Master Apprentice
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Continued from Part 3
Chapter 4
"I think maybe I only know one thing in this world. One thing for sure. And that is that the truth does not set you free. . . The truth does not salvage you or make you whole again. It does not allow you to rise above the burden of lies and secrets and wounds to the heart. The truths I have learned hold me down like chains in a dark room, an underworld of ghosts and victims that slither around me like snakes. It is a place where the truth is not something to look at or behold. It is the place where evil waits. Where it blows its breath, every breath, into your mouth and nose until you cannot escape from it. This is what I know. The only thing."
- The Narrows, Michael Connelly
He had barely taken ten steps into the hushed corridor before he felt it -- and was almost driven to his knees by the sensation.
"Obi?" The young man at his side -- tall and well-muscled, with thick chestnut hair, sun-bronzed skin, and deep-set brandy-colored eyes -- paused in mid-stride, waiting to give his companion time to adjust. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry. I should have fuckin' realized it would be . . . overwhelming, after being away for so long."
Obi-Wan drew a shaky breath and managed a small smile. "I can't believe I could have forgotten what it feels like." He closed his eyes then, reaching for composure. "So many. So many. I haven't touched so many since . . . "
"I know," said Knight Muln, when his friend fell silent. He draped an arm across Ob-Wan's shoulders, and laid his forehead against his temple. "Just -- take your time. Settle into it. It'll ease off in a bit -- and you might want to refocus your shielding. You've spent so many years keeping yourself closed off within your mental barriers, that you've forgotten how to adjust them to keep everyone else out."
Kenobi nodded, and stretched out through the Force, seeking -- and finding -- the strength to reinforce the natural shielding that allowed him to remain an individual entity within the complex network of inter-connecting fibers of the Jedi Order.
They remained silent and motionless for a few minutes, and Obi-Wan was grateful for Garen's patience -- and the not-so-subtle soothing energy that flowed to him through a bond almost as old as he was -- a bond that was neither Force-born, nor Jedi-forged. Instead, the knights were joined by something much simpler -- formed when two very small boys, each cradled in the gentle embrace of Jedi affection and touched by the tenderness of the Force, but still, somehow, very much alone, had sought kinship and comfort -- and discovered it in each other. They were not linked mind to mind, nor Jedi to Jedi, through the Force. They were linked heart to heart, by bonds composed of links forged from the simplest form of love; they were friends who could not remember when they had not been friends.
"Better?" asked Garen after a while, understanding, as few others could have, how difficult the coming day would prove to be for his childhood companion.
Obi-Wan took a deep, ragged breath. "I don't know . . . if I can do this, Garen."
"I know," came the whispered response. "But you can't just . . . walk away now. You have to see it through. If not . . ."
"If not?" Jewel-toned eyes, wide and vulnerable and glazed with weariness that contrasted sharply to the freshness of morning, were suddenly set ablaze by reflections of sunrise pouring scarlet and amber through arched windows looking out toward the East.
Garen knew that evading the question would do more harm than good. "If not, it'll fuckin' destroy you, Obi-Wan."
Knight Kenobi -- younger than his old friend by a grand total of nineteen days -- ran his fingers through his hair before making a conscious effort to regain his composure and recapture the image of serenity. He made no attempt to convince himself that it was anything MORE than an image, understanding that - sometimes, even for a Jedi knight -- the illusion had to be enough.
"How do you feel?" asked Garen, as they resumed their walk toward the Temple core.
Obi-Wan surprised both of them when he chuckled softly. "I can't even begin to describe it. It's like standing balanced on the sharp edge of a saber -- and knowing that every choice . . . is a bad one."
Garen nodded. "But some are worse than others."
Their gazes met then -- and pale shadows in Obi-Wan's eyes expressed his own misgivings. "Yes. Some are. Am I wrong, Garen? Have I made a huge mistake?"
Unexpectedly, irrepressibly, Garen grinned. "Only in giving that fuckin' reprobate the keys to the kingdom."
But in this one area Obi-Wan apparently had no uncertainties, and the tranquil assurance of his response was completely genuine. "I trust him -- and so should you."
"I just hope it's the head on your shoulders you're thinking with -- instead of the one on your cock."
They arrived at the central rotunda of the Temple, and Obi-Wan paused to savor the loveliness of the soaring chamber, with its profusion of flowering shrubs and trees, the mirror-like surface of its reflecting pool, and the bright splash of water from its cascading fountains. In niches set around the perimeter of the circular space, statuary carved from slabs of Debrillion marble, in brilliant shades of emerald and garnet and amethyst, veined with silver and obsidian, represented the legendary figures of Jedi history, each illuminated with a distinctively tinted glow, generated by the focusing crystals that had powered their lightsabers, all now awash in the roseate luster of dawn. And behind the heroic figures, in a sweeping arc of polished japniastone covering fully half of the great chamber's circumference, glinting dark jade in the embrace of the sun, measuring almost thirty meters high, stood the commemorative monument -- the Wall of Remembrance, bearing the names, acid-etched, of every Jedi believed to have perished in the line of duty since the birth of the Order. Thousands upon thousands of names -- of lives given up for the preservation of peace and the defense of innocence.
It required no Force sense to be awed by the magnitude -- the scope of the memorial. It commanded reverence, even among those who could not actually hear its voice. For the Jedi, there were no words to explain the depth of its meaning.
As a result, there was a perpetual hush that lingered over the vast space -- even when it was crowded and hectic -- a hush that was a part, somehow, of the grand music of the Jedi, the orchestration of time and space and life that came together in the confluence that evolved into the symphonic resonance of the Order.
No one ever expressed it quite that way, of course. The Jedi, for all their skills in articulation and eloquence, were not much given to poetic commentary -- but they felt it, sometimes. Even the most mundane and pragmatic among them occasionally recognized that there was a symmetry in the ebb and flow of history and time, and accepted, on some non-verbal level, that they must all contribute a scrap of melody to the grand sonata of their existence.
Like all great musical masterpieces, it consisted of both bright soaring descants and dark basso undercurrents that surged and retreated and vied for supremacy, eventually spiraling together to create the finished work of art.
To stand at the center of the great rotunda, and gaze up at the names of those who had gone before, was to feel the spirit of that music, and to know, in some small way, one's place within the symphony.
It was overwhelming, like vision suddenly restored to a blind man, and, for a time, Obi-Wan could do nothing but stand and try to absorb it, without getting swept away into a chaotic dimension of raw emotion from which few were ever able to return to rationalism.
With a desperate attempt to rein in his sensitivity, the young knight deliberately turned away from the Wall, and focused only on the simple process of breathing, on the sweetness of the scents in the air around him, and the warmth that filled his lungs. He could still feel the grandeur of the musical composition -- but the flood that had threatened to consume him had begun to recede. Once he regained his composure, the heavy orchestration settled into orderly patterns, and the chorale into individual voices.
Obi-Wan wouldn't choose to phrase it in such terms, of course, but he knew instinctively -- as did his friend -- that it was not a tenor moment toward which they were moving.
"He has no reason to lie," he said finally, returning to the subject of their disagreement, after allowing himself time to adjust to the emotional surges engendered by the setting and the beauty around him -- a beauty virtually unchanged since his last visit here -- when he had not been so much a visitor, as a fledgling venturing out of the nest for the first time.
He actually flinched slightly, startled when he felt his companion's fingers grab -- and pinch -- the tender flesh of his backside. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," drawled Garen, pinching harder, for emphasis. "I can think of one or two things he might want to keep -- for himself. Not to mention a couple of old debts he might want to repay."
"People change, my friend," Obi-Wan observed gently. "Especially when everything they've ever known is taken from them -- or distorted in such a way that they can no longer recognize it."
Garen studied his friend's face carefully -- not sure what he wanted -- or expected -- to see. "Who are we talking about here, Obi? Him -- or you?"
Obi-Wan extended his hand, and smoothed the hair back from his friend's face. "Or all of us," he answered. "Today, we all confront our own personal shatterpoints."
The dark-haired knight grimaced. "Shit! I know I'm in trouble when you start quoting fuckin' Windu."
His companion grinned. "That's Master fuckin' Windu to you, Peon."
Garen continued to look disgruntled. "Easy for YOU to say. YOU weren't the one who spent four rotations having to do his laundry and scrub his fuckin' 'fresher when we got caught planting that spybot in his bedroom."
"That's because I didn't get caught," retorted Obi-Wan. "You should have listened when I told you to run."
"Fuck that! You don't really think he didn't know, do you? You forget -- as part of my detention, while cleaning his john - and I'm not even going to give you all the gory details of that little adventure -- I got a look, a good look, at his porn stash. Would you like to take a guess whose fetching, barely clothed little ass was front and center in every holopic?"
"Master Yaddle?" Obi-Wan's grin was infectious.
"Eeeyuu!" moaned Garen. "Not before breakfast, please. No! The only reason you got away with that -- among a million other things -- is that the legendary, sainted, ultra-dignified Master Windu wanted nothing more in life than to get his big, greedy hands into your pants -- and the only thing that stopped him . . ." Abruptly, he fell silent, upon realizing that he was treading on the edge of painful memories.
"Was Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan said quietly. Today would be a day overflowing with such memories, he knew, and it made little sense to start it off by voiding them. After all, it was all part of his purpose in coming here. His eyes were gentle as he looked up and saw the distress in Garen's expression. "It's all right, you know. You can say his name. It doesn't have the power to hurt me -- not any more."
Garen pursed his lips, and looked around the great rotunda, dark eyes flashing. "You know what?" There was a sudden harshness in his voice -- a simmering resentment that was an integral part of his identity -- and a clear signal to those who knew him well that he was about to say something outrageous.
"What?" Obi-Wan echoed, a wisp of a smile touching his lips. He had known Garen too long not to recognize signs of an incipient bout of defiance, of what Garen termed "shaking one's fist in the face of the gods".
"Fuck 'em! Fuck 'em all! Right?"
The smile expanded into a grin. "Absolutely."
"It's too fuckin' early for this shit -- and I don't suppose it would be a good idea to go haul the high-and-mighty out of their snug little beds. I mean, what if -- Force forbid -- some of them -- even one of them -- finally managed to figure out a way to get a piece of ass -- and we interrupted their coitus. That, my friend, would be a tragedy of epic proportions. A once in a lifetime disaster -- since everybody knows that the reason they all act like they have a lightsaber stuck up their asses is that they can't figure out a way to fuck somebody -- and maintain their dignity at the same time. So . . ."
"So?" Obi-Wan had progressed to snickering by this time. No one but Garen would dare lampoon the powers that be with such total disregard for station or stature.
"So -- which do you prefer? A commissary breakfast -- they're probably serving Dagobah mucus this week -- or . . ."
"Or?"
"Or I could kick your ass around the main training salle to kill a bit of time. Unless he breaks every speed record in the books -- and flattens a few bystanders along the way -- we've got at least a couple of hours to wait. Nobody'll be in the salles this early -- so we'd have plenty of room and all the equipment to ourselves. And frankly, you look like you could use an excuse to beat the shit out of something."
"Are you volunteering to be my punching bag?"
Garen waggled his eyebrows lasciviously -- and beamed with satisfaction when his ploy succeeded, and the snicker became a rolling laugh, as the dark-eyed knight reached out and planted both hands on Obi-Wan's butt. "If you're interested in my bag, Beautiful, all you have to do is say so -- though I'd rather you didn't punch it . . . exactly."
"You're incorrigible," chuckled Obi-Wan, "and one of these days, someone's going to take you seriously and rat on you to Rhimbo, who's going to extract your balls with a rusty spoon and serve 'em to you sliced, diced, and sautéed."
To his surprise, the mischief in Garen's eyes faded, and the dark-haired young knight lifted his hands to cup his friend's face. "He knows what you mean to me, Obi. Fuck -- if I ever let anything happen to you, I'd be the one who'd never get another piece of ass. He'd never forgive me -- any more than I'd forgive myself."
"I wish you wouldn't do that," replied Obi-Wan with a sigh.
"Why?"
"Because it makes it really hard . . . for me to take advantage of the chance to kick your sorry ass into next week."
With a blinding grin -- and an insolent glare for the two still-drowsy senior padawans who happened to stroll across the rotunda at that moment, meandering as if they couldn't quite remember where they were supposed to be -- Garen leaned forward and claimed Obi-Wan's lips in a quick, bruising kiss, while giving one last pinch to what had once been voted "Padawan Ass of the Year" -- back in the day.
Then he sprinted off toward the nearest bank of lifts, spinning once to make sure his challenge had been noted and accepted. Obi-Wan, with a shout of laughter, closed the distance between them, skidding into the waiting lift in a near dead heat. As the doors closed, the banter raged on.
He had always believed that it was something of a cosmic joke that sunrise and sunset on Corascant should be so spectacular. A world which had nothing left of its natural splendor -- which had become as artificial in its own way as the great, metallic space stations that were scattered along the paths of the major galactic trade routes -- should not provide a setting for such a majestic display of natural grandeur.
He thought, perhaps, he rather resented it, for it seemed to mock -- just slightly -- the belief that the beauty of the natural universe was tied irrevocably to the intensity of the great energy field that connected all living things.
The Force was strong within the Jedi Temple, of course, flowing from and to and through the thousands of individuals who made their home there, to whom the natural power was as real and physically present as any living, breathing entity; and it was strong, though in a different way, as an almost visible emanation generated by the billions who inhabited the planet.
But Coruscant itself was a dead planet. Nothing lived there that wasn't sustained artificially, and -- should the vast network of machinery ever fail -- all life on its surface would be snuffed out in a cosmic moment.
Master Qui-Gon Jinn, nevertheless, continued a practice that had become habitual for him when he was very young. Every morning, without fail, during those periods when he was in residence in the Temple, he would settle himself comfortably on the small balcony fronting his quarters and watch the spectacle of dawn splash its abstract artwork across the dark canvas of the sky. It had always been a time of peace for him -- a chance to renew his serenity, to contemplate, with contentment, his place in the grand design of the universe, and to allow himself a tiny nuance of pride -- even a drop of complacency -- over his achievements. It was a small personal ritual that was, perhaps, not quite Jedi -- but he had always assured himself that it was essentially harmless and that he deserved at least this small repose, this trace of satisfaction.
It was incredibly good to be back at the Temple, to be able to put the charade to rest, finally; to allow life to regain its natural shape.
It was, in fact, almost perfect. Almost -- but not quite. Not yet -- for there was still one vital element missing, one component that was necessary to the resumption of the life he was meant to live, the life he had earned in all these long years during which he had been forced, finally, to confront his own truth.
He had, after all, given up . . .
A small, completely involuntary gasp rose within him, a tiny disruption in the peace of the moment, and -- in its wake -- the searing blaze of an old, unresolved pain.
Only here -- in the deepest, most carefully hidden recesses of his mind -- had he ever admitted the truth.
He had given up . . . everything.
It should not be true; for a Jedi, secure in his identity, it could not be true. The Force, first, last, and always, should be, must be, everything to one who fully embraced the Jedi concepts of service and humility. There could be nothing else -- ever -- that would take priority over that single-minded dedication, in the soul of a committed Jedi.
He knew it; he believed it; he had lived it.
Except . . . . that he hadn't. Not in the core of who he really was. There -- where his heart was -- lay the ugly, unvarnished, damning truth.
He had clung to his duty, and followed the path set for him by the Force -- and he had hated every minute of it, had even come, most recently, to resent the power that compelled him to accept his fate; had even come, finally, to resent the source of the conflict that had made his devastating choices necessary.
He didn't think anyone knew; he was, after all, a Jedi Master, and, if he couldn't bury his own emotions so deeply that no one would ever find them, he would be unworthy of the title. And there was also the fact that such a thing was virtually unthinkable.
Jedi Masters did not -- absolutely would not -- come to resent and distrust their padawans.
Especially when the most fundamental reason for the resentment was a simple negative circumstance for which the padawan in question could not be held accountable.
Qui-Gon leaned forward and braced his arms on the balcony railing, and watched the dizzy patterns of early morning traffic blend and interact, perfectly orchestrated, like the steps of some marvelously complex ballet, as he continued his melancholy musing.
There were, of course, many reasons for the misgivings he had developed concerning his padawan's achievements over the years; he was not quite the besotted fool, blinded by Anakin's dazzling abilities, that so many believed him to be. Early on, he had recognized his padawan's arrogance, and his casual willingness to manipulate and exploit everyone around him, but he had initially assumed that such traits were the natural aftermath of the boy's tragic history, and would be outgrown once he understood that his future was bright and his place among the Jedi, secure. But it had not quite worked out that way; Anakin was no longer motivated by fear or insecurity. He no longer doubted his worth. Quite the contrary. What Anakin doubted now -- was the worth of those he was sworn to serve.
The apprentice had worked with single-minded determination to achieve a specific personal goal, a goal he believed he had successfully concealed from his superiors; he had perfected the ability to project an almost seamless image of tranquility and self-control, thus camouflaging his emotional state beneath a façade of Jedi serenity. He was convinced that his surface persona was perfect, impervious to penetration -- and he was almost right -- would have been entirely right -- if not for two factors he neglected to take into account.
His Master, despite having done a number of foolish things in his life, was no fool, and -- beyond Qui-Gon's pragmatic acumen -- there was a tiny being who, for all intents and purposes, was the living repository of the wisdom of the ages.
Both Qui-Gon Jinn and Master Yoda were aware of the anger and impatience, and the callous assumption of his own superiority, that continued to seethe beneath the placid exterior of Anakin Skywalker -- and both had begun to consider the possible consequences of allowing the situation to continue. With every passing day, it seemed more and more likely that some form of intervention would be necessary, though neither had been able to formulate a plan of action with a reasonable chance of success.
Qui-Gon sat back, and sighed when he felt the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes. More and more of late, thoughts of his padawan -- and the thousands of possible permutations of his future -- had given rise to a tension that could not be dispelled by normal means. The Master was beginning to think he might have to pay a visit to the healers for help in ridding himself of a growing tendency to migraines -- and wouldn't Mirilent Soljan just love that. He didn't have to stretch his imagination very far to visualize her smirk of satisfaction.
The sun was brighter now, frosting the forest of spires and towers and pedestrian bridges stretched out below it, with drifts of liquid gold.
Anakin, who had declared, quite early in their association, that he had seen more than enough sunrises over the barren sands of Tatooine, was still abed, probably exhausted from his exertions of the previous evening. Qui-Gon had chosen not to indulge his Masterly privileges when he had risen, bypassing the boy's room without reaching out through the Force to learn if Anakin was still entertaining a guest. When he had returned from dinner the previous evening, after lingering over a very satisfactory brandy with a group of old friends, there had been the unmistakable odor of adolescent hormones and sexual fervor in the common room of their quarters, but Anakin had already retired and a quick trace through the link of their training bond had confirmed that the boy was sleeping. It did not, however, indicate whether or not he was doing so alone -- and Qui-Gon had refrained from pressing the issue.
Anakin was . . . unique. Not even Xanatos -- whom Qui-Gon had once heard described as "the hungriest cock in the Temple" -- had been as voracious in his appetites, nor as flagrant is his efforts to appease them, as Anakin. Xanatos, for all his rutting habits, had been discreet in the presence of his Master. On the other hand, getting caught 'in the act', so to speak, had become almost routine for Anakin and his ever-growing circle of partners -- male or female, human or not -- and Qui-Gon was growing more and more concerned that the only one who seemed to be embarrassed over such confrontations, was the Master. His apprentice seemed . . . almost pleased to exhibit his prowess; pleased . . . and hungry.
And Qui-Gon knew, of course, who was the focus of that hunger. Just as Anakin knew that it was a hunger that would never be assuaged.
It had happened on a small planet in the Minos Cluster -- after an elegant state dinner party celebrating a hard-won treaty, featuring a little too much smug self-satisfaction, and a little too much native ale.
Qui-Gon still blamed himself for his loss of control -- but understood, on some subliminal level, that it had probably happened for the best. When sixteen-year-old Anakin had slipped into his Master's bed, slick with sweat, aching with need, hard as durasteel, and clothed only in desire, the Master -- deep in the grip of a dream about a slender body which had once been his to claim as his own -- had responded with violent hunger, devouring the boy's mouth and enclosing him in a bruising embrace. Then, breaking from the kiss, he had buried his face in the softness of the padawan's throat, and moaned softly.
"Oh, my Obi-Wan. You are my heart."
Old lines of regret formed around the Master's mouth as he remembered that moment -- and the suddenness of the silence -- and the incredible depth of the hurt in Anakin's eyes as the image of the dream was overwritten by the face of reality.
It was an image he would have preferred to forget.
Anakin had leapt to his feet and run -- as far and as fast as he could -- and the following morning, he had been cloaked in the image of the perfect padawan -- stoic, composed, calm -- silent. They had never discussed what had happened. There had been no need for such a conversation, as both understood what had been said -- and what had not been said -- between them.
And therein, of course, lay the crux of the problem -- the fundamental reason why Qui-Gon had begun to dislike his apprentice.
Anakin -- was not Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan, who, though he had not come to his Master's bed as a virgin, had come with his innocence intact; had offered himself out of an incredibly sweet love and dedication and loyalty, carrying a purity in his heart and soul that Anakin, through no fault of his own, had never possessed. Obi-Wan, who had known nothing of greed, or self-absorption -- who had given everything he had, even offering up his life -- only to be . . .
Abruptly, Qui-Gon rose, in the manner of one who wants nothing more than to leap into some other reality -- some place where the pain of the moment is but a memory.
He had not lied to Adi -- had not even intended to lie to her, when she cut him off. Yes, he had known about Obi-Wan's missions; had known what Master Koth had done; had consoled himself by insisting, in his own mind, that it was the will of the Force, that he had no right to interfere, that his duty lay with the training of the incredible child who had tumbled into his life under the impetus of destiny. It was meant to be; he had told himself that constantly. And when he had begun to notice that the child was not quite the golden ideal that he had originally perceived, he had continued to cling to his old beliefs, because, by that time, he had no choice. He had to continue to believe; otherwise, he would have been forced to deal with another possibility -- an alternative truth that he simply could not bear to contemplate.
But even that was not the whole truth. The whole truth -- he could hardly stand to admit it to himself -- was simply embarrassing.
For his entire life, he had claimed to trust only in the Living Force -- to be guided only by the urges that existed within the moment. So how could he now concede that he had allowed himself to be swayed -- and consoled -- by another type of reassurance, a source of certainty that he would have rejected out of hand had it originated from someone else?
He closed his eyes, and sighed. No one else would ever believe it -- but, somehow, he must find a way to make one particular person believe it.
He had allowed Master Koth to do his worst -- to send his former apprentice into the clutches of what appeared to be certain death, not once but many, many times -- because he had known better. He had known -- viscerally, in the depths of his being -- that Obi-Wan would come back, that he would be safe, that he would endure. That he would . . . wait, because Obi-Wan had a destiny to fulfill.
His former padawan belonged to him -- to Qui-Gon Jinn. It was not open to question or interpretation. The Force had given him this one gift -- this one pledge - this consolation for everything he had endured, every loss in his life, every lonely night he had spent.
Obi-Wan would not -- could not -- die, for he was destined to spend his life, from this day forward, devoting himself to the renewal of the love that had dominated his youth.
Obi-Wan was . . . everything, and Qui-Gon had cursed himself over the years for his obstinate refusal to accept that truth, and for coming so late to that realization. He had never spoken those words -- to anyone; had never been able to make that admission. Had never even believed himself capable of a love so profound. The Master huffed a small exhalation that morphed into a rueful smile. You can do better than that, Jinn. The simple fact is that you never believed yourself capable of love -- at all. You never wanted it -- never thought you needed it -- and you let him go, when you should have held on and refused to be parted from him. Now -- now, you're going to have to work at it -- to lure him back. What if he . . .
But he would not visit that thought -- would not contemplate the possibility of failure, for it simply could not be. The Force had promised him -- and the Force would never lie.
"So," drawled Garen Muln, stripped down to undertunic and leggings and bouncing on the balls of bare feet, "you want to dance, Kenobi -- or you want to get into some serious shit?"
Obi-Wan launched into a series of stretching exercises, to limber up muscles and sinews. "If I wanted to dance," he replied with a grin, "I'd be looking for some sweet young thing with a cute little ass." He deliberately let his eyes slide down Garen's lean body and linger on the swell of his hips. "Not you."
"Listen, you little bastard," laughed Garen, striking a pose and moving his backside with a quick bump and grind, "this ass is listed in the Galactic Register of Natural Wonders."
Obi-Wan paused for a moment, going still and studying his friend's face. "Garen," he said quietly -- softly, something tentative and slightly confused in his tone. "Why do you think we never . . . I mean, you and me . . ."
"Are you coming on to me, Beautiful?" The prurient gleam in Garen's eyes was priceless.
Obi-Wan tilted his head and grinned. "And if I did?"
The gleam warmed, and became something else. "No way, Kenobi. We've been through too much to settle for fuck-buddy status."
"Fuck-buddy status?" echoed Obi-Wan, obviously confused.
"Listen up," replied Garen, taking on an avuncular air. "This is important stuff. There are three groups of important people in your life, my friend. There are lovers -- and we both know how rare those are. Then there are fuck buddies -- good for a laugh, or sharing a few drinks, or taking the edge off when you're horny. Pals, chums, cronies -- guys you like, guys you'd fight with -- and for -- but they exist around you -- never touching what's inside. And then -- there are friends. Like you and me Friends that live . . . inside of who you are -- in your heart." He paused then, and there was suddenly no humor in his eyes. "And that's too important -- to fuck up by falling in bed together."
Obi-Wan's eyes were filled with tenderness. "You have a unique way of looking at life, Old Friend. So -- you want to philosophize -- or you want to fight?"
Garen's laugh was rich and loud. "You are so dead."
They started slowly, circling each other, smiling, feinting -- watching -- waiting for opportunity or inspiration to strike, as the early morning sunlight poured through ceiling high windows, creating bright copper lights in Kenobi's hair, and warm glints in Muln's eyes. Together, they created quite a lovely tableau.
As usual, being a practitioner of the more aggressive saber style, Muln went on the offensive first, leaping forward with a spin thrust designed to distract the target with upper body action while the real threat came from a delayed sweep of the leg. But Obi-Wan was not fooled. The two had sparred many, many times over the years, and neither was going to give up an easy victory. Garen was taller, with a longer reach and greater bulk and brute strength; Obi-Wan was marginally faster, and more athletic, with a greater facility in aerials. Because of the damage to his hand, he had been forced to develop a different grip, and adapt a style that allowed him greater flexibility, so that he could favor one hand over the other without giving up any advantage. The result was a style that was uniquely his own -- and an adaptation that looked more like a preference than a compensation, which prevented most opponents from ever noticing the existence of the handicap.
They moved together effortlessly, still warming up. A few more feints like the first, a bit of back and forth with appropriate banter -- and the match began in earnest when Obi-Wan flipped forward over Garen's left shoulder, landing in a crouch and sweeping his opponent's feet out from under him.
Had anyone been watching -- which no one was, yet -- it would have been immediately obvious that this was to be no polite, kata-inspired exercise; this was a fight -- not to the death, of course -- but to its approximation. Garen went down hard, and the two tumbled over each other, remembering to extinguish sabers in such close quarters. Obi-Wan regained his footing first, and reignited his lightsaber with a flourish, as he leapt for the first level of the balance beams that criss-crossed one section of the huge chamber -- but he had no opportunity to gloat, as Garen was right behind him, saber swinging at knee level as he settled at a slightly lower surface. At that point, they went into full sparring mode, with thrust and parry, point and counterpoint, leaping from one crossbar to another, each seeking any minute advantage, but neither finding much.
When Garen succeeded in penetrating his opponent's defenses with a sudden upthrust of linked forearms, Obi-Wan wheeled backwards and tumbled toward the floor almost fifteen meters below. A non-Jedi would have been at risk of serious injury, but the young knight simply allowed himself to enjoy a few seconds of free fall, before angling his body toward an upright support that was part of the framework of the platforms and swinging around it, allowing his momentum to propel him out across open space, to land on the lowest of a series of catwalks that angled upwards toward the eastern wall.
"Catch me if you can," he laughed, lightsaber swinging in to score a hit on his opponent's outstretched hand as he whizzed past a disgruntled Garen who had just begun his descent and could not recover quickly enough to avoid the blow. But both knew the battle was just beginning.
Sweaty now with the exertion of their efforts, both paused to discard inner tunics before taking off at a run, each determined to gain altitude. When they had progressed to the highest crosswalk, they met at the midpoint, and resumed their thrust and parry, and intricate footwork, the advantage, like a pendulum, swinging between them. When Obi-Wan lost his footing, falling back against a flexible handrail, Garen swooped in for the deciding blow, only to find his target flipping back over the railing and finding footing on a parallel support girder, allowing him to dance away from the bite of Garen's topaz-colored blade.
"Why don't you just give up now?" shouted Garen, vaulting over the railing, only to find a bright azure blade completing a brisk upper cut that would have -- at the very least -- left him with a stump for a left arm, if the blade were fully powered. To avoid the blow, he threw himself face down on the narrow duracrete surface on which they were balanced, and allowed himself to slide forward, upending Obi-Wan in the process. The two went down in a tangle of arms and legs and breathless laughter, before young Kenobi simply rolled to his right, clearing the edge of the beam and twisting in midair to land on his feet. Muln was right behind him.
This maneuver found them at the lowest level of the graduated platforms, and they elected to forego the upper levels for a time, by leaping to the floor, and initiating a series of Force-enhanced parries, with blades flashing at incredible speeds, in intricate patterns, as their bodies moved in perfect grace, complimenting each other with dazzling complexity. The battle had become a masterpiece of choreography, without either noticing the transition, as they continued to focus their concentration totally on each other, noticing nothing of the environment around them.
Thus it was that the gradual gathering of an audience -- which became less gradual as time wore on -- went unnoticed by the two principals of the battle. The contest continued, covering every surface of the chamber, accentuated by the banter for which they still managed to find breath.
The first to arrive on the scene were younger padawans, scheduled for elementary saber exercises prior to the beginning of their classroom training. There were about a dozen of them, and they watched in open-mouthed silence, so enthralled and enchanted by the display that they forgot to be annoyed at not getting their chance to handle their own practice sabers. They were content to simply sit and watch. All of that changed, however, with the arrival of the next group -- older padawans, many of whom had already taken courses in Temple history; it was inevitable, therefore, that at least one among them would realize what -- and who - they were watching.
The whispers started off very softly -- very tentative -- but they quickly grew louder -- and surer.
"Kenobi."
The name seemed to float on the air, like a wisp of smoke on a windless day -- lingering, drifting, and getting thicker as more and more whispers joined it.
And through the dim corridors of the waking Temple, the word spread outward, like ripples in a pond.
"Kenobi."
And the steady stream of arrivals swelled, as Temple staff members and a growing number of young knights were lured by the giddy murmurs.
"Kenobi -- the Sith Killer."
"What would HE be doing here?" demanded a mid-level padawan, with a sneer. "He never comes here."
But another simply folded his arms, and looked smug. "I'd know that twisting slide-step with the over the shoulder thrust anywhere. Master Fisto even tried to demonstrate it for us, but he said that Kenobi was the only person who'd ever managed to do it consistently. Some guys even call it the Kenobi Slide. I'm telling you - that's him."
And the whispers continued and intensified, as the crowd grew thicker.
Finally, the battle ended in the only way a contest between two such equally matched opponents could end -- the victor determined by an element of random chance. Obi-Wan had charged up a short section of stairs, pausing on the shallow landing to twist himself into a contortion that would have been impossible without Jedi flexibility, in order to meet the overhand sweep of Garen's weapon, his counterthrust locking the two blades together, as each vied for position to overpower the other. By this point, both were drenched with sweat and beginning to feel the burn of abused muscles, but neither was willing to yield as the grinding hum of the friction between the two blades vibrated through their bodies and set their teeth on edge. At last, recognizing a deadlock that could not be overcome by brute strength or determination, Obi-Wan feinted left, to disengage and continue his ascent, leaping up to gain leverage by pushing off the upper framework of the stair railing, a vintage framework which was not as securely bolted to its moorings as it should have been, having withstood many years of this very same type of abuse. The railing wobbled once, before giving way completely, and the young knight sprawled to the floor, the fall too short to allow him time to access the Force to cushion his landing. His recovery was quick -- but not quite quick enough, as Garen took advantage of the moment and leapt down to sprawl over his opponent, positioning his humming saber bare centimeters above Obi-Wan's throat.
"Yield!" The demand was barely a whisper, as neither of them had much breath to spare.
"Fuck you!"
Garen grinned, and quickly traced his thumb across Obi-Wan's lower lip. "Didn't we already have this discussion?"
They laughed together then, falling into each other's arms -- and were totally unprepared for the thunderous upswelling of applause and cheers that broke over them.
Carefully, they avoided looking around, staring into each other's eyes. "Oh, shit!" said Obi-Wan softly.
Garen grinned. "Unless my memory fails me, I believe someone mentioned that our arrival here should be low-key -- and discreet."
Obi-Wan groaned and rolled his eyes. "Me and my big mouth."
Given the proliferation of crises across the galaxy, with an ever-escalating demand for the personal attention of the most renowned representatives of the Order, it was rare for all members of the Council of Twelve to be present for a council meeting, and this occasion was no exception. When the morning session convened, just as the first pure beams of sunlight poured through the eastern windows, three seats remained empty, and the nine who were in attendance spent the first hour of their official day perusing reports provided by the missing three.
Except for minor procedural questions or requests for clarification, they did not discuss the information provided by their fellow Councilors, in the certainty that any Jedi worthy of membership in this august group required no oversight by his or her peers. Questioning the decisions made in the field by these Jedi -- Masters all -- would be tantamount to challenging their authority.
It was simply . . . not done.
Of course, on a few occasions over the decades, it HAD been done -- but the last such incident was nine years in the past -- and no one had any desire to resurrect either the practice, or the memories of that sad event.
At any rate, the review of information provided by fellow Council members was, barring catastrophic developments, little more than a formality, requiring only minimal focus while allowing each of the vaunted Masters to organize thoughts, consider priorities for the remainder of the day, or contemplate more serious issues awaiting the Council's attention, which would require more weighted concentration. Of the nine who were present and accounted for, seven followed this informal protocol exactly, preparing themselves for conducting the day-to-day business of the Jedi Temple -- which was much more nuts and bolts than grand policy and noble endeavors -- a reality that would have shocked the rank and file of the Order, in that there was actually very little glamour or glory involved in executing the duties of a seat on the Council. That, however, was a fact that the Councilors, by tacit agreement, kept to themselves.
So it was, on this particular morning, that Masters Yoda and Yaddle used this preliminary hour to mentally review their plans for creating a new survival-training program to be implemented on Dagobah's southern continent; Master Koth considered the ramifications of a report just received from an undercover operative who had successfully infiltrated a spice smuggling syndicate in the Kessel sector; Master Ki-Adi-Mundi pondered how to summarize the promising discoveries of a team of healers working on perfecting organ cloning techniques; Master Depa Billaba weighed her options in selecting a final site, from a list of four possibilities, for further exploration in the search for a new source of saber crystals; Master Oppo Rancisis contemplated the psychological profiles of the two young Corellian knights who had applied for permission to enter a lifebond, preliminary to undertaking an extended, exploratory mission into the uncharted territories to identify civilizations suitable for first contact and uninhabited planets available for colonization; and Master Plo Koon, eyes obscured by the pale fumes venting from his facemask, compared the merits of proposals from two competitive plumbing contractors for replacing the Temple's antiquated (and faltering) water heating system.
All normal pursuits for this first hour of the session, when discussion was minimal and input neither solicited nor required, but for the remaining two of the nine assembled, it was not exactly business as usual.
Mace Windu, in typical Windu fashion, presented his customary image of dignity and cool aplomb, betraying nothing of the thoughts seething beneath his tranquil surface. Only someone who knew him very, very well might have noted that the hands he clasped before his face were clinched just a bit too tightly and that his breathing was not quite as measured as it might have been. His eyes, dark and liquid and actually quite beautiful, were trained on the etched and polished surface of the copper-sheathed dome crowning the Intergal Stock Exchange as it collected and dispersed the growing strength of the sun -- but what he was actually seeing was something quite different.
As second-in-command of the Council of Twelve, he was a man known for his pragmatism, with neither the time nor the temperament to tolerate metaphysical nonsense; he did not have visions. He had never had visions, and, if pressed to divulge his deepest beliefs, would have confessed that he had little faith in prophets or their predictions, although he was prepared -- if grudgingly -- to accept the prescient capabilities of the eldest and most skilled of all the Jedi. Nine years earlier, he had listened to the claims of his lifelong friend, Qui-Gon Jinn, concerning the discovery of the so-called 'Chosen One' -- and he had managed, barely, to keep his opinions to himself -- but he had not believed.
He still didn't -- but . . . .
The previous evening, he had looked into the eyes of Qui-Gon's apprentice -- crystal blue eyes set into a pleasing face with a ready smile -- and observed that Anakin Skywalker seemed to be the epitome of everything a Jedi padawan should be. And it was as he focused on that thought that he had felt a shiver racing up his spine before he was abruptly immersed in a deep, frigid darkness that seemed to pour over his spirit like some oily excrescence. He could not explain it; could not understand it; had no idea how he knew it -- but something within him insisted that those beautiful eyes concealed the black heart of a predator -- a monster that would devour all hope, all light.
He had spent the remainder of the evening in silent observation -- hoping to see something that would make him doubt his moment of precognition, hoping to find some alternative explanation for his growing sense of foreboding. He had even considered the possibility that he was allowing his view of Anakin to be influenced by his long-lived resentment of the manner in which Qui-Gon had betrayed Obi-Wan Kenobi by casting him aside in favor of a new apprentice; given his own feelings for young Kenobi -- feelings never expressed or even acknowledged, but terribly deep and real, no matter how hidden -- he conceded that such influence was possible -- but he didn't think so. As an adept of the Jedi Order, he had a remarkable ability to examine his own thoughts processes and motivations with complete objectivity.
Throughout the evening and on into the wee hours of the morning, he had looked for an excuse to disbelieve what he had seen.
He had found nothing but a growing assurance that he had been right in the first place, and he debated whether or not he should speak of his misgivings -- and to whom.
On the other hand, Master Gallia made no attempt to focus her thoughts, realizing that such an effort would be futile. She gazed out into the radiance of the morning -- and wondered how much events now in motion might change the course of the future, and if the change would be for better, or for worse. She was no longer sure that she could even tell the difference.
She only knew that they had all had a role in creating the destiny unfolding now before them; they had accrued a great, cosmic debt -- and an accounting was now due.
There was nothing more for her to do -- but wait for her cue. She did not delude herself; she was only a bit player in the drama to be presented here this morning. The arrival of the star would signal the rise of the curtain.
Fortunately, the wait was brief, as she had concluded quickly that the concept of a member of the Council of Twelve pacing the Council chamber like a hungry gundark was simply beyond the limits of acceptable behavior. After the somewhat unorthodox landing maneuvers of a beautiful, privately-owned corvette had stirred gossip in the landing bay -- and questions about how the pilot, obviously not a Jedi, had obtained landing codes had been dismissed, it was a matter of only a few minutes before the wait was over. The rhythmic flicker of a precise sequence of lights on her communication panel was barely visible under the deluge of liquid brilliance pouring in from the east -- but the signal itself was unnecessary anyway. Adi had noted the spike in the intensity of the Force, as had her colleagues -- though she alone understood the reason for it.
She rose and allowed her eyes to sweep around the chamber, touching on each of her fellow Councilors, before speaking.
"I must beg your indulgence, Masters. A matter of grave concern has come up -- unexpectedly -- and one of my operatives has petitioned to be allowed to address the Council immediately."
It was Master Yoda who turned to study her face, a slow blink of his eyes signaling his displeasure. "Bypassing procedural protocols, you are, in making this request. Reason for this, is there?"
Many Jedi -- even fellow Councilors -- might have flinched beneath the subtle rebuke of the question, but Adi Gallia was not one to flinch easily -- no matter what the provocation. "It is a matter of some delicacy, Master -- a matter that the Council may not wish to become the subject of common gossip within the Order."
"May we know the name of this operative?" asked Mace Windu -- and Adi studied his face, wondering if the nuance she heard in his voice could really be a trace of amusement.
"Knight Garen Muln," she replied -- and watched to see if the name would provoke uneasy responses in any of the Council members. When it did, she was barely able to suppress a tiny smile.
"I fail to see . . ." Master Koth was not quite able to mask the anger simmering beneath the cool surface of his persona -- and Adi observed, not for the first time, that mighty Jedi Masters frequently failed to practice what they preached - but not even the formidable Zabrakian dared to oppose the eldest and most honored member of the Council of Twelve.
"See him, we will," said Yoda, ignoring the comments of his colleagues.
Mace Windu was silent, has face as still and forbidding as a Kleitu funeral mask -- but his eyes were dark with dread.
Adi nodded, and closed her eyes, reaching out through the Force, feeling for the familiar, beloved presence of her former padawan. She smiled when she touched his mind, and savored the rare blend of insolence and innocence that was uniquely Garen -- but the smile died when she extended her thoughts to brush against the shadowed presence at his side.
The huge double doors swung open, and two figures were silhouetted against the bright light of the vestibule. Both started forward, striding briskly, challenging anyone to dispute their right to enter.
"What . . ." -- the voice resonated like the crack of a whip -- "is he doing here?" Master Windu stood rigid, struggling for composure -- a sight so rare as to be unprecedented.
Both Garen and his companion continued forward, their pace steady. "He is here," replied the young knight, "on my guarantee of safe passage."
"You had no right," said Master Koth, also on his feet.
The two young men arrived together at the midpoint of the chamber and came to a stop, standing straight and tall and unintimidated. Garen wore a tiny, slightly venal smile -- but his companion didn't bother to try to hide the contempt in his ice blue eyes.
Prince Xanatos Aji, high prince of Telos, endured the scrutiny of the Council with a complete lack of self-consciousness, wearing the demeanor of his station in life like a suit of armor.
"You haven't the authority to grant such a guarantee," said Mace Windu, glaring at the young knight who gazed back at him with an air of indifference.
"No, but I do," said Adi firmly. "He also has my guarantee."
"And mine." The voice from the vestibule seemed to slice through tension that was so thick it was almost visible in the air around them, as three more figures were framed in the doorway.
"Who . . ." The inquiry was aborted abruptly as Master Yoda, moving with extraordinary speed and agility for one of such advanced years, leapt down from his chair and hastened to the center of the chamber as a slow smile wreathed his face.
"Learned much, have you, Youngling," he said softly, extending his hands to greet the slender figure coming toward him. "Sense your presence, I did not. Not so fooled have I been in many years."
Obi-Wan Kenobi -- despite his determination to guard himself against manipulation by those who knew him best -- could not resist the urge to drop to one knee and allow the tiny Master to touch his face with gentle hands. "It's been a long time, my Master," he replied.
Huge, citrus eyes blinked slowly. "Too long. Missed you, I have, young Kenobi."
Obi-Wan regarded the elder statesman of the Jedi with wounded eyes. "Yes. I believe you have -- but . . . duty comes above all things -- doesn't it? I wish . . . "
"Be still!. Yoda's voice was suddenly sharp, commanding, as he leaned forward and placed his hands against Obi-Wan's temples. "See for myself, I must. See if . . ."
His voice trailed off then, as his eyes drifted closed, and, for a few moments, there was no sound, no movement within the Great Chamber, as Obi-Wan endured the mental probe, wincing slightly against the pain of the intrustion. Even the Force seemed to hold its breath.
When the tiny Master lowered his hands, and stepped back, his face was drawn and contorted with lines reflecting a deep, echoing sadness. "Told us, you should have," he whispered. "Alone, you should not have been -- to suffer this."
Mace Windu stepped forward then, and, for one surrealistic moment, Obi-Wan almost believed the dark Councilor would reach out and wrap the young man in a crushing embrace. Of course, he did nothing of the kind -- but he did favor Obi-Wan with a strange, penetrating gaze that was almost painful in its intensity. "It's true, then? The . . . soul bond is real?"
Master Yoda sighed deeply, and nodded as Obi-Wan rose to his feet. "Real, it is -- and torn." He moved then to return to his chair, and, in the process of regaining his seat, he triggered a comm-signal.
"But that's impossible," said Depa Billaba, eyes filled with a terrible awareness. "How could he . . . live with that?"
"He . . ." Master Koth started, obviously still outraged.
But the Prince of Telos had had quite enough of being ignored, and had no intention of allowing Obi-Wan to be emotionally dissected for the amusement and enlightenment of the Council members. "He lived with it as best he could," he said firmly, "and no thanks to the benevolence of the mighty Jedi."
"Xan," said Obi-Wan softly, one hand clinched tight against the other, "don't. It doesn't matter."
"It DOES matter," said Garen, speaking up for the first time. "If what we suspect is true -- it matters a lot."
Mace Windu continued to stare at Obi-Wan for a time, before looking beyond him to the two figures still motionless in the open doorway. Recognition came immediately, of course; these were faces instantly recognizable in any corner of the galaxy.
"Chancellor Valorum, Senator Organa," said the Council's second-in-command, "may I ask why you are here? We were unaware that you wished to speak with us."
Finis Valorum smiled, radiating warmth and wisdom, and everyone in the room felt the magnetism of the man's personality and understood how he had risen to such heights in the ranks of galactic politics. The fact that he no longer occupied the Republic's highest office did not change the fact that he was a man of great influence and a repository of political wisdom. "We will defer to Knight Kenobi, Master Windu. We are here -- as observers only."
"I don't understand," said Master Billaba. "Observers of what?"
Obi-Wan huffed a soft sigh. "They're my . . . insurance policy."
Master Oppo Rancisis had maintained a tense silence throughout the exchange, but he rose now, and stared at the new arrivals with ill-concealed distaste. He had never particularly liked young Kenobi -- and he saw an opportunity here to make an example of the young rogue, who was altogether too much like his former Master in his arrogance. "This is outrageous, and I suggest that Master Gallia should be censored for violations of our rules of order, along with these two knights, for appearing here in the company of a common criminal. It's obvious that this is all some kind of ruse to disrupt the unity of the Council. What can they possibly say that we should hear?"
Xanatos favored the outraged Councilor with a sardonic smile. "I'll concede that the term 'criminal' might be appropriate -- but I have never in my life been 'common'."
With a gesture obviously intended to convey an unsubtle message, Obi-Wan reached out and reassured the Telosian prince with a quick caress, while his eyes locked with those of Master Windu. "Surely," he said softly, "if I have earned nothing else through all these years, I have, at least, earned the right to be heard."
It was painfully obvious that Windu wished to dispute that statement, wished to find a way to terminate this confrontation -- but couldn't. "Yes, you have. But I must ask you to explain Aji's presence here. Surely you realize what a difficult position you put us in by bringing him before us."
The young knight's smile was sardonic. "Oh, yes, Master. I can assure you that I do know about being put in difficult positions. Xan is here -- because he provided a great deal of the information I plan to present to you. Because he's in a position to corroborate and validate much of the data we've amassed."
He paused then, and allowed his eyes to sweep the circle of Councilors, carefully evaluating the finer nuances of emotion that revealed themselves in the tiny details of each Master's demeanor: the set of a mouth, or the firming of a jawline, the shift of shoulders or the flutter of eyelids, the clinch of a fist. Over the years, Obi-Wan had become extraordinarily skilled in the interpretation of body language, so that he was able to discern that there was much anger here -- and much fear -- and, in a few cases, traces of affection, even some small semblance of remembered love -- dying still, but not yet forgotten or consigned to the past.
"He's also here -- because he has been my anchor -- my shelter from the storm that rages constantly within me -- and because I want him here. I need him here."
"And the others?" asked Yoda, long ears twitching, betraying a trace of annoyance. "Insurance policy, you say? Trust us so little, do you, Obi-Wan?"
The young knight's gaze was level and unyielding. "Did you really expect anything else? Chancellor Valorum and Senator Organa are here -- to insure that I'm allowed to walk out of here when this meeting is finished -- whether the Council wills it or not. I am no longer so naïve as I once was, Masters; I no longer give my trust so willingly -- and I do not think that even the vaunted Council of Twelve of the Jedi Order would risk offending a man of the Chancellor's stature -- or a senator of the Republic."
"This is the Jedi Temple," snapped Ki-Adi-Mundi, "to whom you have pledged your oath of loyalty. How dare you question our honor? Are you renouncing your oath?"
Obi-Wan sighed. "I rather think . . . that it has renounced me."
He moved forward then, and placed a tiny information chip into the dataset built into the arm of Yoda's chair, but he stepped back without activating it.
"The information that we have collected over the past year is all recorded on that chip -- dates, times, places, corroborating data. Holo-images, eyewitness testimony, documentary evidence. It's all there. Proof of the existence and the activities over the past nine years of a Jedi team -- Master and apprentice -- operating in deep cover. Evidence of a secret training base, of clandestine missions, of operations undertaken that far exceed the limitations of Jedi mandates sanctioned by the Senate." He paused and allowed himself a small, bittersweet smile. "We could activate the chip, of course -- but I hardly think that's necessary." He looked up then -- and there was ice in the depth of his eyes. "Because all of this is something you already know. Something you've always known. Isn't it?"
The silence was absolute -- heavy and breathless and smothering.
"Isn't it?" His voice was sharp suddenly, like a blade biting deep into tender flesh.
The answer, when it came, was from an unexpected direction -- from an alcove set on a diagonal angle to the main entry.
"It is."
No one moved. There was no need, as that voice -- that deep, resonant baritone voice -- was instantly recognizable to everyone within the chamber.
Obi-Wan, tapping into an inner core of strength that he hadn't known he possessed, was the first to recover -- the first to turn, managing, somehow, to stay on his feet, to remain upright, when everything within him, every scrap that was left of his sanity, screamed and tried to claw its way through his rational mind to reduce his thoughts to gibberish. But he was first only by a matter of moments, as Xanatos was at his side, one hand bracing his shoulder, before he completed the motion.
The two figures standing just within the enclosure of the alcove were stroked with shadow -- and something in a remote niche of Obi-Wan's consciousness remarked that it was an appropriate setting for them.
The young knight's eyes settled on the smaller of the two, noting the febrile brightness of crystal blue eyes -- and reading the fury behind them with perfect clarity. "Hello, Anakin. For someone who's been dead for nine years, you're looking remarkably animated."
The padawan inclined his head -- very slightly. "Knight Kenobi," he acknowledged -- very cool and rational, obviously convinced that he was concealing his rage beneath a perfect façade of equanimity.
Qui-Gon Jinn stood transfixed -- his eyes devouring his former apprentice, aware of nothing beyond the presence of the young man standing before him. Some small segment of his mind must have registered the identity of the individual at Obi-Wan's side -- but his mind dismissed the recognition as unimportant, trivial.
Obi-Wan spared a single, piercing glance for his former Master before turning back to inspect the faces of the Council members, all of whom seemed suspended at that moment in an agony of indecision. For once, none of them seemed to know what to say or what to do.
"Do you know," he said slowly, "what you did to me? Do you know that I longed for death -- just so the pain would go away? Do you know what guilt does to a person, how it eats away at everything inside? How it destroys your own belief in what you thought you were? Do you know that every mission, every task you set for me -- was just a means to an end -- a way for me to atone for my failure?"
He turned then, to face his very-much-alive Master. "Do you know that I came to hate the Force -- because it took from me the only thing I loved, and left me alone, with nothing but the memory of how he rejected me? How he abandoned me in his rush to claim the almighty Chosen One as his own? Do you know what it is -- to wake every morning and curse the dawn, because you want nothing more than to go to sleep and never waken?"
He spread his arms then, his eyes unfocused, looking out into the morning, but seeing only the dark stain of betrayal. "When everything is gone -- when a man is empty and lost -- he becomes nothing but a shell of himself. That's all I am now -- an empty shell. Nothing is left of the man I was."
Once more, he looked at the Councilors. "I could have handled it all, you know. If you'd explained it to me -- if you'd told me that this was the only way -- that my Master was destined for greater things than training someone who would become nothing more than a 'capable' knight -- that both he and the boy must appear to die, to protect them from the Sith -- I would have done everything you asked of me. I would have accepted the same missions -- lived the same life. Walked away -- and never bothered him -- or you -- again. But I find now, that I have one question that I can't simply discard. One question that I need answered."
"What did I do," he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, "to earn this? Why did you . . ."
The silence grew more solid, more intimidating, broken only by the harsh rhythm of his breathing as he finally allowed himself to sink to the floor, Xan and Garen beside him.
"Why?" he repeated, fists clinched tight against his thighs, voice coarse and rough with desperation. "Make me understand it -- please."
Mace Windu stepped forward finally, when it became obvious that no one else would; he did not want to give voice to a truth that he knew could never be justified, but he had no choice. Obi-Wan had certainly earned the right to ask. "We believed we were following the will of the Force, Knight Kenobi," he said gently. "That the only way to convince the Sith of the reality of the deaths -- was to use your grieving and your suffering as validation. The reasoning was that no one would believe that the Jedi would allow one of its own to suffer so -- unless the circumstances were real."
"We believed," said Adi, "that it was necessary -- to save the Order. To save the Order, we sacrificed you." She did not add that she had been one of the voices of dissent -- that she had objected strenuously at the time, and had continued to do so over the years.
"Oh, ghods," Obi-Wan moaned softly, burying his face against Xan's chest. He had known it, of course -- but it was surprising how much the verbal acknowledgement still hurt.
"Obi-Wan."
Qui-Gon Jinn, in the years of their separation, had lost nothing of his ability to move in total silence, betraying nothing of his approach.
Though careful to maintain a discreet distance, he knelt before his former apprentice, his eyes starving for the image before him, devouring the sight of that precious face, too long removed from his vision. In his mind, he felt the stirring of the Force -- the shattered remnants of the bond he had not recognized until just moments ago. It whispered to him, called to him -- like a siren's song. And if it compelled him to reach out -- to complete what had never been completed -- how much stronger must it be within his former padawan -- who had lived with the writhing torment for so many years?
"It's over, Obi-Wan. No matter what you've endured -- and I can't tell you how much I regret your pain -- it's over now. You don't have to hurt any more. You don't have to be alone, or suffer any more. Your grief was given up for a noble cause; you've saved the Order, through your sacrifice. And now -- now . . . we can restore your life to what it should be. Where it should be. With whom . . . ."
Desperately, Obi-Wan twisted in the embrace of his two friends, and wrapped his arm around Garen's neck, reaching up to whisper something in his friend's ear. Three words -- three desperate words.
Garen's response was a brisk nod, after which he gently turned his friend into the embrace of Xanatos Aji, and stood, backing away from the kneeling figures who were the focus of all attention. Indeed, so compelling were the interactions of that group that no one, except for the two observer/politicians, noticed when he slipped entirely out of the chamber.
"You haven't answered my question," said Obi-Wan, barely audible, accepting comfort from the arms that enclosed him. "I want to know how you could do this to me."
"We've told you the truth, Obi-Wan," replied Mace Windu. "I know it's not much comfort -- but that's all there is."
Obi-Wan sighed, and looked up to meet Xanatos' cerulean eyes. "Not quite all," said the Telosian, speaking with perfect cold precision. "You also sent him out to die -- didn't you?"
Master Koth had the good grace -- finally -- to look embarrassed. "We gave him what he wanted."
To everyone's surprise, including himself, Obi-Wan managed a small chuckle. "And that excuses it all, doesn't it? You gave me what I wanted." He turned then, and looked directly into Qui-Gon's eyes. "You gave me what I wanted. I gave up everything I had -- every ounce of lifeforce within me -- to save my Master's life . . . so you could take him away and let me believe that my failure was complete. Let me understand that I lived, when I should have died to save him. Let me believe that I had even failed in my last promise to him -- because Anakin was lost. You let me strike out on my own, nursing the ruptured, bleeding stump of a torn bond -- and trusted in the cruelty of random chance to solve your problem for you. If I died, still stricken with bottomless grief, then all risks would be tied up neatly and disposed of. All I had to do -- for the good of the Order -- was co-operate by getting myself killed."
He paused then, his left hand in spasms against his chest, until Xanatos engulfed it with his own slender fingers, stroking it to stillness. It was a gesture of exquisite tenderness, and it was suddenly all too much for Obi-Wan.
"I trusted you," he said in a very small voice, as tears welled in jewel-toned eyes that moved to touch each member of the Council before coming to rest on the face of Qui-Gon Jinn. "I gave you my heart, my soul -- my everything. I would have died for you -- almost DID die for you a hundred times."
He drew a deep shuddering breath, and took a moment to reach for composure. "I trusted you," he said again, "and you used me as the means to an end." He smiled then, with tears trailing from the corners of his eyes. "I trusted you -- and all you had to do -- was ask. But you couldn't do that, could you? Because, in the final analysis -- you didn't trust me."
"That's not true, Padawan," said Qui-Gon firmly. "I DID trust you, just as I trust you now. You know what must be done. It's time to stop running -- to stop feeling sorry for yourself. It's time to come home -- to be what you were meant to be. To be . . ."
"To be what, Qui-Gon?" snarled Xanatos, pulling Obi-Wan back against his chest. "To be . . . yours? Is that what you were going to say?"
For the first time, Qui-Gon looked up to meet the eyes of the apprentice who had rejected him and all things Jedi, in the quest for material wealth and political power. Some tiny portion of his consciousness wondered why the confrontation was so painless -- so remote -- almost as if he were addressing a figment of thought, no more than a ghost of the youth he had known. "Yes -- that's what I was going to say. The Force wills it, Xan. Even you must feel it. He is meant to be mine -- was always meant to be mine. That's why he was never in any great danger, because this was meant to be -- and you dare not interfere."
Xan smiled -- but there was no mirth in his eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that, Old Master Mine. I dare a great deal. And Obi-Wan is not the docile, dependent fool you think he is. He knows exactly what this bond would mean for him."
"Meaning what?" Qui-Gon demanded.
The Telosian looked up to study the face of the eldest member of the Council. "Ask the troll," he replied. "He knows."
When Qui-Gon turned to fix Yoda with a questioning gaze, the senior Councilor sighed. "Uneven the bond is -- and will always be. Too much of himself he gave up; no way to regain the balance is there. If the bond is completed, he will be bound to you completely -- unable to resist your will, unable to retain his independence. Completely subordinate to you -- in every way. For you, the bond will bring great joy -- and completion. For him -- he will lose . . . whatever he has managed to retain of the person he once was. He will become . . . no more than a shadow of you."
"But he'll be content; he'll be at peace," Qui-Gon argued.
Yoda shrugged. "His pain will be forgotten -- along with everything else. It is uncertain how much he will remember -- or understand."
Xanatos looked unbearably smug. "Is that what you want for him? Is that what HE wants?"
Master Jinn turned back to study the face of his former padawan -- and felt something within him flex -- and harden. This was HIS Obi-Wan -- and no one was going to stand between them. It was the will of the Force -- and the Force was never wrong -- and, when a tiny voice in the back of his mind sneered at his self-serving certainty, he chose to ignore it.
Slowly, moving with the sinuous grace of a great catling, Qui-Gon uncoiled himself, rising to his full height and balancing on the balls of his feet, every line of his body proclaiming his readiness to defend his claim.
Xanatos actually grinned, dropping a kiss on Obi-Wan's temple as he got to his feet.
"It's time to settle this," said Jinn coldly. "And this is the surest, quickest way."
Moving with Force-enhanced speed, and catching everyone by surprise, he knelt again and lurched forward, his hands reaching out to brace Obi-Wan's face. It was a maneuver too swift for anyone to counter -- except . . .
He never reached his target. "No!" The scream tore from Obi-Wan's throat, raw enough to shred tissue and cartilage, as the bloody fragment of the soulbond broke loose in his consciousness and sliced into him like a laser blade. And the scream soared, shrill and painful -- but around him, visible only as a pale icy radiance, the shield created by his wounded, panicked mind held fast, as he curled into a fetal crouch -- and resisted the repeated attempts of Qui-Gon Jinn to break through.
Which only spurred the Master to redouble his efforts, in the certainty that the knight could not continue to repel his advances for long; he would not give up, would not be thwarted.
He reached again -- and found himself staring at the business end of a purple lightsaber, bare inches away from his face.
"This stops here," said Mace Windu, his blade as solid and motionless as stone. "Nine years ago, we raped his mind. I'm damned if I'm going to stand by and watch you rape what's left of him."
Master Jinn simply stared at the man he had known all his life. "You would draw your blade -- against me?" he gasped.
The Councilor was calm and determined. "He is not your property, Qui-Gon -- and it's time you learned that."
Once more, no one had noticed when the massive doors swung open to readmit Garen, accompanied by one very small, very agitated Bimar.
"One more move, Jinn," -- the voice was harsh and raucous, and Qui-Gon shuddered under its impact -- "and I haul you up on assault charges."
Healer Mirilent Soljan sailed into the chamber with all the focus of a laser-guided missile, justifying Obi-Wan's complete faith in her which had prompted his urgent instruction to Garen. "Get Mira -- hurry!"
"Get away from him," she snarled.
"But, Mira, it's . . ."
She fixed him with a frigid glare. "Don't even bother with that will-of-the-Force shit. It's never worked on me before -- and it's not going to work now. He said, 'No'. I heard it -- and so did everyone else here. Unless I dozed off and woke up in a different dimension -- in which Jedi knights are slaves to the whims of the Masters -- he has that right."
Ignoring everything and everyone around her, she dropped to her knees at Obi-Wan's side, and laid her hands against his face. "It's me, Love," she crooned softly.
"Mira," he whispered, relaxing slightly, "I knew you'd come."
Her smile was radiant. "Have you ever known me not to come -- when you called?"
"Never."
"How are you, Love?"
"Cold," he answered, unable to stop the shivering that seized him. "And it hurts, Mira -- more than before. I think it's time . . ."
She nodded. "It is -- but not here. Xan?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Have you got that flying pleasure palace with you?" she whispered.
"If you're talking about the Jeweled Sea, I never go anywhere without it, Ma'am."
"Then I want you to take him out of here -- and get him off planet. Somewhere they won't find him. Get him warm - submerged in warm water would be best - and comfortable. Then send for me. It's time to fix this problem. Understood?"
"Yes, Ma'am," he murmured, "but . . . it won't kill him -- will it?"
She looked down at the trembling figure under her hands and sighed. "You think this is living?"
He sighed. "No, Ma'am."
She scowled at him then -- and there was no mistaking the fire in her eye. "I'm going to help you, Xan. I'm going to help both of you -- but you better be good to him. Or else. And Xan?"
He was busy by this time grasping Obi-Wan's hand, and marveling -- for the millionth time -- over the incredible colors of his young lover's eyes. "Um hmm?"
"Don't call me ma'am."
He grinned, and barely refrained from giving her the sassy response she probably expected. Instead, he nodded, and reached down to lift Obi-Wan to his feet, and found that Knight Muln had already grabbed one arm to provide balance. Young Kenobi was groggy, and reeling slightly -- but he resisted their efforts to pull him toward the doorway.
"Wait," he said firmly, despite the pounding in his skull and the weakness in his knees.
"Obi," said Garen, "we really need to . . ."
But Obi-Wan was determined. With the help of his companions, he managed to steady himself, and turn to face the Council and his former Master, all of whom were staring at him, uncertain of what would happen next. Somehow, the universe had shifted beneath them as the sun rose higher in the sky; somehow, nothing would ever be quite the same again.
With remarkably steady hands, Obi-Wan reached down and detached his lightsaber from his belt, took two steps forward, and laid it at Master Yoda's feet.
"No," breathed Master Jinn. "Obi-Wan, no. Don't . . ."
But Obi-Wan refused to look at his former Master, keeping his eyes trained on the senior Councilor. "I regret that I must renounce my oath to the Jedi Order, Master. There is no trust left in my heart or in my mind. I would have willingly given you everything I was -- but you chose to take something that no one should have been compelled to give. I have tried to find it in my heart to forgive you -- but I can't. So I suppose you were all right all along. I was never fit to be a Jedi. May the Force be with you all."
He began to turn away, but was forced to pause as Garen Muln also stepped forward. "There is no explanation that you can give to justify what you did to a knight of the Order -- a comrade, a friend, a child nurtured and molded to be part of this family. A family -- couldn't have done this. I also -- no longer believe."
And he laid his saber down, stopping only to exchange a tender look with his former Master. For her part, Adi did not try to stop him; indeed, she was tempted to follow him.
""You must not mention this to anyone," said Master Koth loudly. "You must not spread this calumny."
Chancellor Valorum and Senator Organa exchanged troubled glances, speaking volumes of dismay. What, each wondered, had happened to the Jedi? Where had honor and nobility gone?
In the end, it was Xanatos who paused to answer. "You needn't worry about leaks coming from US, Old Friends. Obi-Wan didn't go into everything that's included on that datachip, but you'd be well advised to go over it -- carefully." He shifted slightly then -- and his eyes drifted toward the young padawan who still stood within the shadows of the alcove. "There is much more there than you might think -- things that you DO know, and things that you don't. A ghost team of Jedi -- and a shadowy figure that some refer to -- as the Enforcer. We never uncovered his identity, of course -- but, with a bit of effort, and the application of logic, you might just figure it out for yourselves."
He smiled then, and spared a fond look for Adi Gallia. "At any rate, the greatest threat to the Jedi rises from within. Consider this: how could you have convinced yourselves that what you did to one of your own - entrusted to your care as a child -- was right and decreed by the Force? Perhaps the Sith have only to wait, until you are destroyed by your own willful blindness."
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon called, barely able to control his desire to rush forward, to reach out and gather his former apprentice to him, and refuse to let him go.
Only Xanatos turned to look at him -- and there was finality in his eyes -- the death of hope.
The three companions moved quickly through the doorway, preceded by the energetic figure of the plump little healer, and followed by their neutral observers.
A heavy hush fell upon the chamber as the lift doors closed behind them, and Qui-Gon Jinn, legendary Jedi Master, settled to his knees, as his strength deserted him.
"Obi-Wan," he whispered then, unable to grasp the reality of his loss, until he probed into the center of his consciousness and found . . . nothing.
"All those years," he said softly. "All those years, he gave me his strength."
He looked up then, and found Mace Windu looking down at him, dark eyes filled with sympathy. "How do I survive without him, Mace?"
But the Councilor had no answers. There were no answers. There never would be.
Continued in Part 5