knight. Perhaps there was something in that injunction to take care for himself. He couldn't recall the last time he had had an appetite.

He aimed himself at the kitchen corner, considering what they might have that he could do something interesting with.

"Intermediate Medical Support" "In hospital" "Condition improving but still requiring close monitoring and partial functional support." A real sleeping couch, not a narrow med-bed. (/"You are aware, Knight Kenobi, that it will be some time before he will be able to sit up without assistance, let alone walk. We're still not sure the spine wasn't compromised."/) An almost-room, with walls (glass, to be sure, but with curtains that could close) and a door and a semblance of privacy. (/"Anakin, dear, you really shouldn't pester Master Jinn with your questions. You know he can't answer you. He probably doesn't even hear you, child."/) No longer in the Medical Unit, on full life support, utter dependence, indignity. Restricted even yet to communicating to everyone but Obi-Wan and Anakin with the awkward stylus and touch-screen. (/"Master Obi-Wan? Why don't these healers listen to Master Qui-Gon? Can't they hear him?"/) But still in the Medical Center; listened for, not listened to.

A good fifteen minutes brisk walk from their quarters, from home.

Qui-Gon could almost always tell when Obi-Wan arrived home because the Knight would relax, breathe a little freer, give some of the burden he carried to the Force to hold. Home space, safe, secure, known. He wasn't even aware he did it. And when Obi-Wan relaxed, Qui-Gon's difficult breathing eased.

That enForced closeness had kept him alive, had cradled his weary spirit and imposed pattern and function on riven flesh and shocked nerves, told his heart when and how to beat and given it the strength to do so, reminded his lungs - lung - to take in and expel air. The connection had given the healers a template on which to re-knit his torn body, and had continually shielded the faltering spark that quickened his flesh. His Obi-Wan was nothing if not tenacious.

But now he began to fear that very tenacity and strength, felt almost strangled, found himself fighting against a sense of suffocation. Again, unconscious on his beloved's part, not with intent, never meaning harm.

The only word he had spoken aloud in months had been 'no.' Twice.

Home. The location of their quarters. It hadn't been an argument, quite. It would be one tomorrow, because Obi-Wan was persistent, would have good, solid, logical reasons and carefully thought out arrangements. (He would not be surprised into vocalizing again, though, not after that coughing fit. He should have known better and not let his own emotions overtake him.) He would not countenance a move, however. He would not. No matter that he would be in the medical center some time yet, and even once released would need daily therapies, physical training and probably chemical support that would only gradually taper off over the weeks and months beyond that. Fifteen minutes at his old, swift pace would likely mean at least half-an-hour if not more. Or a float-chair.

/Not if I can help it. I will walk again,/ he thought with determination. /The distance will be both exercise and incentive./ But Obi-Wan would have other reasons as well.

He could see changing quarters if they really needed the space for Anakin, but they did not. Obi-Wan hadn't used 'the Padawan's room' in years, and there had not been all that much stored in it, if he recalled correctly. Anakin liked the room, he'd chattered on at length about it. And really, the 'partnered, with Padawan' quarters were no larger than what they already had.

He was beginning to be concerned for Anakin. The boy and Obi-Wan were close, comfortable with each other, but it was the closeness of age-dissimilar peers, the united front of two people, strong personalities both, thrust together at need and in haste against disaster; they worked very well together, had come to care strongly about each other beyond their mutual narrow focus on their Master. (Oh, that was it -- they were as a junior and a senior Padawan would be together, not as Knight and apprentice, much less as Knight-master should be with his own Padawan.) There were the beginnings of affection and even loyalty between them, but too little knowledge. He knew them, they did not know each other. And Anakin would need - needed now - a Master more than a brother. Obi-Wan needed to find his center as Knight, his balance among refocussed relationships and responsibilities. As he himself would, he thought wryly, glancing at the moving shadows of the medical staff on the mostly-drawn curtains.

/I have been clinging as hard to them as they to me, in my own way. A Master cannot have two Padawans, and at present I can hardly master myself. I, too, must do some letting go./ He suppressed a desire to sigh.

There, Obi-Wan was home, still distressed, unhappy, uncentered, but home, and the familiar safety had worked its usual subtle magic of easing his burden. He smiled very softly and shifted a little against his pillows.

No. Changing their quarters, moving out of the rooms he had called home for more than thirty years, for no better reason than to be closer to the healers was not a good idea. Would be accommodation, not home (he needed to know that 'home' was there, safe space for his loved ones), would be nothing more than bowing to weakness. (He needed 'going home' as a goal for himself, as it had been on more than one mission, in more than one seemingly-hopeless situation.) Moving would be yet another thing done for him.

He was so tired of being 'done for' - listened for, spoken for, breathed for. If he had to have assistance breathing (and he did, he acknowledged, if only to himself) at least this setting on the breather merely made oxygen available for him to take in and did not push it into him, allowed him to do that tiny thing for himself.

But he missed the taste of living air, when he allowed himself to think of it, though Anakin's plant battled valiantly against the sterile tang of filters and machines. Missed the intimacy of air that moved, immersion in the Living Force, being home and close-curled with his beloved in their big couch.

He had won the mech argument. He would win this one. For all their sakes.

He rested his eyes on the shadowy lines of the aralia aerides' leaves, the curves of trunk and branches, and let the pulse and flow of the plant's presence in the Force soothe him. Such a simple, hopeful song, a quiet light. A sturdy, steady beacon of life in these busy, shielded, sense-starving walls. He let it lull him gently into sleep.

Evening rounds would come all too soon.

Obi-Wan had watched Anakin shovel down his evening meal with evident, uncritical enjoyment. The boy's enthusiasm for his food made him smile, even as he appreciated the general respite from questions, both his own and the boy's.

Dealing with the detritus of the meal afterwards had loosened Anakin's tongue.

"Why can't I be with Master Qui-Gon more? I mean, he's doing better now. Why do I get to visit even less? We were both there, all the time, when we first got here."

Obi-Wan still could not bring himself to tell the boy that the only reason the two of them had been allowed that constant attendance was because, despite their disapproval and engrained scepticism, the healers had recognized that it was all too likely that Qui-Gon would die without them. Him. Them. Now that the Master was holding his own, and had been for a reasonable time, structure and rules and visiting hours were being vigorously imposed upon lowly Knights and apprentices.

Anakin went on, "I mean, it's so stupid. I always go, or read or whatever when he tells me to. Or you. So I don't make him tired."

Obi-Wan did not miss the slight emphasis on 'he'. "Ah, but the healers do not know that, and they dislike making exceptions." /Even for the exceptional./ He smiled wryly.

"But, he's better when we're there." Anakin grumbled, refusing to be moved from his point. "You know he is."

The Knight was beginning to feel slightly out of his depth. [Was I this persistent when I was younger?]

He hadn't realized he was projecting, and colored faintly when Qui-Gon answered him. [Yes, you were. And still are. Just be persistent back.] There was a smile in the thought.

[I didn't mean to wake you.] Obi-Wan was instantly chagrined, quickly followed by worry. [You should not be spending energy on Sending. You need your rest.]

[I was not asleep, love. I will rest again when N'neni is finished.] The tightness of endurance and discomfort underlay his Master's mental voice.

[Of course, evening rounds. I wish....] Obi-Wan's thought trailed off.

[Do not dwell on it, love.] There was a slight shift of focus and Qui-Gon was speaking to both of them. [I will see you tomorrow. Pleasant dreams to you both.]

"Master Qui-Gon!" Anakin had brightened visibly at the feel of the older man's voice in his head, and deflated almost as rapidly when he remembered that Qui-Gon would not be able to hear him in return.

Obi-Wan watched the scowl crease the boy's face as Ani looked up at him again.

"He is better when we are with him," doggedly persistent.

Reluctant to let go of the sense of Qui-Gon through the Force, Obi-Wan answered Anakin silently, using the shared channel that had formed between the three of them.

[Yes, he is. And I know you can feel that. But some of the healing and things he has to do,] /endure/ [he has to do on his own. We cannot do it for him.] /Much as we both might wish it otherwise..../ Obi-Wan reined in his straying thoughts and hoped that Anakin was not picking them up through the nascent training bond that was slowly forming between the two of them.

"You know, if I could talk through the Force to him like that, the way you can, this whole 'limited visiting hours' thing wouldn't be nearly so hard." Still frowning, Ani put the now-dry dishes away and closed the cabinet with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Anakin." Only a little reproving.

"Sorry." Apologetic but unabashed, Anakin bobbed his head and joined him on the rug in the common area.

Feeling self-conscious, Obi-Wan spoke along the bond again, [Perhaps if we meditate together on that, on what your connection with Master Qui-Gon is and what you would like it to be,] /while I work on what mine is and ought to be/ [we can do something about that.]

"Okay."

Now the frown was one of concentration as Obi-Wan helped him settle into one of the simpler meditational postures.

[Breathe in ... and out. In ... and out. Draw the air deeply and smoothly into your lungs. Let it flow softly and freely out. As we breathe together, let the tensions and distractions of the day release their hold, fall away. Relax and let the ground support you, the air surround you.

[Quiet your mind as your body quiets. Be as sun on sand, the wheel still, water in still pools.

[The Force is around us and in us, supporting and permeating and warming. Let your awareness sink into that warmth. Feel me in the Force, as I feel you, near and bright.]

Obi-Wan let his eyes fall closed as he felt Anakin relax and his formidable Force-presence become calm, attentive and waiting. He kept his words coming smoothly and deliberately, encouraging that still focus.

[Feel the energy between us, between you and me. Now, think about Master Qui-Gon. Imagine his presence in the Force. Think about what it feels like when he speaks to you. Imagine the connection between you and him growing clear and strong. Let your awareness of the Force guide your images and thoughts and bring you to the quiet space where all times are soon, all places near. ....]

At the end of an hour Obi-Wan judged it was time to stop: Anakin had begun to shift restlessly, no longer submerged in the Force and beginning to be too aware of knees and floors and having been still for a long time.

"Enough, Padawan. You have done very well." His voice felt rough. "Breathe in, and out, in and out, and return to the here and now."

Anakin opened his eyes and stretched with relief. Obi-Wan stood and stretched with him.

"Time for bed, for both of us." He gave the boy an affectionate nudge in the right direction. "Sleep well."

He felt more centered than he had in far too long. Helping Anakin in this, guiding his meditations and reinforcing the moments of clarity, vision and peace, was surprisingly satisfying. He was pleasantly reminded of learning to meditate in the creche as a very small child, of the first fumbling sessions on the ship leaving Phindar, the braid finally secure in his hair, the rock in his hand. Meditating with Qui-Gon. Paradoxically, he felt both closer to his Master and freer of constraint for the work he and Anakin had just done.

A brief caress through the Force and he could tell that Qui-Gon was now truly asleep. No hope for a late-night visit, even if the healers would allow one.

He could only hope for the pleasant dreams that Qui-Gon had wished for them.

**Early rounds and first meal long over, morning exercises and indignities at the stage it was better not to think about, Qui-Gon cast his mind restlessly out, searching idly for Anakin amidst all the presences in the Temple. Obi-Wan, as always, was a strong light, only a mental whisper away, concentrating doggedly on something. Looking for the quicksilver that was Anakin was more challenging, a useful mental exercise, not to mention an effective distraction.

**(His dreams the night before had been full of Anakin looking for him, chasing through mazes of Temple corridors on improbable vehicles. Continuously searching but never slowing down enough to see. All while Qui-Gon himself plodded along toward a place he could not quite reach, but that felt of Obi-Wan and home. Frustrating dreams, welcomed only as an improvement over the nightmares of silent immobility.)

**Focus on the moment, the single presence within the Force, the sun-sand-sparkle that was Ani.**

"Look, Lane, it's the pretty-boy Padawan, mooning over his princess."

There they were again. Anakin scowled. /This is getting really old./

**Old?**

As usual, the tall scrawny one with the ears had started it, elbowing the stocky dark youth and making sure everyone heard him.

Lane Marek snorted in reply, "He hasn't got a princess, Luke, he's just too special to wear regular robes like the rest of us."

What did his clothes have to do with anything? They were clean, weren't they? He'd made sure. Anakin walked a little faster. /Besides, 'Dala's a queen, not a princess. And I'm not mooning./

**Qui-Gon had to smile at the boy's insistence on the difference.**

The older Padawans moved up on him. "Hey, kid, can't your Master dress you properly?"

They were in the main corridor, Luke Teriol looming behind, Marek stalking backwards in front of him. He was getting closed in. People were beginning to collect and he couldn't see a way out. /Just like Sebulba, boxing me in to flash me./

**Definite feeling of threat/fear/adrenaline emanating from Anakin**

"'Course not -- his Master can't even dress himself, needs his Knight to do it for him."

/That was ...! It was Master Qui-Gon they were insulting!/ He stopped abruptly, squinting fiercely. The edges of everything had gone bright and hard, prismed with what he was only beginning to recognize as the Force. /Don't let them get to you./

**Qui-Gon gathered his feelings of love, support and concern for the boy, willing them out toward him, reinforcing the Padawan's grip on his growing agitation.**

"Hey baby, when are they going to get you a real master, huh?"

"Yeah, a master, not a lump."

Anakin stiffened, fists curling. /I'm not supposed to fight. Fist fights don't solve problems. Master Qui-Gon said so./ His breath was coming fast and short.

**Well done of the boy to remember that here and now. But then Qui-Gon had to pull back, concentrating for a moment on smoothing his own breath. There was so little he could do....**

"A cripple and a failure." They were circling him now, taunting. "First apprentice ... only a pretend master ... Xanatos ... Turned to the Dark ... even Kenobi abandoned him ... Not a real Master!"

"No! Not true, can't be true! Won't believe it!" He was mortified to feel tears stinging his eyes. The Force was muddy, and he felt cold and hot at once, like the terrible moment on Naboo when 'Dala had knelt down in the hangar to tell him he must be very brave and strong, she had a hard thing to tell him about Master Qui-Gon. And the worst part was that he could feel that the two older boys were not lying. What they were saying couldn't be, wasn't the whole story. "He is a Master. He is. Is. IS!"

**/Oh, Anakin./ Instantly Master Jinn was in the Moment. The boy's distress was palpable, such shields as he had buffeted flat before the force of his emotions.**

He was shouting, voice echoing inside his skull and against the walls, bouncing off his opponents - no, his enemies. Setting up itches behind his eyes. Ani struck out, his fists flying to stop those words of meaness. He forgot about the Force, about tactics. About strategy and all those Jedi things.

Small and stupid bullies, no better than the ones back home. Hurting someone who had helped him. Brought him here to learn and grow. Be protected and taught. Be a Jedi like Master Qui-Gon was. And these boys were not.

**The strength of Anakin's mental voice threatened him with a headache. He knew that even should he Send, the boy wouldn't hear him. Furthermore, this was a trial that could only be faced and gone through. Nothing a Master could do but watch. But there was a kernel of pride that Anakin, however inappropriate or uncontrolled his actions, had not strayed from defense in intention.**

Kicking out, he took a savage joy in taking Marek down. Making the boy's knee ache the way his Master ached all the time. Anger kept rising. His knuckles connected with the other boy's face, feeling a sharp scrape, gushing heat and astonishment.

How could Master Qui-Gon let himself get hurt like that? It wasn't supposed to happen that way. If someone had to get hurt, it should have been him, not his Master. A slave-boy not a Jedi.

**No, Anakin. Never think that. I would not wish this on anyone.**

Luke managed a punch back that hit Anakin in the chest, knocking the air out of him. Suddenly it hurt to breathe. His chest was spasming. There was no air. Just like his Master. He struck back blindly, needing space - needing air. [Can't breathe! No air! Need help!]

**Qui-Gon pulled back away, feeling the incipient sympathetic coughing fit. As he distanced himself slightly from Anakin, he could perceive Obi-Wan approaching the moil of energy that was the fight.**

One shock overwhelmed the others as his fist was grabbed. Pulled. Yanked into arms like steel.

"Padawan Skywalker!"

"Master Wyreh!" Marek was the only one with enough breath to speak. "He --"

"Don't start Padawan."

Anakin kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, not even bothering to glance up. He could predict what everyone looked like. Angry - at him. His chest hurt too much to stand. Only Master Wyreh's hand was keeping him from curling over anyway, gasping for air. He didn't try to move, knowing it would just bring more disaster down on his head. Make his Masters more upset. /Master Qui-Gon!/

**His reflexive desire to reach out, respond, was thwarted by the demands of his own body: that he relax, stop fighting the breather and merely breathe. But he would not relinquish the connection. Anakin needed him, and he would stay present, however he could.**

Anakin's thoughts were yanked away by the shake on his arm. "Pay attention Skywalker."

Distantly he heard some of the bystanders snicker and he glanced sideways, enough to notice that Master Wyreh had Marek in his other hand and Teriol was held up against the wall, by the Force to judge from the way his hands seemed glued to the surface.

**Master Jinn appreciated both Anakin's acute reasoning as well as Wyreh's deft handling of three Padawans with only two hands.**

The Master's voice lashed out at everyone in the hall, cutting and accusing. "All of you, pay attention! Every one of you stood and watched. That makes you no better than those who fought." An impartial glare. "And you three? I've never seen more pathetic examples of self restraint; Wookiees with too much grog in their bellies have more sense."

Another smattering of laughter at that.

Anakin felt himself being shaken, pulled upright and closer to the crowd. "It won't be so funny when you remember this as the first step to the Dark Side, young ones."

**Dark Side? There is none of that in him. In any of them. Wyreh is over-reacting, and needs to learn to curb his own tongue and temper, especially in the presence of the young and impressionable.**

All laughter stopped. The only sound in Anakin's ears now was his own harsh breathing -- and the short, sharp ring of bootheels. Swarming around him was the sense of a familiar presence. "M-master?" he wheezed. Master Obi-Wan was here.

**Ah. Thank the Force.**

"Fighting in the halls? I thought you knew better." Obi-Wan's voice was colder than the murky fog that still surrounded everything. He sounded out of breath.

**Qui-Gon winced. Oh, Obi-Wan. Comfort first, chastise him later, in private.**

"I do. I do know better!" His arm was released and he fell forward, pushed by Master Wyreh and his own need. Even Obi-Wan's forbidding expression wasn't enough to stop him from wanting to crawl into those arms.

He was held away. "Apparently Padawan, you do not."

Pain and hurt and everything boiled out of him before he could stop it. "Not your padawan. You're busy with Master Qui-Gon. He's a real Jedi and you aren't more than a Padawan yourself. You don't want me. You--"

"That is enough." For the first time Obi-Wan's voice was truly angry, his expression no longer remote and focused elsewhere.

"No it's not!" he shouted, rubbing at the ache in his chest that wouldn't go away. "You love Master Qui-Gon and I could rot for all you care."

**Oh, Ani, he does love you. He doesn't know how to show it; neither of you do.**

Obi-Wan's face went white. As white as Master Qui-Gon's in the med-bed. "Ani...."

/I want my mother. She'd hold me and listen and..../ "I hate you and I hate this place and I just want it to have not happened. I want Master Qui-Gon home." /He lov..../

Then he was being pulled in Obi-Wan's arms, hot tears mixing on their faces. He could just barely hear the broken words over his own rough breathing. "I want him home too."

**/If only I could be, I could comfort you both./ He focussed on controlling his ragged breath. Every inhalation was a step closer to getting home. He let go of the fight and his roiling emotions before Obi-Wan could notice, and his distress add to the Knight's own. He would hear from Obi-Wan and Ani soon enough.**

After a long moment of mutual clinging Obi-Wan set Anakin back on his feet. "Back to Master Wyreh now. You need to make your apologies, and then get on to class. We will talk about this later." His voice soft, but the steel was audible.

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry." Anakin's shoulders were rounded and his tone subdued as he did as he was bid.

The three padawans were soon mumbling mostly-sincerely to one another with Wyreh looming over them like the living embodiment of the Code that he was in this moment. Obi-Wan could remember his own time, not that long ago, when it had been him standing before a Master for a like infraction and being terrified of the Dark Side. Now he knew there truly was Darkness in the universe. A Darkness he had touched, fought, was yet fighting. He'd nearly lost -- still feared losing Qui-Gon to.... No. He needed to focus. Obi-Wan raised his head and found himself nearly nose to nose with a good friend. "Kn-- Igel."

"Obi-Wan." Dry humor just beneath that calm and steady demeanour. It had always leaked out of Igel's edges, like bubbles in cider, bright and harmless and an excellent reminder that one could be Jedi and still be happy. "Going to listen to me now?"

"Yes, sorry." Obi-Wan squared his shoulders, trying very hard not to think about the boys straightening up behind him in an all too similar manner. "You were here, I gather. What happened?"

Igel put on a serious face. "Those older boys have been provoking your apprentice for days. About his accent, his hair, his height, everything. Today it was his fancy clothes -- Where did that boy's tunic come from, anyway? No quartermaster's issue that I've ever seen, -- his 'princess' -- that's that Queen you were protecting on the mission where you found him, right? -- and then they started digging up old history about you and Master Jinn. That's when he went off. Nice targeting he's got. Pretty standard haze, all in all."

Obi-Wan did not attempt to interrupt. Stopping Igel in full spate was nigh unto impossible. He listened to the mixture of report and observation, glad that the Knight had been there (and relieved to realize that his friend would have stepped in if necessary). Eventually Igel ran down.

"Thank you." What else might he have missed, if Anakin being taunted daily had not come to his notice?

The other knight went on bluntly, "You're a Knight now, Kenobi. A Master. Act like it." He waved his hands in a broad gesture, looking over at the three disheveled padawans who were still being sternly lectured. "Okay, I'll give you some slack on the Master part."

Obi-Wan looked over at the boys again. Anakin seemed contrite but not humiliated as the lecture from Wyreh droned on. The boy clearly did not regret that he'd taken action, perhaps only the fear of upsetting or disappointing Qui-Gon was coloring the -- his -- Padawan's mood.

Igel dropped his hand onto Obi-Wan's shoulder, breaking the line of sight and forcing the younger Knight to look at him again. "But not for long. Pull it together, man." He gave Obi-Wan a affectionate punch to the arm that was hard enough to bruise. "After all, nobody died here."

Obi-Wan flinched, but found himself smiling ruefully anyway, almost by reflex. There was a great deal of truth in what the bigger Knight had said. Nobody had died, and a brief focus of attention toward Qui-Gon reflected back no more than the usual mix of emotion and discomfort typical for this time of day.

Still not yet third hour. If he walked slowly, and detoured through the Garden of Remembrance, perhaps he would have his thoughts and feelings in some kind of order by the time Pir!c would let him in to see his Master.

Master Qui-Gon had immersed himself in the Force far deeper than was wise. It took long moments to reintegrate his conscious mind and thought into the envelope of his debilitated flesh. He had been aware of his breathing, but little else while concentrating on Anakin and Obi-Wan, and the rest made itself sharply known as he returned.

But even so he felt, oddly, freer, larger.

Not useless.

As he had stood ward countless times for Obi-Wan, today he had been able to do the same for Anakin.

He made no effort to attend to the complaints of his body -- they were constant, and he was more than tired of chemical intervention. And how could he regain strength and mobility if the muscles were not manipulated? Stillness would see the worst pass into mere discomfort. Concentrate on the breath, the steady pulse of blood interacting with the still-unsteady pulse of air. /Don't think about what Peliin and r'Dyr are doing, and how little the range of actual motion is..../

With relief that Qui-Gon recognized the focussed 'intent to ask' that Obi-Wan radiated as he approached the Medical Center. It would be important to have Obi-Wan shape the conversation, raise whichever of the several issues that were exercising his feelings. The fight was probably foremost in his mind, but there was no reason to assume that would be the thing first mentioned. He did rather hope that Obi-Wan would not start with the idea of moving quarters. While his feelings were clear, his thoughts were not yet articulated, and neither of them needed that stress on top of everything else this morning.

Healer-assistant N'neni was just finishing up changing the sheets and settling Qui-Gon back into the embrace of pillows and linen after his morning therapies when Obi-Wan arrived. Pir!c and therapist r'Dyr were having a low-voiced conference in the doorway, and both looked up with frowns as the Knight ducked and slid past them with unthinking, effortless grace.

Third hour and a tenth. Qui-Gon noted absently. He was glad to see him. Glad that N'neni had cranked the frame and arranged the pillows so he was almost sitting, and could see and move a little more. He was sorry, though not surprised, to perceive the distress in Obi-Wan's aura.

Obi-Wan peered anxiously into Qui-Gon's face, clearly hoping for improvement, fearing relapse, eventually finding reassurance in the Master's unruffled gaze.

[Good morning, love.]

"Oh Master." Almost a sigh. He stopped half a step away, desires conflicting in his face. His hand reached automatically for Qui-Gon's own, was snatched back after only the barest touch. Pir!c gave them both an admonishing look before turning to go, pointedly leaving the door open.

Obi-Wan stood for a moment, visibly bringing himself under control, then reached for the narrow visitor's chair, bringing it closer. "It is still morning, isn't it. I hope...." he paused, swallowed. "I hope it has not been too ... disrupted ... for you." He sat heavily. "Did you sleep well?"

A ritual question. [Well enough. And you?]

Obi-Wan answered with a vague wave and a shrug, both of them equally reticent, reluctant to put words to the loneliness of a solitary couch. "And morning exercises? I saw r'Dyr in the hall."

Qui-Gon had hardly noticed, being so caught up with Anakin, [Much the same as usual. Your morning, I gather, was not.]

"No." The word half-caught in his throat, and again he swallowed.

Qui-Gon kept his own mental voice even, encouraging. [Why don't you tell me about it.] He wanted to see Obi-Wan's face, his eyes, but the younger man's gaze was fixed downward.

"Master, I don't know what to do. About Anakin. He.... Or about letting go.... I don't know how to let go -- I don't know how I'm holding on."

Obi-Wan was sitting a little distance from the bed, maintaining a physical separation as if that would help him find the other kind he -- they -- needed. He had his hands wound tightly together in his lap. Qui-Gon found he missed the tactile comfort of those hands. /They would fix this. They would./

"And Anakin. Fighting in the hallways. Those boys are more than old enough to know better. Anakin knows better! I don't know what to do, to say."

Now Obi-Wan's long fingers were raking through his hair; sharp, jerky movements half obscuring the tense face and disarraying already tangled strands.

"Maybe the Council was right. Perhaps I'm not ready for this." [What if Anakin was right?]

That was fear speaking, almost inaudible.

"I don't even know why they were fighting!" Igel told me what the other boys said, but that doesn't explain.

There was a long pause as Obi-Wan stared blindly forward, mind turning inward. Through his memory of Obi-Wan's perceptions Qui-Gon could see the scene in the hallway: bloody noses, set mouths, angrily narrowed eyes bruised with fear. Hear Anakin's clear treble accusing him with sharp truth. Slowly, his eyes focused as he returned to the present.

Qui-Gon made sure that there was nothing but acceptance in his expression as their eyes met. No accusation, only love.

"Master, what do I do?" Undertones of desperation coloured the low voice.

[You do what you are doing. You ask for help.]

"But...."

[No buts. You ask for help. In this, with Anakin, I can help. As for why the fight...] He took a carefully deliberate breath, a pause for centering and focus. Obi-Wan could take what he was about to say in any of several different ways. [Anakin was defending me, the dignity and right of my mastery.] And wasn't that an odd feeling in itself.

The arrested look on the Knight's face was almost comical.

[And, you know this how? He can't have told you himself, there hasn't been time.] Obi-wan had fallen into mental speech almost reflexively.

[He's learned to Send. With considerable strength, I might add. I don't think he knows it yet, though.]

Obi-Wan's voice was muffled with both laughter and tears, as he briefly buried his face in his hands. [Oh, stars above, but he does pick his moments.]

/No more than you did, my love. No more than you./ [And there will only be more of them, not less.]

[We were working on connections last night, during meditation. Though I had no idea it might bear fruit this quickly!] The knight's thought trailed off as his brows drew together again and he returned to more immediate concerns. [Why the fight?]

[It's a Padawan tradition, love. You know it if you think about it. Ylian had to go through it twice -- once for her first Master, and again for me, in my presence no less. Perhaps you never actually went through that particular gauntlet. We were at the Temple so little at the start of your apprenticeship....]

He could see Obi-Wan thinking about what he had said, making the connection at least intellectually, but that answer addressed only part of his confusion.

[But ... why you?]

[Why me and not you? I am the easy target, love.]

Qui-Gon left the rest of the thought unspoken. Obi-Wan had to find his own way, his own answers. In this he needed to remain the teacher, not the lover.

Again Obi-Wan turned the thought over, slowly voicing his conclusions aloud. "He doesn't actually think of me as his Master, does he? I am 'Master Obi-Wan' because it is 'proper', but you are 'the Master.' [You will always be my Master.]

Qui-Gon smiled gently at him. [Always my Padawan.] This time, the unthinking movement of Obi-Wan's hand toward his was not curtailed. The Knight had given up fighting the need to touch him, and something in both of them was eased.

After a moment of comfort, the Master brought them back to the subject at hand. [Now, do you want to tell Anakin about Sending and not-sending, or shall I?]

Obi-Wan swallowed, and his fingers tightened. Qui-Gon could feel him gathering his courage, but doubting his ability to follow through. [I know I should, ... but....]

He gave an answering, encouraging squeeze, and when nothing more was forthcoming picked up the thread. [I am the one he Sent to - though you will hear him soon enough, I am sure - and I do have the experience of teaching this.] (One of the few things Xanatos had not been adept at) [You never really needed to learn it.]

The other's mouth quirked in a reluctant smile. [I did grow up knowing it was possible. He ... did not.]

[Yes, and that does make a difference.]

[As does the fact that Anakin is so very quick on the uptake, but only sometimes at the angle one would expect.] /And so very, very strong..../

Qui-Gon chose not to address that overheard fear directly. [Let me speak to him & work with him on it when he comes to see me, as you know he will as soon as he gets a chance. That is what Senior Masters are for, after all. Application of experience to the unexpected.]

[But....] Obi-Wan's eyes went to the door the healer had left open as a reminder. [Are you certain? I am his Master, and you should be concentrating on your own needs.]

/I need to be useful, and to see to it that you, both of you, are cared for as well./ [Do not get tangled up in 'shoulds' Obi-Wan. I will do what is needful for all of us in this. I will not overtax myself. And what Pir!c does not know sie will not worry over. After all, Anakin will be the one doing the real work.]

Another reluctant, reminiscent smile. ['Volume control'. Oh dear.] Then he sighed and sobered again. "I will work with him on shields, though, this evening. And on our own connection." Spoken quietly, with solemn intent.

That was his Obi-Wan. Now that the Knight was properly aware of the issue (though he regretted the pain that had come with the awareness) Obi-Wan would find his way to his own answers with Anakin. [It will be well, love.]

After Obi-Wan had left, it occurred to Qui-Gon to wonder how much was Obi-Wan holding him, and how much himself, clinging to Obi-Wan. Who was holding whom?

They had not dealt with the issue of moving - touching on it only to agree to leave it for now as a difficult and not actually pressing need.

The unexpected freedom he had felt at first returning to himself after witnessing the fight had remained, and somehow breathing, moving, feeling was easier. Talking with Obi-Wan, watching him wrestle with 'being a Master' had given him back a sense of himself as a Master. As had being so vigorously defended by Anakin. It had re-anchored in him the knowledge of his authority and importance, both as Master and as Qui-Gon, to those he loved.

Moving would need to be addressed. 'Letting go' required thought and meditation. Even as he watched Obi-Wan begin to take his first solo steps as a Knight and a Master, he had felt the pull, a pang of reluctant separation. The tightness of too-short breath.

But the one was merely a metaphysical growing pain. An almost-familiar feeling. The other was rooted in fear. Shared fear. He thought he could breathe on his own, but did he believe it? Work of his own to do.

Master Jinn settled into a light meditation, seeking out the tangles in his own feelings.

"Master Qui-Gon, sir, may I come in?" Anakin peered diffidently around the edge of the half-open door. He was beginning to learn how to tell not merely approximately where his Masters were, but something of how they were feeling as well. The thing he'd done with Master Obi-Wan the night before really seemed to help.

He was pretty sure his senior Master was awake and not in too much discomfort. He was healing so slowly, though, and sometimes it positively hurt to watch him struggle for air.

[Anakin. Please do.] Awake, bored, the fuzzy feel of pain suppressants.

Oh good. He'd read it right. He slipped in, unconsciously edging over to stand in the warm wash of light from the lamp that mimicked sunlight. Master Qui-Gon smiled to see him, and that warmed him too. He was a Master. He was. He was a light brighter than the suns of Tatooine, a beacon.

He sighed and squinted and let go of his awkward touch on feelings and the Force. The brighter light was not kind.

Master Qui-Gon looked old. Fragile. The breather looked like a sand-spider on the side of his face. There were shadows under his eyes, and the veins were blue circuitry under pale, almost colorless skin.

The shallow movement of the sheet over his chest matched the measured puffs from the air pump, and there were still other machines he didn't want to think too hard about, though not nearly as many as there had been. But the sheet was just ordinary cloth now, not sensor-net, and he had pillows to prop him up.

He frowned. Someone had left the touchpad comm out of comfortable reach, too far from Master Qui-Gon's big, still hands. He remembered those hands as warm, strong, capable, wielding miracles. Quick enough to catch a flicker in the air, yet quiet with the relaxed stillness of confidence and power. Then they had been still in the frightening, 'too sick to move out of the sun' way. Now it was just the quiet of conservation of fuel. It took effort to move, and it obviously hurt, too often. But there was still power there too. It was odd.

On Tatooine he had never seen really sick or damaged people cared for. Not even just old people -- he spared a thought toward Kira, hoping she was still doing alright -- much less old and ill. Certainly not slaves or free-hires by owners or free-indies. Not worth it. He knew some of the people here (some of the people in that high, round room, right at the beginning) thought Master Qui-Gon was more trouble than he was worth -- but here they were, working as hard as they could to make him better. Oh, he wasn't sorry they were doing that, but he didn't trust them, either.

Master Obi-Wan's singlemindedness was much easier to deal with, even when it got uncomfortable, like earlier.

He'd better apologize for earlier, because Master Qui-Gon would surely have picked up that Master Obi-Wan was upset. Might even have known that he was angry. That was kind of wierd too, but most of the time he liked knowing for sure that his Masters were there and cared about him (like his Mom was always there). Especially when it was so obvious that some of the people here were scared of him.

Master Qui-Gon was still smiling at him, so he pulled himself together. "Master Wyreh said I had to apologize to everyone. I'm sorry if I disturbed you this morning. I know Master Obi-Wan isn't very happy with me."

/And I was on Wyreh's list? Somehow I don't think so./ Qui-Gon had expected Anakin, could feel the sharp questions disturbing the boy's feelings. Knew that Anakin was aware that anything that affected Obi-Wan would (or could) affect Qui-Gon. He would have made that extrapolation without any prompting. But the apology was the least reason for his presence, even though it was obviously heart-felt.

[I accept your apology, Anakin,] he thought clearly. [It was well done of you to think of the wider consequences.]

Anakin blushed. "I didn't at the time. And I should have."

[But you are thinking of them now, and will again in the future.] Qui-Gon's thought was approving.

"Every day I have to keep track of more and more things." Anakin reached out and twisted the free corner of the coverlet between his fingers then smoothed it out again. "And they're all so...complicated."

Qui-Gon smiled at the boy, and moved his hand to brush the restless fingers. [It is complicated. But Obi-Wan and I are both here to help.]

"Okay," there was a huge pause then Anakin asked, his eyes fixed on their hands, his words running together in a rush, "So what happened today. With the fight. They were wrong about you. Aren't they?"

Qui-Gon sighed, carefully, letting the wave of Anakin's distress break and wash over him. [I am a Master, Anakin. But some of what they said is true, from a certain point of view.] He wished he could speak, could get up and hold the boy.

"Oh." His hands slipped away from the blanket, leaving more distance between them.

[Anakin. Please.] Was Ani old enough, aware enough to understand? Qui-Gon would just have to forge ahead and try to explain. [The things they said were true, on the surface. But not in fact, not the way they meant them.]

"Oh." A half step backwards.

[I will not lie to you, Ani. But will you sit and let me explain?] A tiny Force-touch on the boy's hand, asking, not compelling.

Eyes that held wary curiosity met his and Anakin nodded slowly. "Yes, Master Qui-Gon. I'll listen." He settled into the chair that held Obi-Wan's shape from so many hours of his resting in it.

[Thank you.] Qui-Gon took another careful breath and gathered his thoughts. Start with the first and most straightforward of the problematic issues. [Do you remember Master Ylian? She was the one who read to both of us, several weeks ago. She was my first apprentice.]

"Yeah, she was nice."

Qui-Gon smiled. [I didn't choose her as a Padawan when she was young. I was her second Master. Her first Master died when she had only a few years of training left, and I took over for that time.] And a very fraught, full time it had been, too. [I saw her through her Trials, and cut her braid. So, even though it was short, it was a true apprenticeship.]

"And she's a master now."

[Yes, her first Padawan was knighted several years ago, and she is thinking about taking a second.] Qui-Gon shifted against his pillows. [But some people believe that four years is too short to convey mastery. However, neither Ylian herself, nor Yoda think that way.]

"How do they know from the outside anyway?" Anakin shrugged then chewed on his lip, one foot swinging back and forth.

[That is precisely it. Only the people involved can really know. I am very glad you can see that.] Qui-Gon's heart eased a little, even though the next part of the explanation would not be as simple.

"Talking about being a slave and being one are different things, even I know that."

[They are indeed very different. But as you have discovered, sometimes people who ought to know the difference do not.] It saddened him that so much of Anakin's experience was so harsh. He would need to keep that in mind.

"So I should just figure there is more to it than what they said." Anakin nodded sharply. "Yes, Qui-Gon sir. I can do that."

Qui-Gon smiled at the honorific, and let his shoulders relax into the embrace of the pillows. [That is a wise position. And there is certainly more to everything they threw at you. Accurate information is armor, half-information is only a weapon. Do you want me to explain the rest?] Ani would need to hear it all sometime. Might as well get it over with. He wished he was recovered enough to sit without help.

"When you're not so tired." The boy shot a glance at the door. "I don't know how much longer they are going to let me stay and it feels like a story that shouldn't be interrupted."

Anakin was right, both about how tired he was, and that the rest of the story should be told from beginning to end. Another thing that would be so much easier were he home. [You see very clearly, Anakin. It is a long tale, and one that will not be made easier to tell or hear with interruptions. But you do not need to leave yet.]

"Okay. I just don't want you to get sicker or anything because of me." /Master Obi-Wan is already mad enough at me. And I don't think he likes me very much./

[Anakin, your presence is a help, never a harm.] Qui-Gon could feel the unspoken unhappiness and fear. That he could do something about. [And Obi-Wan's demeanour is harsher than his true nature. Never think that he does not love you. And if you cannot go to him, you can always speak to me.]

"How did you know that? I mean, I was thinking that, but I didn't say it!"

[You were thinking it very loudly. You Sent it, and I heard you.]

Anakin was elated. "I did? I can? Wizard!" Then he clapped his hands over his mouth. "Ooops." Much more quietly, as he looked nervously about, hoping none of the staff had heard his outburst. "Can I do it again?"

The real issue was going to be getting Anakin to stop, and Send only consciously, rather than the nearly palpable cloud of sense-thought-feeling that was emanating from him now. [Yes, of course. It is all a matter of focus.]

"But I don't know what I did. How do I do it again?" Ani was practically bouncing in the seat, but remembered to keep his voice down.

Qui-Gon reached for the small hand again. [You can feel my touch, and you can feel me in the Force, just as I can feel you, right?]

"Yeah." Anakin scooted forward to the edge of the seat, holding on to Qui-Gon's fingers, making sure there was no strain on the Master's arm.

[Sending is speaking through the Force. Look at me, feel my hand, and think of something you want me to hear. Hear the words in your mind, just like you are hearing my words, only think of me hearing them as well.] That was a simplistic explanation, but it would do for a start.

Anakin's face scrunched up in concentration. [HELLO MASTER QUI-GON-SIR!]

Qui-Gon winced, ears ringing. He should have seen that coming. Anakin was like a foghorn in a small room. [Very good. I heard that very clearly.] Painfully clearly, but soon enough for that. He gave a reassuring squeeze to the boy's hand.

[WIZARD!]

This time Anakin noticed the wince that Qui-Gon was too tired to suppress. In a very small voice he said, "Are you ok? Am I doing it wrong?"

[No Anakin, you are doing fine. Though you are ... using more force than you need to, and are ... a little loud.]

Blond brows drew together again, and Anakin's fingers tightened on Qui-Gon's. [Is THIS BETTER? I Don't MEAN To Be LOUD.]

[I know you don't, and it is fine, not something to worry about.] Qui-Gon sent affection and approval along with the words. He could feel a headache beginning to grow in his temples, and suddenly the breather was a weight on his face, the air heavy in his chest. Pir!c would not be happy with him. Neither would Obi-Wan. But the joy in Anakin's eyes made his heart warm. [Obi-Wan will explain further, and there is a class you can take.]

Anakin's expression was almost comical, a mix of happiness, relief and dismay. [BUT I CAN'T TALK LIKE THIS WITH MASTER OBI-WAN.] /Not another class!/

The Master was fairly sure that he hadn't been meant to overhear the end of that thought. He gave another small squeeze to Anakin's fingers. [Now that you know you can do it, you will be able to Send to Obi-Wan just as easily as you do to me in a very short time. And with time and training, you'll be able to send only what you want to send, and nothing more.]

"Oh. OK." Anakin nodded, then bit his lip, looking at him worriedly. "But I think I should go now, and you should sleep. You look really tired." He slid off the chair, standing close to the edge of the bed. [Thank You.]

It was Anakin's equivalent of a whisper. With an effort, Qui-Gon gave the boy's hand a pat. [Much better. I do need to rest, but I am here for you. As close as the Force.]

"Sleep well, Master Qui-Gon." Anakin gave his arm a quick, light hug, and was gone with a grin and a patter of footsteps, leaving streamers and eddys of energy fading in the room.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes wearily. That had gone much better than it might have done. Another significant step for Anakin, a good beginning, and a stronger connection. They were not finished, with the issues raised during the confrontation with the other Padawans, or the things that lay between Ani and Obi-Wan, but groundwork had been laid. Despite the exhaustion he struggled with, he still felt at peace with himself. Now to let sleep have him for a while.

Once again Obi-Wan found himself staring blindly out the balcony window, pacing restlessly about the common room from couch to table to door.

/"The boy is dangerous. They all see it. Why can't you?"/ He hadn't been proud of himself at that moment, off-balance, but it had felt like something was tipping, sliding, and the boy only seemed to make it worse. Qui-Gon had been brusque, abrupt. Nothing about that mission made for pleasant memories, but the consequences and repercussions were to be accepted, dealt with, not ignored. Perhaps Anakin wasn't dangerous, not the way Obi-Wan had meant when he said it the first time, but he certainly wasn't safe, not with that kind of power, that kind of unconscious, unshakeable connection to the Force. He needed training, grounding, connection to the here and now and more than anything he needed to learn the relationship of consequence to action and the inherent responsibility one must take for one's actions.

/"You're a Knight now, Kenobi. A Master. Act like it."/ Responsibility. His responsibility.

It wasn't that he didn't recognize Anakin as a Padawan; it was that he had never gotten his mind around the concept that Ani was his Padawan. That ... needed to change. Not 'someday,' not 'soon,' but now, today.

It was no wonder that Anakin had exploded at him, if even the junior Padawan set considered Qui-Gon to be Anakin's Master, not newest-knight Kenobi, whatever the record might say.

Past time he took responsibility for his own actions. Started acting as Anakin's Master, no matter how unmasterly he felt. Doing, not floundering, not trying. Igel was right, damn him.

And the first thing he needed to do was get the boy into proper uniform. Trim his hair. Begin to make a lasting connection between them, rather than continuing with the need-forged and tenuous thing they had through Qui-Gon. (Was there any independent connection between them? And how could he connect properly to Anakin if he could not let go of Qui-Gon?)

He turned his thought abruptly from that continuing worry. They had a connection. It was enough to start with. And anyway, Force-connections or not, there were perfectly ordinary, physical actions he, they, could do that would help. If he were to act as the boy's Master, then it would become real, moving from semblance to truth. Doing, not trying.

And after he'd settled Anakin in for the evening, he would walk back to the Medical center and engage to do some letting go.

Kneeling, he settled himself in front of the wide window for a proper deep meditation, just himself and the Force.

The sky was still flaming with sunset color when the sound of the door opening and shutting again behind Anakin - his Padawan, Obi-Wan reminded himself - drew him from his meditations.

Anakin was standing just inside the doorway, a little hesitant. Unsure of his welcome?

"Hello, Anakin. Did your classes go well today?"

"Yes, master." Anakin made a valiant attempt at a bow then bent to unlatch his boots. "No more fights."

Obi-Wan pushed himself upright, keeping his sigh to himself. Obviously, things had not gone particularly well for Anakin.

"I know things have not been easy for you, Padawan." Qui-Gon would have hugged the boy. Obi-Wan wondered if he should offer one.

Anakin shrugged and finally just sat on the floor to pull off one boot and then the other. One sock hung out of the top of the boot, but he quickly pulled it back and straightened the other. "It's okay, master. I wasn't expecting it to be easy."

"But there was no need for me to make it harder for you. I apologize for my harshness this morning, Anakin."

The boy looked up at him, startled. "You were just ... I don't know ... doing Master stuff."

Obi-Wan moved over to the couch, and sat, patting the cushion beside him. "Please, come sit. I over-reacted, and should not have yelled at you."

Awkwardly the padawan got to his feet, carefully wrapping the now over-long robe around him and clomped across the room then dropped onto the couch hard enough to make the cushions protest. Then he fidgeted with the robe until it covered as much of him as possible before turning his gaze back to his Master.

Gently, Obi-Wan collected one of the restless hands, giving it what he hoped would be felt as a comforting squeeze. "Would it help if we got you some new robes from the Quartermaster's?"

Anakin's fingers were cool to the touch, though some of that could be stress. "Do they come any thicker? Or maybe a heavier tunic?"

"We can see what they have available for fabrics. Or you can wear more layers." Obi-Wan had chosen to emulate Qui-Gon's garb, but it was not a true uniform. Anakin was not required to copy him. "I'm sure we can find something that will keep you warm." He smiled down at the bent blond head.

"Thanks." Anakin turned his hand over inside Obi-Wan's and carefully, with a few sideways glances, began fidgeting with Obi-Wan's hand: tracing the calluses and scars, comparing the sizes between their fingers. "Your hands are really soft. I mean - softer than what I'm used to."

Obi-Wan's lips quirked sideways, but he did not withdraw his hand. The tight sense of misery that coiled in Anakin was beginning to lessen. Perhaps this would work after all. Just ... being with the boy. Talking. "Why do you suppose that is?"

"Probably because you've never lived on a water poor planet." Anakin followed a long white scar that continued above Obi-Wan's wrist and snaked up the creamy tunic sleeves. "Still, that doesn't make your life easier than mine."

"Nor does it make it harder, just different." Anakin's fingers were tickling. "Would you like to hear how I got that scar?" Not one of his finest moments, but not one of the worst either. And if it would help....

"How far up does it go?" Anakin was clearly itching to see for himself and it startled Obi-Wan to realize that this was really the first time he and the boy, his padawan, had actually sat next to each other for any length of time that wasn't stressful. Or utterly focussed on Qui-Gon.

"It goes almost to my elbow. There's another from the same mission on my leg. I got caught in a tanglethorn burrow on Terrias." He took a deep breath. "Would you like to see? Or would that ruin my 'Masterly facade'?" The smile was broad, the question sincere.

"Depends." Anakin gave him a half smile.

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Depends on what, Anakin?" Why did he think he was being set up?

"Depends on whether or not you're wearing underwear. Nothing personal, Master...." Anakin grinned and gestured vaguely in the direction of the medical center. "That's more Master Qui-Gon's area."

The crack of laughter that escaped his throat surprised both of them. "Very true." He looked down at the guileless blue eyes. The fog of misery had dissipated entirely, and he felt lighter himself, as if somehow a window had opened in his spirit. Was it really going to be as simple as this? "As it happens, I am wearing underwear," he said lightly.

"Good - well, extra good because that gets uncomfortable after a while if you aren't. Bet you know that though."

This time Obi-Wan raised both eyebrows. How far should he let Anakin take this? Not much further,

"Right." Anakin blinked up at him. "Tell me the story about the tanglevine and I'll never mention your underwear again. Promise."

"I'll hold you to that, Padawan."

The tale of the tanglethorn and the rescue of the spiny-shelled grek that hadn't really needed rescue, but caused the opposing leaders to laugh together at a Jedi's discomfiture was not long, and Obi-Wan told it with enough detail for Anakin to get both the joke and the point. One story led to another, and soon enough Anakin was explaining the ordeal of his day with animation and hand-gestures.

It was a comfortable exchange, and by the end of it, Anakin was polishing off a third helping of dinner while Obi-Wan told him what he could expect in the 'Force-communication for non-telepaths' class, and making plans for a visit to the robing room in the Quartermaster section. The Knight was glad to see Anakin's appetite, but he was less than enthralled with his table manners. He would be doing the boy no favors by being too easy on him, and this, too, was the responsibility of a Master. He would have to tell Qui-Gon about this realization, and let him smile at the joke.

Keeping his tone light but nevertheless serious, Obi-Wan said, "It is not bantha fodder, Padawan, and you are not a bantha. Chew with your mouth closed, please."

"That's what Mom always says, too. Sorry." Obediently, he finished the last few bites with more decorum and got up to clear the table.

Surely it could not be that simple. It wouldn't be. This was undoubtably a dance with nearly infinite variations. He could clearly remember Qui-Gon impressing etiquette upon him, over and over again. [Well, you never said being a Master was easy,] he thought wryly.

[Hmmm?] His own Master was immediately present to his thought. [What brings that to mind?]

[Anakin. Table manners.]

[Ah.] Obi-Wan could feel Qui-Gon's mental chuckle as a warmth that reverberated between them. [You should be grateful he's not a Gungan.]

[Oh, I am, Master. Believe me, I am.] Obi-Wan leaned back in his chair, watching his apprentice washing up the dishes. He was quite adept and neat at the task.

"Anakin, when you are finished there, would you like to join me in visiting Master Qui-Gon?"

Anakin looked up at him with a serious expression. "No. I'll stay here and do stuff. I'll visit tomorrow. I think you could use the time alone together."

"You are sure? You are more than welcome to come, you know."

Anakin smiled cheerfully at him. "I know. But now that I can Send," he fidgeted with the last of the flatware and his grin broadened, "it's not so, I dunno, urgent? And besides, you either want to be mushy or talk about me." With only slightly exaggerated gentleness he closed the cabinet door and flopped back down on the couch, reaching for his commpad reader.

Obi-Wan was shrugging into his cloak when Anakin said, "Oh, I meant to tell you, in afternoon meditation with Master Gralla I finally saw something. Just a flash, but it was all three of us, here in this room, and I was almost as tall as Master Qui-Gon, and you had a beard. Do you think I'll really grow that big?"

"I don't know, but it is certainly possible." Nonplussed, Obi-Wan studied his apprentice. How did he just know things like that? Anakin's prescience was strong, but equally, that image could be a reflection of the boy 's desire for stability in a life that had seen too much change in a very short time. Either way, it did seem that not moving would be Anakin's choice as well.

Qui-Gon was sleeping heavily, restlessly. Dreaming. Between them, they had managed to persuade Pir!c to forgo sedatives for this second attempt. Obi-Wan watched him from his seat at a little distance, chin in hand. They had not visibly lost ground over the last few days, but none had been gained either. There was a faint bruise from the fluid-patch just under the collarbone, pressure-mottlings marred both wrists, the shine of bandage-salve gleamed at the corner of his mouth where the breather chafed. The bumpy jut of his nose was nearly grotesque against the smooth, plump expanse of pillow. His hair needed a thorough brush. (The healer-assistants kept it clean enough, but it was hygene and efficiency that moved them, not fondness. Obi-Wan missed the scent of Qui-Gon's favoured soap. He could only imagine how his Master felt about it.)

To the healers he was more patient than person. To the Padawans Anakin had fought he was legend, example and pointed to as a warning -- for or against what Obi-Wan had never been sure. Ani, though insisting on his name and integrity, saw the Master more than the man, the dream he aspired to. The people they were sent out to serve saw the Jedi Knight. But Obi-Wan was gifted with Qui-Gon himself, the private man visible to so few others. Why did it take terror to make even him, privileged with Qui-Gon's spirit, see?

His was a privileged position, perspective. It behooved him to use it properly. As his Master had trained him to do. He straightened himself in the chair and set himself to See.

This was Qui-Gon Jinn, a person, whole unto himself, connected to others. Jedi, Master, Knight, lover, teacher, poet and his beloved. Who offered help unstintingly, would beg help for others, but hated to have to ask for it for himself. Who felt things deeply and passionately, but reserved expression of those feelings to private moments, and kept a firm rein on a fierce and stubborn temper. He would always reach out: to comfort the weary, to succour the defenseless, to ease a burden with a sympathetic contact, yet wore his robes and serenity as intangible armour against the casual encroachment of strangers. The man would make spice tea strong enough to etch metal, and yet liked the fragile texture of paper and ink, penning with an intricate hand, crouched over a tiny writing tablet. He had given his third apprentice a rock that sang with the Force for his thirteenth birthday, and seven years later another that spoke from his heart. Who left clothes strewn about the sleeping chamber and could make his lover come with nothing more than kisses. Who had ticklish feet and that particularly marvelous spot between his shoulderblades.

The man who fought and taught and loved and lived with such presence, vigor and intensity.

Three Padawans called him Master, two Knights, and a fourth now at least half his. (Two braids to his credit and Yoda held his, his last Padawan.) Master Qui-Gon Jinn, himself, his beloved.

The interlace of Force that cradled him connected him widely -- to gardens, people, places, animals, whole planets: that green strand was the plant in the corner, that bright silver one Anakin, finer threads represented Yoda and Mace, Ylian, others - an intricate, far-flung net that held every star he had ever orbited, every person met, every heart touched, every life ended. Everything, weaving together like warp and weft in the tapestry that was Qui-Gon Jinn. And threaded throughout, the braided cord that was their own connection.

The cord that was twisted, knotted, tangled short, hampering movement. It was as if that strand had grown sticky in contraction, coated with an ichor that sought to bind them body to body, and leached light from the connection between their spirits, their hearts.

Qui-Gon moved restlessly in his shallow sleep, dreaming badly. /... too tight ... suffocating ... don't go, let go .../ Obi-Wan felt his hands fist tightly, his chest constrict. He breathed with deliberate care, gently, forced his hands open, held them cupped as if to ward a guttering flame. Consciously he worked to release the tension in his fingers and chest. His Master quieted, and he felt tears well and slide.

Oh, my beloved.

To hold too hard was a subtle darkness of its own. Even a Darkness. The real connection between them was not the physical one that he had forged in despair and necessity and love on Naboo, but the one that had begun before either of them knew or recognized it on Bandomeer, a tie than grew as they grew, a tie that the Padawan braid had only symbolized.

So simple. How could he not have seen? Letting go didn't have to mean losing. It just meant letting go. (Cutting the braid, making the Knight - Ylian was no more lost to Qui-Gon than he was.) The open hand: gravity and flight, physics and the flow of the Force netted all together. So simple. Focus, symbol and intent.

That didn't make it easy, though. He was not symbolically minded, preferring clearly physical interactions and relationships as well as straightforward language. Qui-Gon had nearly despaired of his ever figuring out that rock. Either rock. This physical connection had been made without any conscious structuring, without ritual or even form. But they had already proven that mere effort and intent would not break it. He needed a pattern. Metaphysics was not helping.

/Why not try physics, then? Structure it like a proof in astronav. 1. What is your Focus? (Letting go this deathgrip.) 2. What Symbol(s)/Action(s) will best serve? (Breath, fisted/open hands.) 3. What is your Intent, the wider structure? (Health, life, individuality, relationship, balance.)/

[Oh, love, let me let go and not lose you.]

He sank down into himself, a deep meditation state, maintaining his Force-awareness, his ties to place and presence.

Breathe out. Breathe in. Consciously match the rhythm of the lifemonitor, the pulse of the plant, the steady heartbeat, the shallow, sleeping breath. Feel the constriction, the weight, the chill bite of the monitor contacts, the ache of long restricted movement. Hold awareness of self, of other, of otherself, find the knot, the nexus, the clenched hands. Breathe out, in. Reach out, in. Listen, feel the spin and spiral of the Force, the great pattern, the stillness that is all movement, you, he, the plant, the place, all moving, all still, a mote in the heart of the Universe, still in the center --

/Leap! Let go!/

His hands gripped, rigid, unyielding. Holding hard against the dark, the Dark. Pulses tried to move through, around, were caught tight. /Sleep is not dark; shedding the outworn old to make room for the healing new is not death. There is no death, there is the Force..../

/out of the static dark/
/out of the silent dark/

The monitors were making meaningless noises; he held the life he loved more than his own tight in the palm of his hand, fluttering, beating, struggling --

/Leap! Let go!/

Breathe out, throw open hands, heart, eyes...

/Fall into the future/

Do it!

/Fall into my heart/

For a moment everything tilted, wavered, stuttered, then stabilized with the sense of a great gasping breath, an inrush of air and light and life.

/Leap! Let go!/

And time started again. For the space of a blink, a breath, every edge, every particle was unbearably sharp and present, the very air brilliant and heavy, the now-steady beeps and pulses of the monitors had tastes and textures. Ordinary perception seeped back between one note and the next, softening the edges, dimming the world back into familiarity.

Ordinary awareness. Obi-Wan found he was kneeling beside the couch, feeling as though he had run a race. He relaxed his outflung hands and looked to see what he had done, heart hammering. /Oh, please ... /

The lifemonitor persisted, a baseline of comfort; some part of him would have noticed its absence. Qui-Gon began to wake, breath quickening, going harsh and uneven before settling in a smoother rhythm that affected his own lungs not at all. Tousled hair shifted on the pillow as his Master stirred and deep, deep blue eyes unclosed, smiling. He was still there. [Not lost.]

The big hand, gaining strength, moved to cup his face. [Not lost. Never lost.]

Obi-Wan felt dizzy, light-headed with relief. He swayed, clutched a little wildly for the headrail, the edge of the couch.

[You are light-headed, love. Put your head down and breathe properly before you fall over.]

"Yes, Master." The Knight sat down hard on his heels. /Already fell. But that's alright, fell right where I wanted to./ His thoughts were not very coherent. He did as he was told and shortly had both a silly grin on his face and a firmer grip on his surroundings.

He laced his fingers through Qui-Gon's. "We did it."

[Yes, we did. You did.]

Across the temple Anakin looked up from his bookreader with a sudden feeling of startled joy. Something had happened. Something good. He grinned broadly at the senior Padawan supervising the study group, who shot him a cautionary look followed by a small, almost reluctant smile. Anakin bent his head again to read. He restrained himself from Sending to either of his Masters. They were busy, he could tell. The study period would be over in a few tenths and he would be free to go see them and find out. Until then, with this feeling of rightness even "An Introduction to Economic Theory" wasn't so bad.

A shift in Qui-Gon's attention caused Obi-Wan to look up as Anakin arrived in Qui-Gon's room only a little disheveled, and with a quickness that told Obi-Wan that the boy had only just not run through the halls.

"Oh! You're better! Both of you!" Anakin grinned widely at his Masters. "I knew I felt something earlier."

[You did indeed, Padawan.] Even Qui-Gon's mental voice was richer, fuller, more resonant. [Well done.]

Obi-Wan smiled a welcome, and watched as Anakin pulled over the other narrow visitor's chair. Now that he was looking, an less distracted, he could see/feel/hear the connection between them, a bright reflection of the bond he and his Master had had from before he had had the right to call Qui-Gon Master. How strange to remember that now, from this point of view.

[And so have you done well, Master Obi-Wan. My love.] Qui-Gon's hand tightened on Obi-Wan's, a tactile reinforcement of the private communication.

Warmed inside and out, Obi-Wan watched as Anakin made himself comfortable and began telling of his day. They were almost knee to knee, both close to Qui-Gon's side. The same places they had occupied for so many bleak hours, but how different it was now! Now his Master was fully present with them, eyes bright, breathing on his own, color returning to his face, strength to his grip. And Anakin, his Padawan, his. Beginning to own his own strength, find his own place in the Temple as well as forging a place in his Master's life and heart. He and Anakin had more in common than not, in that. Let the outcome be as happy.

The awful sense of dislocation that still lurked in his nightmares dimmed to a mere hint of potential as he watched Anakin talk to both of them with animation. The energy flared between all three of them, question and answer, give and take, a new balance, stable and fluid.

No need to move. They were where they needed to be. Qui-Gon was healing, would be coming home. Anakin was well settled in, needed the stability of unchanging quarters, found comfort in the continuity. As, he admitted to himself, he did himself. His Master, his lover, had been right to refuse him that. Right to insist, regardless of the pain.

A small silence brought him back to himself and outward awareness. Qui-Gon was smiling at him with a straight face, a faint query in the angle of his eyebrows. Anakin was shifting his gaze back and forth between them.

"Master Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Padawan?"

"Are we going to move our rooms?"

Obi-Wan took a deep, slow breath, and let it out with a rush. Perceptive was not the word for the boy. "No, we are not. There is no need to, and good reason not to. And I am not even going ask how you knew I was even considering it."

Anakin's mouth opened and then closed again, glee competing with chagrin at being caught. His exuberant "Yay!" was closely followed with a slightly sheepish but entirely unrepentant "Sorry."

Qui-Gon shifted slightly against his pillows. [I suspect he 'overheard' one of us.]

[Shields. Strong shields. Around our quarters, and a separate set for our room.] And lessons in appropriate boundaries. He was not going to add any more to his deprivations than necessary. Though Obi-Wan trusted that discipline would catch up to ability in short order.

[Oh, indeed.] A mental caress.

[I'll speak to Maintenance in the morning.]

Gratitude flowed across the connection. [As well as work on our own internal shields.] Obi-Wan could feel the shift as Qui-Gon widened his Sending, [Mindfulness of each other's privacies will serve all of us well. We have a responsibility to you, Anakin, as well as you to us. Thank you for the reminder.]

[You're Welcome.] Anakin didn't quite squirm, though he rolled his eyes as he muttered "What is it with the mushy stuff?"

Obi-Wan noticed he made no move to leave the warmth of their three way connection. An impish though assailed him, and encouraged by the light in Qui-Gon's eyes, he leaned forward. [That was not mush, Padawan, This might be, however.]

Anakin's eyes widened and he turned to look intently at the plant in the corner. [Masters!]

Obi-Wan smiled and bent down further. It was a light touch, lip to lip. A lover's touch. A kiss, sweet, soft. Obi-Wan found his hands carding and smoothing silver-bronze silk, moving to trace the curve of ear and jaw. He shifted back just enough to see as he mapped the beloved line of brow and lip and cheek while Qui-Gon smiled up at him, radiating happiness.

A throat-clearing noise from the doorway startled all three of them. Anakin jumped to his feet while his Masters drew apart reluctantly.

N'neni stalked in, upper arms akimbo, lower maneuvering the bath cart briskly around them. Once her gear was positioned, she glared at them all impartially, but her hands were gentle as she began to adjust the angle of the couch and lay out towels.

"If you don't mind, Knight Kenobi, Padawan Skywalker, it's time for Master Jinn's bath."

Boyish horror colored Anakin's face as he realized he was about to see his senior master naked. Kisses were one thing, this was quite another. "Um, Maybe I should go now." He was across the room, but darted over to give a quick squeeze to Qui-Gon's hand. "I'm very glad you are better, Master Qui-Gon, sir." The warmth and sincerity of the wish was palpable. "I'll do my homework problems, Master Obi-Wan. See ya!" With that he skittered out the door.

Obi-Wan smothered a laugh, and a chuckle threatened his Master's careful breath. N'neni went briskly about shifting bedclothes, stripping back the light coverlet and putting towels over the pillows that supported Qui-Gon's head.

The joy in Qui-Gon's face dimmed to endurance. It occurred to Obi-Wan that he could do something about that. "Teach me," he said suddenly, stopping her. "Show me how to do this. Let me help." [Would it be easier, if I helped?]

Qui-Gon had dreamed of Obi-Wan's hands. He had not allowed himself to wish. [Yes. Yes it would. Thank you.]

She looked piercingly from Knight to Master, and Qui-Gon trusted she saw the hope and purpose, the desire to help, the clear connection between them. Hoped she would decide irrespective of the as yet unauthorized activity she had interrupted.

"You want this?" She asked Qui-Gon, frowning not unkindly.

Healer-assistant N'neni never trusted any of his Padawans past or potential to answer for him. Obi-Wan pressed the touch-pad into his hand. YES

She read it and nodded sharply. "Good." She twitched the sheet away. Obi-Wan caught it. "Now to start ..."

Qui-Gon gave himself over to the bath, to both the known impartial and the loved inexpert touch. It would be well. They had made a balance, he and Obi-Wan and Anakin. He was healing. Anakin was finding a place of his own amongst the other Padawans. Obi-Wan had found his feet and was beginning to find his stride as a Knight. Home waited for him; no mere accommodation, but the space they had made together by living in it, he and Obi-Wan, and now Ani. Home in Obi-Wan's hands and Anakin's aggrieved questions. It would be well, now that the air was clear and they all had room to breathe

[...to next stage]

Note: This is the full text of the poem that Obi-Wan uses as part of letting go the Force-ties.

"The Gravity Well" Jennifer Tifft, 14 August 1997

Leap! Let go!

Fall into the future
   Storm driven
   Need driven
   Angry & alone

Leap! Let go!

Fall into the world well
Fall into a place, a purpose
Fall into a present, a presence

Let gravity pull you
   down
   into the future
   down
   out of the static dark
   out of the silent dark
   down

Leap! Let go!

Fall into the world well
Fall into the future
   burning
   spinning
   yearning
   knowing

Fall into my heart

Leap! Let go!