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Rating: mostly R, but NC-17 at one point

Category: Obi/Bail, angst, h/c

Angst-o-meter: 10

Timeline: Obi is 24, Bail is 25

Summary: On a fact-finding mission for the Senate, Bail Organa is abducted and tortured. Now that he has been rescued, he must struggle to put his life back together after an ordeal that challenges all he believes in. Second in a two-part story arc.

Warnings: While these events are not graphically depicted, the story deals realistically with the aftermath of torture and rape.

Archive: Yes, and my site at http://www.wyomingnot.com/rita/rita.html

Feedback: All comments are welcome! On list or off! Favorable or unfavorable! This story is deeply meaningful to me. While I tried not to make any obvious Real Life references, the background for this story very much resonates with our own times. I am very interested to know people's views on the issues raised in this story. Also, both this story and its sequel were writing experiments for me. They are very psychologically focused, not at all narrative in style. I would love to know whether people think I pulled it off.

Disclaimer: Master George, you own all! Thank you for giving us a universe that invites us to explore all the important questions of life.

An ocean of thanks goes to the Amazing Wonder Beta, Lambda Draconis. Heartfelt and effusive thanks also goes to Camille, the 11th hour beta who saved the day! It is due to her that you all are getting the story now. She is also the webmistress for my site, and is totally wonderful! I also want to acknowledge Lauranna for encouraging me through frequent IM sessions. She gives me loads of great ideas, none of which I end up using because otherwise the story would be 500 pages long. Just because I don't use them doesn't mean I don't like them! And finally, thanks to all you kind people who inquired about when this story would be finished. Bail is very grateful to know so many people were concerned about his welfare.

Story order:
Perhaps
Maybe
Falling
Back for Seconds - Obi-Wan and Bail
Bailing Bail
Padawan Games
Greener Pastures
Forgiven
Reality Check
Better Than Destiny
A Cross-Cultural Affair
Deconstruction
Reconstruction <--You are here
Rewoven
Night Visitor
Father Figure
A Model Padawan
Not All Dreams Are Visions
You Don't Bring Me Flowers
Dangerous Fame
Labyrinth
Private Lessons (off-site link)
Owner's Mark
Epicenter
Duty
Penumbra
Nightfall
Batter My Heart

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy." -- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Water sluices over him, down his skin in smooth rivulets, unimpeded in its progress until it reaches the waistband of his shorts. He still cannot bear to shower naked. The water runs over him, skin smooth and flawless, unmarked by bruises or scars. The skin is fresh, clean, a tabula rasa unmarred by experience, innocent as a newborn's, like an infant voice that cannot speak, only cry.

He wants to flay himself, to strip off that lying skin. He knows those marks are somewhere in his body, if not on his skin then in his muscles or bones or tendons or veins. His skin is mute, but his body screams with the need to tell the story. But whose story will it tell? The Folinas? The Hinnelese? His own? If he can only find those marks, he can read them and understand what they mean. But there's no record imprinted on his body, and without some sign, in the absence of any vocabulary, he fears he no longer exists.

Bail leaned close to the viewscreen, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. He didn't really need to watch their descent. He knew perfectly well what Coruscant looked like. But with his face pressed into the glass he didn't have to look at the others in the shuttle, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon.

He shivered lightly and reached up to draw the robe close around his neck, but he wasn't wearing it anymore. It was packed up safely in his bags. Since he wore it so much on Alderaan, Obi-Wan had finally just given it to him, but it didn't seem right to wear it when he entered the Temple. It was a Jedi's garment, and he was no Jedi. For him to wear it now would be blasphemy. But he still longed for it.

The shuttle continued its descent, and in the distance Bail could see the Temple rising above its surroundings. The Jedi Temple of Coruscant was as much a symbol of the Republic as the Senate Building. But whereas the Senate Building was imposing and cumbersome, not unlike the politics that clogged its bowels, the Temple was light and graceful, pointing upward as if to the heights that the Republic could achieve if it were true to its professed beliefs.

Next to him, Obi-Wan spoke softly, "We can stop by your apartment if you like. You can pick up some things to make your room in the Temple seem more like home."

"No, thank you," Bail demurred, not looking away from the window. He needed to be somewhere neutral, someplace that would not remind him of himself, of the man he used to be. Whether or not Obi-Wan understood this, he did not press the point.

The story of what had happened on Ithgar was still in the headlines, and the press had jumped all over the fact that the Jedi Order had extended its protection to Bail. The tradition of Jedi sanctuary was quite old and well known, but no one had sought it in years, at least no one as prominent as Alderaan's junior senator. The Council's decision was controversial outside the Temple, but only because everything about the Ithgar mission was controversial. Bail would be safe inside the Temple, however, sheltered from the media who were too intimidated by the shroud of sanctity that clung to the venerable Jedi institution. They would not pursue him in its hallowed halls.

Within minutes they landed at the Temple platform. Qui-Gon bade them farewell, and Obi-Wan escorted Bail to his assigned room in the visitors' wing. Bail had been here before, too, a lifetime ago when he had been invited to play with the padawans. He had been so young then, so naive and blissfully ignorant. His memory of those times scarcely seemed to belong to him. It was a different man who walked these corridors now.

They arrived at the room, his room. Bland, undecorated, wholly undifferentiated from any other room in this wing, nothing to mark the individuality of its new resident. That was good. Bail could use the sterility.

"Here's the vidscreen," Obi-Wan pointed out, as if all the room's amenities weren't self-evident. "You can download holovids or whatever you might want to watch. There's a desk over here with a communit. And there's the kitchen. We'll put in an order for basic supplies from the Temple kitchens. If there is anything special you want, we can go shopping tomorrow. You can also order meals sent up from the refectory if you don't want to eat out or cook for yourself."

"Where do you usually eat?" Bail asked.

"Qui-Gon and I almost always have breakfast in our quarters, then have the remaining meals in the refectory. You can join us whenever you want."

Bail nodded absently, his gaze wandering around the room as if seeking for a place to rest.

"Are you hungry?" Obi-Wan asked. They had arrived at the Temple late at night, hoping to avoid the detection of the press. Back on Alderaan it was only mid-afternoon.

"No," Bail replied. "I... I'm a little tired." Not exactly sleepy, but overwhelmed, anxious. It amounted to the same thing. "I suppose I should unpack."

He didn't have much, at least not by his regular standards. It only took a few minutes to get all his things settled, and they scarcely made an impression on the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at a holo of his parents on the nightstand. He pushed the button, cycling through images of his sisters and their children. They all seemed so very far away from him, waiting on the edge of his life. He missed them, but strangely he didn't feel lonely. He knew they would be there for him when he was ready to come home. He was glad they didn't have to see him like this.

But was it any better that Obi-Wan was seeing him like this? Over the past few weeks, Obi-Wan had seen him at his absolute worst. Bail could not bear to think of how he had behaved lately, yet Obi-Wan said nothing at all about it.

"I must apologize," Bail offered.

Obi-Wan looked at him in surprise. "For what?"

"For my behavior on Alderaan, the way I treated you, the things I said."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I know you didn't mean any of it. It was your way of coping with the stress."

"That doesn't excuse it."

"It's all right, Bail. I forgive you. I've already forgiven you."

Bail studied the holo of his parents, unable to meet Obi-Wan's gaze. "I will not betray your trust in me again."

"I know you won't," was Obi-Wan's soft reply. He watched Bail as he cycled back through the images of his family. "Are you ready to turn in?"

"Yes," Bail said, then realized what that meant. He stood up. "Obi-Wan," he began, then stopped, afraid to go on.

"Yes?" Obi-Wan prompted, but Bail held back, feeling he had no right to ask. Again, Obi-Wan said, "What is it?"

"You're going to go?" he asked faintly.

"Not if you don't want me to."

Bail didn't want him to. He never wanted him to, but someday he would. Obi-Wan couldn't remain with him forever. Someday he would leave, and Bail would have to be strong then. But that day was not here yet. "You wouldn't have to -- you don't have to sleep on the couch."

Obi-Wan studied him closely. "It's all right. Whatever you prefer."

"I -- I would prefer --." He clenched his hands at his sides. I would prefer you to sleep with me. I would prefer you to hold me, to make love to me -- but don't touch me, I'm still too afraid, too broken, but I would prefer, I wish, if only....

Obi-Wan took a step closer and reached out for Bail's hand, sliding his fingers over Bail's clenched fist. "Not the couch?" he offered, his voice soft.

Bail looked at Obi-Wan's hand covering his. Why couldn't he just say it? Why couldn't the words squeeze past the lump in his throat? He struggled to speak, to just nod his head. Say yes, why can't you just say yes?

With his other hand, Obi-Wan reached up and lightly stroked Bail's cheek. "It's all right."

"You keep saying that," Bail muttered.

"And one of these days you're going to believe it." He didn't kiss Bail, though he wanted to. These little touches were all they had, but it was more than he had been permitted on Alderaan. Tiny steps, no matter how small, would one day get them to their destination. Obi-Wan let his hand fall once more to his side. "Now, why don't you go change while I call Qui-Gon and tell him I'll be staying?"

A tiny step, but it was enough to transform what was to have been Bail's room into theirs.

So began Bail's life at the Temple, the long, arduous process of piecing together the shards into which his existence had been shattered. He could no longer hide from what had happened to him as he had tried to do on Alderaan. He was expected to face it. He was expected to heal. He was expected to talk about the events on Ithgar.

Words had always been Bail's favorite toys. When other children played with dolls or toy starships, Bail played with words. He created entire societies where stuffed animals along with starships would assemble in a toy parliament and discuss what kind of house to build and what subjects they should learn in school and where they should take their vacation. Bail was quite a bit younger than his sisters, so he grew up like an only child, but he had never lacked for friends, both real and imaginary, and he could entertain himself for hours spinning long, fanciful stories and adventures. Words were the building blocks of dreams, the bridge of friendship, the currency of life.

All the more crushing, therefore, that words for the first time in his life failed him.

Words, the soul healers said, would lance the festering boils of his trauma, providing an antibiotic for the infection in his soul. Talking was supposed to wash out the wounds and bind them. But Bail balked, like an eight-year-old refusing his cough medicine. The words stuck in his throat, gagging him with their bile. He couldn't even talk about irrelevant subjects. Nothing could get through the logjam of syllables clogging his throat. So he sat on the overstuffed sofa of the healer's office, mute, his lips and tongue unable to wrap themselves around the simplest of sounds, swallowing those toxic words down, where they ate away at his stomach.

"Tell me about the abduction. What happened when you first arrived on Ithgar?" Even "How have you been sleeping?" or "What did you do yesterday?" yielded little response. Bail lacked the language for simple niceties. "How do you do?" and "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" might as well be an alien tongue.

Time spent with Obi-Wan was mercifully easier. The Jedi did not ask him those annoying, analytical questions. Even when Obi-Wan asked him something as simple as, "What do you want for dinner?" he didn't really press Bail for an answer. Obi-Wan was a quiet, undemanding presence that tolerated Bail's jumbled and half-formed thoughts, expecting no articulation. Bail and Obi-Wan could pass an entire evening speaking no more than a dozen words in several hours. Bail needed those periods of rest and non-reflection. Just being, as he relearned the basic tasks of eating, washing dishes, getting dressed, breathing without pain, closing his eyes without horror.

Each morning he and Obi-Wan went to the great meditation room. They could have meditated anywhere in the Temple: the gardens, the towers, or private rooms. But Bail chose this common space, a large, round room, slender columns supporting a high ceiling shrouded in darkness. Subdued lights along the walls, a bench running around the edge of the room, floor covered with soft mats and a few pillows. In the mornings they would encounter six or a dozen other Jedi there, mostly elder, scattered throughout the room in a random pattern. Bail liked the room. It hummed silently with the meditation of countless Jedi over the centuries. It was cool, dark, soft, safe - a citadel to guard against terror.

Obi-Wan taught him the serenity meditation, how to breathe, how to let all thoughts go, passing gently through his mind. Bail was glad he didn't have to stop his mind from thinking. Thoughts rose and fell and eddied in his mind like currents in a stream. He could not dam up the stream or the pressure of the collected thoughts would be too great, would burst the dam and drown him. He didn't really want to think at all, but the exercise Obi-Wan taught him helped him to float on top of the river. He imagined himself lying on his back, rocking gently in the waves. Sometimes a strong ripple would wash over his face, but he kept his breathing even, and the wave would pass.

Bail did not meditate properly. He couldn't sit with his legs folded under him as Obi-Wan did, or his legs would fall asleep in a few minutes. He could not sit still, and his thoughts were too active. So Obi-Wan knelt on the floor, his chest pressed to Bail's back, his arms loosely around Bail as Bail leaned back against the Jedi, his legs stretched out before him. Obi-Wan meditated for half an hour, and Bail would lean back, sometimes with his eyes open, staring blankly at one of the other Jedi meditating in the room. Sometimes Bail closed his eyes and practiced the breathing. Sometimes he even managed to meditate for a bit. Sometimes he just fell asleep in Obi-Wan's arms.

Bail felt clumsy in that room, although he did not move; loud, although he did not make a sound. The ruckus of thoughts jumbling in his head seemed to echo in the silence of the chamber, but the walls and matted floor absorbed the chaos and sent it up toward the cavernous ceiling. The curving walls wrapped around him like Obi-Wan's arms, and Bail felt contained, safe. He did not want to meditate anywhere but here, lying back against Obi-Wan, his breathing keeping pace with the Jedi's, absorbing Obi-Wan's serenity through their contact. It didn't feel like they were doing nothing. It felt like they were waiting, listening. It felt like water pooling slowly, like clouds gathering in the sky. Not time for rain yet, but it would come soon enough. It felt like being. And being felt good.

But outside the meditation room, being was not always enough.

At night they lay together in the dark, side by side, fully clothed in sleep pants and shirts, not touching, carefully separate. Obi-Wan slept, but Bail did not. He turned onto his side and watched Obi-Wan's form, faintly illuminated by the light from the 'fresher. He listened to Obi-Wan's even breathing, taking comfort in the peaceful sound, reveling that he could be so near, content that there was someone, at least, who could sleep untroubled by nightmares. He lay his hand on the blanket near Obi-Wan, not touching but close, slid his hand across the pillow, pretending it was Obi-Wan's skin he was caressing.

One morning he woke up with his arm draped across Obi-Wan's chest. The next morning he woke up snuggled against the length of Obi-Wan's body, and that night when they went to bed, Bail wordlessly slid into Obi-Wan's arms, resting his head on the Jedi's shoulder, their legs intertwined. Tender, secure, but not erotic. The thought of anyone touching him sexually, even Obi-Wan, sent Bail into a near panic.

Yet despite that panic, it deeply bothered Bail that he felt no sexual desire. What if he never felt desire again, for the rest of his life? He could probably live without the numerous affairs that had characterized his life so far, but he could not bear the thought of being unable to love Obi-Wan anymore. Bail could not separate the emotion of love from its sexual expression. If he could not have sex, then he could not love anyone, and if he could not bear to be touched, then it followed that no one would ever love him again.

It was said that in sex two people became united, that as bodies intertwined, they entered into each other, but it wasn't really true. Even in the act of penetration, lovers were separated from each other by a thin layer of skin. Bail had always been aware of this dichotomy in sex, the fact that the ultimate union was actually the ultimate division, for not only were the two bodies separate, but the overwhelming nature of orgasm caused each partner to retreat fully into the sensations of their own skin. Sex didn't bring people together, it drove them apart. But no one wanted to admit it, so Bail never said anything about that awful loneliness. He had been grateful for that separation on Ithgar. It meant that his rapists never really touched him.

Yet he coveted the ability to crawl inside someone else, to get beneath their skin, to merge with his lover, swimming in their bloodstream And now he craved that union with Obi-Wan, wanted to hide himself in the Jedi, but he could only cling chastely to Obi-Wan in some pale shadow of consummation. He wanted to touch and to feel, but it was as if his skin had been sealed in some kind of armor. Nothing could penetrate that protective layer, no sensation could get through, and he feared he would suffocate, drown without that erotic touch, the very touch he had come to fear.

He began to obsess about his inability to have sex. He spent most of his counseling sessions talking about his impotence. He took long hot showers during which he tried desperately to masturbate, but the only erotic images he could conjure were faint and indistinct. He could not manage to touch himself, and his body remained completely unresponsive.

At night Obi-Wan held him, and during the day he took Bail's hand or rested his arm on Bail's shoulders, but the touch was wholly platonic, not arousing at all. Bail wanted Obi-Wan to take charge, to take him by force if necessary, to shatter that armor and obliterate his body's memory of rape, but his non-verbal cues were either too subtle or too contradictory for Obi-Wan to take the hint, and finally he had to address the matter outright.

They lay sprawling on the couch one evening, watching a holovid, when at last Bail mustered up the resolve to observe, "It isn't very fair to you."

"What isn't?" was Obi-Wan's mild reply.

Bail took a steadying breath. "That every night we're together...but nothing ever happens."

A slight pause. "Don't worry about that, Bail. All that matters is that you're all right."

"It must be hard for you," Bail continued, as if Obi-Wan hadn't spoken. "To not...." He still couldn't even talk about it.

Obi-Wan favored him with a wry grin. "I think I can handle it. After all, I am familiar with the practice of self-discipline."

Bail dropped his gaze, refusing to be mollified. "But it isn't fair."

"I'm fine, Bail," Obi-Wan assured him, taking his hand, but Bail only turned his face away, his shoulders set with tension. Obi-Wan studied him patiently. At last he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Bail squeezed his eyes shut. He could barely talk about it, let alone do it. He had never in his life been so shy and uncomfortable about sex. He had to master his fears. He could not let this experience get to him. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to speak, but only helpless, confused phrases emerged from his throat. "I just need to...I want.... It isn't fair, and I...."

"Shh," Obi-Wan hushed him, gently brushing Bail's curls back from his forehead.

Bail leaned desperately into that touch, starving for it, but why didn't it arouse him? Why couldn't he truly feel it? Tears of frustration spilled down his cheeks. He was so tired of crying all the time.

"Don't try to force it, Bail," Obi-Wan said. "It'll come when you're ready."

Bail looked up at him through his tears. "What if it never comes?"

Stroking Bail's hair, Obi-Wan assured him, "It will come."

Bail shook his head. "I wish I could believe that."

"Think about the last time you had a really bad cold," Obi-Wan suggested. "Your throat hurt, your nose was always running, and it seemed like there would never be a time when you didn't feel achy and miserable and feverish. But eventually you get well. Not as soon as you like, perhaps, but it does happen."

"This isn't a cold," Bail muttered, tears coming faster. "They took you away from me."

"They didn't take me away. I'm right here."

"But I can't...." He still couldn't say it. Why couldn't he even say it? "I can't touch...." He choked with the need to say it, the need to have Obi-Wan love him.

"Shh," Obi-Wan hushed him again, still stroking his hair. "Why don't we meditate?"

"I don't want to meditate!" Bail ground out.

"Humor me," Obi-Wan returned, tucking his legs underneath him as he faced Bail. He took the prince's hand between his own. "I want you to focus on your hand," he instructed, "and remember your breathing exercises."

Reluctantly, Bail closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing. In and out. In with peace, out with tension. He felt his hand, sandwiched between Obi-Wan's palms. The Jedi's hands were warm and dry, calluses scraping across Bail's palm as Obi-Wan slowly rubbed their hands together. Back and forth. Side to side. Bail's arm gradually relaxed, his fingers falling open.

Obi-Wan massaged his hand, touch gentle but firm, working the muscles of Bail's wrist, thumb rubbing the hollow of his palm, long strokes down his fingers, massaging pressure points. Bail reflected that it ought to feel erotic, but it didn't. He felt nothing.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. It did feel good, calming and soothing if not arousing. He opened his eyes and looked at Obi-Wan. The Jedi's eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even, while his fingers traced the lines of Bail's palm and wrist, the valleys between his fingers.

Bail looked down at Obi-Wan's hands, pale skin, trimmed nails, familiar calluses. He strove to match Obi-Wan's breathing, releasing a little more tension with each exhalation. He focused all his attention on his hand, on the scrape of Obi-Wan's skin against his, touch sure and confident, powerful but tender.

The Folinas' hands had been strong, too, and callused, much like Obi-Wan's. Those hands had grabbed Bail's arms and pulled his hair. The Folinas had mocked Bail's soft hands. Bail had fought and fought, but he could never break free of the Folinas' grip. Their touch had hurt. It had marked Bail with finger-shaped bruises on his arms and wrists, his hips, his chin. Their touch had violated him. It had robbed him - of his clothes, his sense of security, his ability to feel. Their touch had made him numb. It had made him afraid.

But he was not there anymore. It was Obi-Wan touching him now, not his captors. He was not completely numb; he could feel this touch as Obi-Wan rolled Bail's fingers between his own. He did not have to fear this touch, which never ventured further than his wrist, this touch which moved at a slow and even pace, no surprises or shocks. No one grabbed him, no one hurt him. He could trust this touch and the one who did the touching. It could feel good. He could take comfort from it. It could heal.

Without being aware of it, Bail leaned forward and Obi-Wan caught him, arms wrapping solidly around him as Bail buried his face in Obi-Wan's neck, his breathing deep and even, if a little rapid. Those hands stroked into his hair again, rubbed against his back.

"It will come, Bail," Obi-Wan whispered softly into his ear. "You'll see. It will come."

This was meditation: Obi-Wan's arms wrapped around him, Obi-Wan's steady breathing. Obi-Wan was a citadel in which Bail could lock himself away and be safe. No pressures. No fears. Just be. It would all come in time, and in the safety of this fortress, Bail could begin to believe it.

He loves the water so much his sisters call him the fish boy. He has been swimming since before he could walk. He never complains at bathtime. He will shed his clothes at a moment's notice and dive into the river next to their house.

In an explosion of bubbles he releases his held breath, fire in his lungs as he pumps his arms and legs, breaking through the water's surface into the realm of light and air.

One morning Obi-Wan invited Bail to watch him spar with his Master. So Bail joined them in a private training salle where he sat on a bench along the wall as Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon moved through warm-ups, a kata, and then free-form sparring. All these years he had reined in his curiosity about lightsabers, honoring his original promise to Obi-Wan not to ask to see his Jedi weapon. Of course, he saw the lightsabers in action during his rescue, but he had not exactly been in a state of mind to get much out of his observation.

Reality proved to be even more magical than his dreams. From the first snap-hiss of the blades activating, he was captivated by Qui-Gon's saber, a vivid green, and Obi-Wan's blue blade, pale in color but brilliant in intensity. The blades hummed and sang like a symphony, clashing and sparking off each other like percussion instruments. And the two men were easily as elegant and graceful as their weapons, dancing around each other, leaping through the air. Every time their blades met with a resounding clash, Bail was reminded of the sheer force and power behind the movements. It was mesmerizing in its beauty. Bail could have watched it all day.

Finally the workout ran down, and the two Jedi joined Bail on the bench. "So what did you think?" Obi-Wan asked as he grabbed a towel and dried his face and neck.

"It was incredible!" Bail enthused. "The most lovely thing I've ever seen. You two are amazing! Not that I have the faintest idea what I'm talking about, but it looked great."

Obi-Wan laughed. "You have exercised remarkable restraint in never asking to see my saber, so it's only right that you should be rewarded. Would you like to hold it?"

Bail glanced uncertainly at Qui-Gon. "Are you sure that's all right?"

"Of course," Qui-Gon answered. "Just don't try to show off."

Obi-Wan brought Bail out to the center of the room, instructing, "Make sure you keep the business end pointed away from us," and handed the deactivated weapon to Bail.

Bail's hands trembled in excitement as he took the saber. It was far heavier than he thought it would be, the metal casing still warm from Obi-Wan's hands. He gingerly turned the weapon over, studying it closely while being careful to avoid the activation stud. The casing was well worn in places, and covered with nicks and little pockmarks, testifying to its years of use. Obi-Wan pointed out the various parts of the weapon and its controls, then suggested, "Would you like to turn it on?"

"Oh, I don't know," Bail hesitated.

"Of course you do," Obi-Wan urged. "You haven't held a lightsaber until it's been activated. Now take it in both your hands," he instructed, placing his own hand over Bail's, just in case the prince dropped it in surprise, "and press the activation button."

Cautiously, Bail pressed the stud, and the blade sprang to life, causing him to jump. Obi-Wan's hand steadied him and he held the blade in front of him, pulsing and singing with energy. Obi-Wan guided him, moving the blade through the air. Despite the weight of the hilt, the saber seemed somehow light, as if it moved of its own will. Bail felt as if he held some marvelous wild creature in his hands. He could feel the blade's vibrations throughout his entire body. He watched the arch of color through the air, so delicate, so lovely.

So lethal.

He remembered. His prison on Ithgar, the darkest moment of his despair. The muzzle of a blaster staring him in the eye. The kiss of death. Embrace this weapon; make love to it and it will give you your heart's desire. It will blow your mind, and you will sleep the sleep of the sated.

Firearms discharging in lethal orgasm. The chaos of smoke and blaster bolts in the narrow hallway. Blue and green shafts of light weaving a pattern around him, warding off the blaster bolts, deflecting them back to their attackers.

This was no living thing in his hands. This was a weapon. He had never held a weapon before in his life. Numbly he observed, "You've killed with this."

"Yes," came Obi-Wan's quiet answer. The Jedi deactivated the blade as Bail's hands fell away from the hilt.

Bail stared at the weapon in Obi-Wan's grip. "It's so beautiful, and yet it has taken people's lives."

"Yes," Obi-Wan repeated.

Bail could not tear his eyes away from the saber, nor from the hands that held it, hands that had killed. Bail's people were pacifists. Alderaan had renounced war centuries ago, and violence was a rare occurrence on the planet. Of course Bail had known that as a Jedi Obi-Wan sometimes used violence on his missions. Of course he knew Obi-Wan was trained in combat. Of course he knew these things, but only in the abstract. Until Ithgar he had never seen Obi-Wan's saber ignited, had never seen Obi-Wan engage in violence. He had never really known what violence was, and he had been sheltered from the reality of Obi-Wan's life and what he was capable of. Those hands that had held him and caressed him and loved him had caused others harm, had even killed. Not often, surely, and not without cause or regret. But the fact remained that his lover, sanctioned by the authorities, was a killer.

A sob tore itself from Bail's throat. Was this, then, the reality of the world? Was lethal violence a fact of life, and Bail's ideals an illusion? "I don't want you to kill!" he cried, as those hands, those murderous, loving hands, slid over his shoulders and pulled him into an embrace of strong, crushing, powerful and tender arms.

Obi-Wan merely held him, saying nothing. He would not cheapen Bail's anguish by trying to justify himself.

"During my rescue, you killed...you killed people?" Bail asked, clinging to Obi-Wan.

"Most likely."

Bail shuddered in Obi-Wan's embrace, whispering, "I'm a hypocrite."

"How do you figure that?"

"For all my pacifism, I would have died there if you hadn't used force to get me out," Bail pointed out. His fingers dug into the fabric of Obi-Wan's tunic. He couldn't let go of Obi-Wan, nor of the reality he represented. Disgusted with himself, he spat, "For that matter, it was my commitment to peace that got us into trouble in the first place. Because of my pacifism, Li and Boojara are dead."

"That is not true," Qui-Gon interjected. Bail raised his head from Obi-Wan's shoulder to glance a question at the Master. Qui-Gon further explained, "None of us can control everything in the galaxy. In the end we can only control our own actions. Or more accurately, some people let their actions control them. They react to events around them without forethought, without intention. That is how most violence in the galaxy occurs. Others act with intention, some regardless of violent effects, such as your captors. Others such as you and the Jedi, to minimize violence."

"But you're more effective," Bail bitterly observed. "My methods got nowhere on Ithgar. You had to rescue us."

"On the other hand, your Highness, our methods proved no more effective in winning peace."

Obi-Wan added, "In the end, your methods are the only ones that stand a chance on Ithgar. Violence will only beget more violence, even when used as a preventative measure. It can never build true peace."

"Well, if it's so ineffective, why do you use it?" Bail shot back.

"We use it as a last resort, to minimize harm."

Bail scowled. "Exactly, when diplomacy fails, use weapons."

"And when weapons fail, use diplomacy," Obi-Wan returned.

"You're saying that the two must go hand in hand?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "Not necessarily."

"Each of us must do what we must, your Highness," Qui-Gon said. "If diplomacy fails, there are some of us who will step in to use force to contain further violence. But when that violence is contained, then the diplomats must come in or the peace will not hold." He paused. "You know, there are Jedi who are strict pacifists. There is even a Jedi discipline that rejects the use of a lightsaber, even for training purposes."

"They're allowed to do that?" Bail asked skeptically.

"Yes. It is not a lightsaber that defines a Jedi but our discipline in the Force. That does not require the use of any weapon." Qui-Gon folded his hands into his sleeves, unconsciously assuming a teaching posture. "Pacifism is not an all or nothing option," he continued. "There are different degrees and tactics and strategies of peace-making. You choose one, Obi-Wan and I have chosen another. Any one point of view has strengths and weaknesses. That is why we must be open to working together and learning from each other while at the same time holding to our own convictions." He paused, giving Bail a pointed look. "Isn't that what peace is truly about?"

Bail rested his head on Obi-Wan's shoulder, not wanting to look at Qui-Gon, not wanting to think about what he'd said. "I don't know anymore."

That afternoon while Obi-Wan was in class, Bail visited the Jedi archives. It became his new project to research the Jedi pacifists and other debates about the use of violence. The discipline of research gave Bail something to focus on, helping him order his days and giving him something other than his own problems to think about. The librarians quickly learned of his interest and pointed him to relevant texts. Bail spent several hours out of every day looking up sources, writing notes and compiling arguments as if he were back on the university debate team, preparing a brief. He wasn't exactly certain what he was looking for, didn't know what he wanted to prove or disprove.

Pacifism was so deeply ingrained in the Alderaani psyche that Bail had never really had to think about it before. In the contained universe of Alderaani thought, pacifism was simply a given, intimately connected to the story of the Great War which had torn the planet apart several centuries earlier. Bail didn't know how to argue pacifism without starting with the Great War. He had never read anyone else's views on the subject. Did pacifism mean different things to different people? Did it only make sense within a certain context? Could Alderaani pacifism even work anywhere but on Alderaan? Perhaps he had been wrong to try to export his beliefs to an entirely different planet, one with its own unique story.

The matter had some urgency as Senator Nereis was lobbying hard for the Senate to support the Hinnelese punitive measures against the Folinas, using their deceased colleagues as martyrs to the cause around which she called the other senators to lobby. And she was relentless in her personal attack on Bail, calling him a monomaniacal idealist out of touch with the real world. So far Senator Antilles, while staunchly defending his junior colleague, remained quietly neutral on the Senate bill. Bail did not know why. All he knew was that few senators were speaking out strongly against the bill. Most of the delegations did not really seem to care, while those who supported it made grandiose arguments about containing the threat of terrorism and brigandage, a ridiculous notion, since the Hinnelese and the Folinas were too busy tearing each other apart to bother with trying to spread their conflict to other worlds. No one, whether for, against, or neutral, seemed to actually care about the people of Ithgar.

Bail didn't want to care, either.

The days slowly melted into one another. Bail still couldn't even begin to think of a time when he might return to normal, but at least he began to feel almost comfortable in the limbo his life had become. His counseling sessions continued to make little progress, and he grew frustrated with his inability to talk about the events on Ithgar. Yet as silent as Bail was these days, he was not entirely bereft of speech. Words did begin to offer him some comfort, provided they were someone else's words.

Whenever Bail felt the need for conversation, he and Obi-Wan went to the padawan lounge, where the prince could curl up on the couch next to Obi-Wan, shrouded in the Jedi's robe, and listen to his heart's content to chit-chat, gossip and debates. He listened to Bant speculate on who was dating whom at the Temple. He listened to Garen describe in tedious detail the latest line in starfighters to come out of the Kuat shipyards. He listened to Siri argue with anyone who had the misfortune of sitting down within three meters of her about why the Corellian smashball team had made a serious error in trading Chet Halibern to the Bothan team. He even had the rare privilege of hearing Obi-Wan complain about - well, all manner of topics.

Bail had not known Obi-Wan even knew how to complain, but he now learned that complaining was a popular pastime among the padawans. Perhaps they were so accustomed to living lives of obedience and service that they cherished the opportunity to vent with each other. The complaints were hardly earth-shattering, more the padawan equivalent of letting down their buzz cut hair, but Obi-Wan excelled at it. He complained about his astropolitics class, the decline in quality accommodation on the Interstellar Transport System, the Bojees' latest uninspiring musical release, the prevalence of Huttese cuisine in spaceport foodcourts. Obi-Wan could complain at length and in organized detail, complete with examples and illustrations, on just about any subject anyone could possibly come up with, and he did so with conviction, arrogance - and a skill that left everyone in complete agreement with him, regardless of where they started out. Bail adored listening to him, and reflected that Obi-Wan would have made a great addition to the University of Alderaan debate team.

So they spent evenings in the padawan lounge where Bail could be around people, could talk and engage with them if he felt so moved, and could also silently observe, as he was more wont to do. The other padawans by now accepted his shadowy presence. Their initial curiosity and eagerness to see this celebrity in their midst had died down and been replaced by more appropriate Jedi manners and courtesy. Everyone knew who he was. They knew what he had been through. They knew who he was to Obi-Wan. They did not bother him with unseemly questions. They did not bat an eye to see him wearing Obi-Wan's robe. They did not begrudge him his silence, and when he did choose to speak, they did not act surprised to hear his voice. Their total acceptance and gentle good will were a balm to his soul, as warm and undemanding as a good long soak in a bacta tank.

One evening they were hanging out in the padawan lounge, Bail curled up at Obi-Wan's side, watching as he and several others played a card game. Bail found that he still could not concentrate enough to participate in a game, but he could follow along as Obi-Wan played. On this evening, as on all the others, some people gathered to play games, others studied, some talked or even demonstrated katas or sparring moves. Music played in one corner of the room, and a vidscreen flickered in another. Bail leaned on Obi-Wan's shoulder, watching as the Jedi rearranged the cards in his hand.

The general cacophony of conversation, laughter, and music in the room faded into the background like an undifferentiated white noise. Bail rose above the surrounding sounds, the way he rose above his jumbled thoughts in meditation, barely registering them. If anything, the chaos soothed him, smothering the difficult words that smoldered within his heart, the words that had yet to find voice.

But tonight one word cut sharply through the din, sounding in Bail's ear with perfect clarity. One word that was foremost in his private thoughts, one that was never far from his conscience. It didn't matter how far away the speaker was or how softly the word had been said. His connection to that word made it ring in his head as loudly as a gong.

Ithgar.

He raised his head from Obi-Wan's shoulder, concentrating. Obi-Wan noticed the shift and turned to look at him. More words echoed through the room: Hinnelese, Folina. The Senate. His own name: Organa.

Bail stood, drawn toward the vidscreen, around which were clustered a dozen or so padawans watching a newscast. Someone detected Bail's approach and whispered, "Change the channel."

The picture on the screen switched to a nature program, and Bail said, "Turn it back."

The padawans turned and looked at him, concerned, but the one with the controller switched it back to the newscast. All other activity in the room ceased as the padawans, linked through the Force, turned to watch Bail watch the vidscreen. Obi-Wan hovered protectively behind him, but Bail was only dimly aware, his attention riveted on the screen.

Images of protesters, demonstrators, rioters. A ramshackle house toppled by a landmover. A line of security forces confronting an angry mob. Guns, cannons, tanks. A message painted in red on an unfurled sheet: The Republic off of Ithgar. As the images flashed by, the reporter droned on: "Due to the increased rioting, the Hinnelese authorities are taking measures to quell the unrest. The Folinas have condemned the Republic's recent fact-finding mission, saying that it has only made their situation worse. Fearing an increase in retaliatory attacks, the Hinnelese government is appealing to the Republic to lend aid and munitions for pre-emptive strikes against Folina targets. Senator Nereis of Atzerri has introduced a bill backing the Hinnelese plea."

The images switched to another story, and someone turned off the vidscreen. Utter silence filled the room, weighing heavily on Bail like an unspoken accusation: You did this. Because of you, everything is worse. Bail looked around at the sea of faces staring back at him, all these people who had taken him in, offered him shelter. Now they truly understood what he had done. "I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly.

A ripple spread throughout the room. Something shifted in the faces, but Bail could not identify the change. Someone stepped forward through the crowd. It was Siri, her blue eyes compassionate. "It's not your fault," she said. "What's happening on Ithgar now is exactly what was happening before. You didn't change that."

He weakly shook his head. "I was supposed to."

Another padawan spoke up, someone whose name Bail did not know. "We've all been there, your Highness: failed missions, where you leave things worse than when you arrived. It's the hardest lesson of all, to learn that sometimes even your best efforts don't make any difference."

Bail looked again around the room. He could identify the expressions on those faces now. Not condemnation but grief, sympathy, understanding. "You've been through it, too."

Heads nodded. Gazes turned inward. How many of these young people, most of them younger than Bail, had been tortured or raped? How many would die? How many saw missions end in disaster? "How do you bear it?" he asked in desperation.

Siri answered. "That's something each of us has to figure out on our own."

"But you do," Bail protested. "You come back from missions like that and you pull yourself together. Then you go back out there again. Anything could happen. You could be tortured or killed, and nothing may change, but you still go back out there. How can you do that?"

"What else can we do?" Siri questioned gently. "Stay at home and let the dark side win? We go back out there because we care. You do, too."

But Bail wasn't sure that was true anymore. He couldn't bear the thought of risking his life again, especially when there was no guarantee it would make the slightest difference in the end. He slowly shook his head. "I don't think I have as much faith as you do."

There was a choking sound next to him, and he turned to see Obi-Wan, his expression completely transparent and open for once. Obi-Wan always appeared so calm, so peaceful, but now he radiated a sorrow deeper than any Bail had ever seen. He stared in shock as Obi-Wan's composure shattered into dust, and he turned and ran out of the room. As one the padawans watched him go, then their collective gaze returned to Bail, puzzled, concerned.

It was too much for Bail. Somehow he had managed to hurt Obi-Wan yet again. Obi-Wan was his strength, his protection. If Obi-Wan collapsed, what would happen to Bail?

Distraught, the prince hastened after Obi-Wan. The Jedi wasn't going very fast, and Bail was able to keep him in sight as he stumbled through the corridors until they reached their shared quarters. Bail was surprised that Obi-Wan would return here, and he paused outside the door after Obi-Wan had gone in, trying to collect himself, to figure out why Obi-Wan was so upset.

At last he opened the door and entered to find Obi-Wan standing on the far side of the room, facing the wall, shoulders trembling. Obi-Wan did not turn around, but he straightened a bit as the door closed behind Bail. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice uneven. "The last thing you need is for me to carry on like this."

Bail took an uncertain step toward him. "Ben, what's wrong?"

Face to the wall, Obi-Wan softly replied, "I just can't bear to think of what they took from you."

Bitterly, Bail snorted, "What did they take, really? I'm still alive and in one piece. I'm smarter, wiser. All they took was my naïveté, and my stupid, grandiose ideals."

Obi-Wan turned to face him. "Your ideals were never stupid to me."

"Weren't they?" Bail shot back. "What about my pacifism? A lot of good that did me." He shook his head, scowling. "You were right. It was just the luxury of a wealthy, pampered man."

"I never said that," Obi-Wan protested.

"You didn't have to."

Obi-Wan visibly shuddered. "Is that really what you believe I thought of you?"

"Wasn't it?" Bail retorted. He opened his arms wide, as if presenting himself to an audience. "The politician, always debating everything, talking about things in the Senate while you go out and actually try to make a difference in the galaxy."

"You try to make a difference, too," contradicted Obi-Wan.

"Yes, well, my first foray out into the real world didn't go so well, did it?" Bail returned. "Take me out of the realm of just talking about things, and I turn out to be fairly worthless."

Obi-Wan remained silent for a long moment, his eyes downcast, face turned away as if he could not bear to look at Bail. At last he said, "I remember when you used to tell me conversation was the basis of civilization."

Bail snorted in disgust. "I don't know how you endured listening to me spout such nonsense."

Obi-Wan raised his eyes. "It wasn't nonsense to me. None of it was: your pacifism, your beliefs and ideals. You used to say politics was a secular version of the Jedi's mission. I would have never believed it until I met you." His expression softened. "I've always admired you, Bail."

He didn't want to hear this, not now. How could Obi-Wan believe in him when he couldn't believe in himself? "Pretty words to fool myself with," he snorted in disgust. "It was all bullshit. None of it did any good on Ithgar."

Obi-Wan slowly approached him. "Why did you go to Ithgar, Bail?"

"Because I was a fool!" he snapped. "I thought I could help."

"But why Ithgar? Why not any of a dozen other troublespots in the galaxy?"

Bail took a step back as Obi-Wan drew nearer. "Because the Ithgar Reconciliation Council asked me to come," he replied, as if absolving himself of any responsibility.

"And why did they ask you to come?"

"They wanted me to hear the full story. No one would listen, not even the people of Ithgar."

"What did you hear?" Obi-Wan pressed.

"Not very much. We were kidnapped after a week, remember?" Bail shot back.

"What did you hear before that?"

"I heard hatred!" Bail spat. "Everywhere we went, in town halls, in school auditoriums, the same theme over and over again, no matter who was speaking: anger, outrage. I met a Folina who grew up in a refugee camp. Fourteen people living in one room. Another's wife was arrested and never heard from again. A Hinnelese woman's son was killed coming home from school one day when he was trampled in a riot. Another man had been tortured. He showed me the scars." Bail's voice grew quiet, heavy with memory. "He was young. He looked no older than eighteen." He shook himself, and the edge in his voice returned. "But maybe they deserve it. We were kidnapped and tortured. Look at what they're saying now - the Republic off of Ithgar!"

"Is the Reconciliation Council saying that?"

"I don't know! Why should I care?"

"I don't know," Obi-Wan echoed. "Why should you?"

"Fuck you!" Bail seethed.

But Obi-Wan refused to stop. "What did you feel when you were imprisoned?"

"Hatred!" Bail raged. But something stopped him. That wasn't quite right. He felt hatred now, but then he had been too frightened. He confessed, "I felt afraid. I wanted to die. I thought no one was coming and I would die there. I felt helpless."

"Would you have killed your captors if you'd had the chance?"

Bail fought the urge to run away, to curl up on the floor, to hit Obi-Wan. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he ground out, "I don't know. Why are you asking me this?"

"They were killed," Obi-Wan said. "Executed by the Hinnelese government."

Bail didn't want to hear this. He shouldn't have to listen, but he couldn't shut it out. Always, wherever he looked there was death. Grief swelled up inside him, filling his chest, climbing up his throat, and he exploded into a storm of tears, clutching at his hair with both hands as he sobbed, unable to hold it in.

"Are you glad they're dead?" Obi-Wan continued.

"No!" Bail choked. "I don't want anyone to die!"

"Why not? Some people would say it's justice."

"How is more death justice?"

"I don't know."

"Then why are you saying this?" he screamed through his sobs. "Why are you telling me these things?"

Mildly, Obi-Wan observed, "Conversation is the basis of civilization."

"That's bullshit! I don't feel very fucking civilized!"

"How is it bullshit to talk about things that really matter?"

"I - I," Bail wasn't sure what to say. He retreated once more into anger. "How does that solve anything?"

"How does not talking about it solve anything?"

"Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Obi-Wan returned. "Do you want me to pretend it never happened? Do you want me to ignore it? How can I, when I wake up next to the consequences of it every morning?"

"Stop it!" Bail screamed.

"I have always admired you."

Bail covered his ears with his hands, squeezing his head as if to keep Obi-Wan's voice from seeping into his brain. "Don't!"

"I respected you. I believed in you. I can't bear what they did to you." Obi-Wan's eyes grew hard. "And I hate them for it."

"Don't," Bail wept. "Please, don't. No more hatred. I can't bear it." He stood in the center of the room sobbing uncontrollably, his very bones crying out in agony.

Obi-Wan moved close to him, resting his hands on Bail's shoulders. His eyes were gentle once more, as he asked, "What is it that you want, Bail?"

Bail could only weep and gasp for breath. "I want it to stop hurting so much," he stammered between his sobs. Obi-Wan drew Bail close, folding him in his embrace, and Bail clung to him, crying into his shoulder. "I want to stop hating myself so much."

Obi-Wan said nothing, merely held him as he cried until his sobs gradually turned to weeping and finally quieted. Obi-Wan offered no platitudes, no assurances or words of wisdom, and when Bail finally stopped crying, Obi-Wan gently led him to the bedroom and prepared him for sleep without saying a word.

He loves the little stream that runs by the Organa family's mountain retreat. Whenever they arrive at Shadowcliff, the first thing he does is shed his shoes and run to the stream.

He wades back into the stream, plunging his arms once more into the chilled depths. He knows he will find gold. Magic gold that melts in the sunshine; gold that you cannot hold on to; gold that has to be believed to be seen.

Papa came to visit him. Vilnis hated Coruscant, found it harsh, ugly, and far too noisy. In all the years that Bail had been a senator, he could count on one hand the number of times Vilnis had come to see him here.

On this visit, however, they never ventured beyond the Temple walls. Bail thought his father fit well into the austere but grandiose beauty of the halls and chambers. It suited him, the aged, faded elegance, the hushed and learned atmosphere. Bail showed him the star map room, took him to the archives and introduced him to the librarians. Vilnis drank it all in as Bail knew he would, too enamored of everything he saw to ask difficult questions of Bail. It reminded Bail of all the times his father had taken him to museums and universities, impressing on his young mind the value of history, a respect for knowledge and learning. Bail teased his father that all his best friends had been dead for at least two centuries, but in truth he loved hearing Vilnis talk about ancient scholars. Papa seemed ancient himself, venerable, infused with the wisdom of the ages, like some grand and powerful mage whose fingertips could command the elements and draw new worlds into being. To introduce his father to the Jedi Temple was like introducing two people destined to be best friends.

Their tour took most of the day as they ascended higher and higher through the Temple, emerging at last on one of the observation decks at the top of the east tower. They stood at the railing, looking out over the cityscape and bustling traffic lanes. Surely even Vilnis could see the unique beauty of the planet up here.

Bail turned to his father with an arch smile. "It's not so very awful, is it?"

Vilnis' lips twisted wryly. "I suppose it has a certain appeal," he reluctantly confessed. "But nothing could ever be as beautiful as home."

"True enough," Bail admitted, looking out at the city once more. He had had a wonderful day with his father. Whenever he went home there were always so many people about that he seldom got to spend time alone with Vilnis. "Do you remember when it was just you and me?" he asked wistfully. "When the girls lived with Mama Juma, before you married Mimi?"

Vilnis cocked an eyebrow at him. "You resent our ladies, do you?"

"Of course not. But that was a special time, when it was just the two of us."

Vilnis' eyes softened, and he put an arm around Bail's shoulders, drawing him close. "I remember. Two bachelors, happily stuck in our ways."

"You sometimes invited your students to the house, and I would recite ancient poetry to them. You loved to show off that your eight-year- old son's pronunciation was better than theirs."

"I'm sure they would never have endured it if you hadn't been so charming." Vilnis smiled warmly.

"Do you remember how I used to hide in your closet?" Bail continued.

"How could I forget!" Vilnis protested. "I can't count the number of times I put my shoes on only to find sticky pieces of candy in the toes. Do you know how many of my shoes you ruined?" Bail made an effort to look contrite, but he could not pull it off. Vilnis ruffled his son's hair. "It was fun, but I am glad Radha came along when she did. You had gotten old enough to find new hiding places to run off to. When you stopped hiding in the closet all the time, I never knew were you might be, but Radha had an uncanny knack for finding you. You have no idea how many of these gray hairs you gave me."

"They make you look very distinguished, Papa."

"Bother," Vilnis dismissed. He fell silent, looking out across the city, but his arm tightened around Bail's shoulders. Bail knew what was coming.

"I was so frightened for you," Vilnis whispered.

Bail looked up at his father's profile. Suddenly he didn't look ancient or venerable, he just looked old.

"I have been afraid for you before. I've feared for your reputation, your career, your happiness. But this...." Vilnis shuddered. "To fear for your life, to know you were out there, the Force alone knowing what was happening to you, to be utterly unable to help you. It was the most horrible feeling I have ever known." He turned and seized Bail, cradling him with fierce protectiveness. "My precious child. When I think about what you suffered...."

Bail buried his face in his father's robe. He didn't really want to hear this. It was almost worse, knowing he'd caused his loved ones such fear and pain. "I'm sorry, Papa."

Vilnis squeezed him tightly, then pulled back, taking Bail's face between his hands, staring into his eyes. "The hardest thing in the world for parents to do is to let their children go. We want to hold onto them and protect them. I can't help but feel responsible for what happened to you."

"No, Papa," Bail protested. He couldn't bear it.

"You know that I love you," Vilnis continued, as if Bail hadn't spoken. "But I don't tell you often enough how proud I am of you. Your courage astounds me. Every day I think that I cannot possibly be prouder of you than I am at that moment. But each new day proves me wrong. I have made many mistakes in my life, but whenever I look at you and your sisters, I know there are at least four things I did very right."

"Papa --," Bail started to protest, but Vilnis pulled him close once more, and he surrendered to the embrace, let himself be enfolded in the safety of his father's arms, breathed in the dusty scent of his robes that smelled like an ancient library. Here in this embrace all the terror he had endured did not seem quite so frightening.

After a long time, Vilnis said, "My favorite son."

Bail smiled against his father's robes. "I'm your only son, Papa. What do you tell the girls?"

"I say that they are my favorite Veena, my favorite Burra, and my favorite Rani."

"And they buy that?"

"Why not? It's the truth." Vilnis released Bail so he could smile down at him. "Thank you for showing me the Temple. It was a very special privilege." He brushed the hair back out of Bail's eyes. "I remember when you first started telling us about a certain young Jedi padawan with whom you had made an acquaintance. Your mother was so relieved there was finally someone on Coruscant she could trust her boy to. Sometimes it's the only way I can bear to think of you on his wretched planet."

Bail shook his head. "He's not my bodyguard, Papa."

"That's not why we trust him with you. It's not because he's a Jedi." Vilnis stroked his son's cheek, running his thumb along his jaw, nostalgic indeed for the days when he always knew where Bail was. But those days were long gone. "We just feel better knowing there is someone here on Coruscant who loves you as much as we do."

Over time Bail settled more fully into Temple life. Meditation in the morning, studying or counseling sessions during the day, spending time with the padawans or with Obi-Wan in the evening. He got used to having no responsibility for anything except himself, got used to life without committee meetings and senate hearings, without constant comm and holonet messages. Life at the Temple had a different rhythm, calm, unhurried, relaxed. Bail Organa was not a celebrity or VIP among the other residents. He was neither more nor less important than anyone else. This relative anonymity was comforting, allowing him to address his problems at his own pace.

He was now so accustomed to ignoring and being ignored by the outside world that he was taken completely by surprise when one day, as he returned to the Temple from one of his counseling sessions, the padawan who was staffing the reception desk in the lobby stopped him. "I have a message for you, Senator."

Curious, Bail repeated, "A message?" It was so surreal to have someone contact him that he almost didn't know how to respond.

"Master Yoda says that if it is convenient for you, he would like you to meet with him in his quarters this evening."

"Master...Yoda?" Bail echoed faintly.

"Yes."

"The head of the Council?"

The padawan smiled. "There's only one Master Yoda, sir."

"Indeed," Bail answered, feeling rather foolish. "Will you please tell him I would be honored to meet with him this evening?"

"Certainly, sir."

But in truth, Bail did not feel honored. He felt terrified. What could the venerated Jedi Master possibly want to say to him? Bail in no way felt up to the challenge of carrying on any kind of conversation with Master Yoda, but he knew he could not possibly refuse.

As it was, he could barely wait until Obi-Wan met him for dinner to tell him the news. Obi-Wan had scarcely opened the door before Bail exclaimed, "Master Yoda wants me to meet with him!"

Startled, Obi-Wan blinked, "Well," he struggled to say. "That's nice."

Worriedly pulling on a lock of his hair, Bail fussed, "I don't think I'm ready to meet him."

Obi-Wan fought back a chuckle. "It's not as if he's going to interrogate you."

"How do you know?"

"I'm sure he just wants to visit with you."

Bail shot him a withering look. "I doubt Master Yoda 'just visits' with anyone."

"How do you know?" Obi-Wan answered with Bail's earlier retort.

"He's the second most important being in the galaxy," Bail fretted.

"Second most?"

Bail's eyes widened in dismay, as if he had just committed a major breach of etiquette, and Obi-Wan had to laugh. "After the Supreme Chancellor, I suppose. Surely you've met with Chancellor Valorum before, so this should be less intimidating."

"On the contrary," Bail muttered, pacing back and forth across the living room, tugging nervously on his hair. "Valorum is a politician, I can relate to him."

"Well, I'm a Jedi, and you can relate to me, so you should have no problem relating to Master Yoda."

"It's hardly the same thing. I don't know how to behave." He halted his pacing to gaze aghast at Obi-Wan. "I don't know what to wear!"

Obi-Wan shrugged. "What you're wearing now is fine."

"I can't possibly meet the head of the Jedi Council dressed like this!"

With an indignant sigh, Obi-Wan pointed out, "This is not some kind of state affairs meeting. This is Master Yoda. He's just going to speak in enigmatic riddles and serve you muchek."

Bail's eyes narrowed in concern. "What's muchek?"

"You'll find out."

Bail stood fretfully in the center of the room, twisting his hair and biting his lip. At last he raised his eyes to Obi-Wan with an imploring gaze. "Will you go with me?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "Did he invite me?"

"No," Bail confessed.

"If he had wanted me there, he would have invited me," Obi-Wan pointed out. "Don't worry, Bail. Master Yoda is quite nice."

But Bail only twisted his hair more frantically.

That evening Obi-Wan escorted Bail to Master Yoda's quarters. The prince wore the most elegant outfit he had brought with him. Obi-Wan still thought Bail had spent far too much time fussing over his attire than was warranted, but Bail found the familiar ritual of dressing for statesmanship purposes to be calming.

When they reached Master Yoda's quarters, Obi-Wan bestowed a gentle kiss on Bail's cheek before leaving him. Bail squared his shoulders, took several deep breaths, and rang the door chime.

The door swished open, and a gravelly voice called out, "Come in!"

Bail obeyed the voice and found himself in a surreal room. The structure of it, ceilings, doors and windows, were sized for a typical human, but all the furniture, sleep couch, tables, and shelves, were hardly larger than doll size. A small table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by sitting pillows. Seated on one was the venerable Jedi Master. Bail's first thought was, "He's so tiny!" He knew Yoda was small, of course, but he had never met the Master personally before, and all the holopics and images of him did not provide a proper perspective. Bail was so surprised, he failed to greet Yoda appropriately.

The old Master, as if reading Bail's thoughts, cackled merrily and invited, "On the floor you must sit. Young knees bend easily. Old necks do not."

Remembering himself, Bail bowed deeply and said, "It is an honor to meet you, Master Yoda."

"Pleased I am to meet you as well, Senator," Yoda replied. "Now sit. Your muchek grows cold." As Bail seated himself on one of the pillows, Yoda observed, "Expected I did to see you in young Obi-Wan's robe. A familiar sight it is now, around the Temple. Perhaps it needed cleaning, hmmm?"

Bail lowered his eyes, embarrassed. "I apologize for my presumption, Master Yoda. I have no right to wear a Jedi's robe."

"Nonsense," Yoda dismissed with a wave of his clawed hand. "A robe it is, worn for warmth and protection. No magical properties does it have. Why should you not wear it?"

Bail said nothing. The robe had magical properties to him, but he certainly wouldn't argue the point with the Master. He studied the steaming mug before him on the table.

Noticing his gaze, Yoda prompted, "Yes, your muchek you must drink. No good is it cold."

Picking up the mug, Bail gave it an experimental sniff, then took a sip. He winced at the strong flavor, then a tingling warmth spread throughout his body. It appeared to be some kind of spiced broth. "It's delicious," he commented.

"Discovered it on Raltiir I did, several hundred years ago." The Jedi's eyes sparkled mischievously. "One mug each morning and another each night, and perhaps you may live to be my age."

"I would never presume, Master Yoda. If I lived that long, I would undoubtedly wear out the galaxy's welcome."

They exchanged a laugh, and Yoda asked, "How goes your stay here?"

"Very well, Master. I am deeply grateful to the Order for offering me sanctuary."

"Meditation Obi-Wan has taught you?"

"Yes, Master, though I fear I'm not very good at it," Bail confessed.

"Calm you, it does? Helps you find your center?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why picked you the great meditation room?"

Bail took a long sip of his muchek while he contemplated his answer. "I like being in a place where so many Jedi have meditated over so many centuries. The room is peaceful."

"Mmm." Yoda nodded his head slowly as if approving of Bail's answer. He continued, "Much time you spend in the archives."

Bail wondered if the old Master knew everything he did in the Temple. Probably. He doubted anything escaped Yoda's attention. "Yes, Master."

"What do you read?"

"Philosophy mostly." He hesitated. "I've been reading up on the Jedi position on nonviolence."

Yoda's ears perked up. "Only one position have you found?"

"Well, no," Bail confessed. "Every text I uncover puts forth a different view. It's certainly a lively debate."

Nodding, Yoda said, "From the beginning have Jedi argued that topic. Disappointed are you, that we hold no common view?"

"No," Bail began, then admitted, "I suppose there really is no answer."

Yoda tapped his gimer stick against the floor. "That is because you seek for it in the wrong place."

"Where should I look for it?"

"Already know you where to look."

Bail fell silent. Indeed he knew, and he didn't like it. At last he said, "I have no answer. I thought I did, but my answers failed me."

"Did they?"

Yoda sounded like Obi-Wan, like the soul healers. Bail was getting really tired of it. "With respect, Master Yoda, how exactly did my answers accomplish anything on Ithgar? The situation is worse now than it was before I went there." Bail shook his head, weary of all this self-recrimination. "I should never have asked the Senate to send that mission."

Yoda closed his eyes as if meditating, and Bail wondered if he was seeing something in the Force. "Difficult the situation is on Ithgar. Lost their way they have." His eyes opened, catching Bail in their penetrating gaze. "Much like you."

Bail reeled back as if he had been struck. He felt stripped once more, robbed of all his self-control, his innermost secrets exposed. He wanted to scream in frustration, to weep, to break some furniture. That last thought reminded him of his breakdown on Alderaan, when he had attacked Obi-Wan. Did Yoda know about that, too? "Well, we saw how worthless my way was on Ithgar, didn't we?" he bitterly reflected. "Perhaps we're all better off now that I've lost my way."

Yoda only gazed at him with his large, depthless eyes, and said, "Remember, I do, the great war on Alderaan three hundred years ago."

Bail froze.

"Terrible it was," Yoda continued. "All the galaxy watched as Alderaan destroyed itself. Nothing could we do to stop it. Alderaan alone could make that decision."

Yoda stopped, studying Bail closely as if waiting for him to respond, but Bail said nothing, clenching his trembling hands in his lap. He knew the story well. All children of Alderaan did.

"Know you why Alderaan decided to end the war?"

"Because one third of the entire population had been killed," Bail shot back. "Entire cities were destroyed, the land ravaged. They say the canals of Aldera ran red with blood. After a couple of decades they quit pretending like the war was about anything. They just kept fighting because they didn't know how to stop. Is that what it takes for people to decide against war? Mass destruction?"

"Remember I do the voice that urged them onto a different path," Yoda continued, almost as if Bail had not spoken at all. "Neruda Organa."

Bail turned his face away, struggling to regain control of himself. "I know where you're going with this."

"Do you? Tell me."

"You're going to say I shouldn't lose hope, that she didn't. She lost her husband and two of her children in the war, but she didn't let that get to her."

Yoda thumped his cane on the floor. "Suffered she did, and greatly," he rebuked. "Dismiss that you should not!"

Bail's eyes flashed in anger. What right did Yoda have to lecture him about his own history? "She's not actually my grandmother, you know," he retorted. "My mother slept around a lot. She doesn't even know who my real father is. I'm not actually an Organa."

"Does that matter?"

No, it did not. He had always been a son to Vilnis, who said Bail was more Organa than all the rest of the Organas put together. Softly Bail said, "I gave my first public speech on Remembrance Day when I was seven years old. I was so proud of the Organa legacy. I've always tried to hold myself to my great-grandmother's standards. My father used to tell me stories about her, how she worked so hard to get people to lay down their weapons, to talk, to find new ways to air their grievances and resolve their conflicts. I would cry when I thought about how she died before the war ended. She was my hero. I wanted to be like her. I wanted her to be proud of me."

"Think you that she is not?" came Yoda's gentle query.

"I don't know."

"I do," Yoda stated.

Bail glanced sharply at him. "Did you know her?"

"Met her I did. Several times. Stubborn she was, and very angry. But she knew the war had to end. Listen to her, the people did, because they knew she had suffered, too."

Bail shook his head in disbelief. "So you're saying the people of Ithgar will listen to me now that I have suffered?"

"No. From Ithgar you are not. From them the answer must come, not you."

"Then I shouldn't get involved?" Bail shot back, growing angry. "I shouldn't care?"

"Each of us our own answers must we find. But caring, too, belongs to each of us."

"So I'm supposed to care, but not do anything about it?"

Abruptly Yoda switched course. "Why are you here, Bail Organa?"

"It was Master Jinn's idea!" Bail sputtered.

"Hmph." The little Master frowned. "Because of Obi-Wan you are here. His own answers does he give you?"

"No."

"Then how does he help you?"

"He-he's just here." Bail drowned in a flash flood of emotion. All that Obi-Wan had done for him, quiet and unobtrusive as it was, without it Bail didn't know how he could have survived. Yet what exactly did Obi-Wan do? "He meditates with me. He takes me to my counseling sessions at the Center. We take walks together. He listens - but then I don't talk very much. He doesn't make me talk." Bail shrugged, frustrated at his inability to explain. "He doesn't really do anything."

Yoda frowned in rebuke. "Shows you he does that someone cares. Need that the people of Ithgar do."

Yes, that was it. That was it, exactly. Bail felt the tears overcome him once more. He was so very tired of crying, but this was different somehow. He cried because Obi-Wan loved him. He cried because his nine-greats grandmother never saw the war's end. He cried for the people of Ithgar, who were learning their lesson the hard way, as Alderaan had three hundred years ago. All his tears before had been for himself, but these tears were for other people, too. It felt strangely good to cry for others, as if he had something in himself to give away. He didn't have much, just a shattered and bleeding heart, only grief at the damnable pain and suffering in the galaxy, only a desperate wish that somehow, someday all the crying might end. Not much, but it felt healing to know he had something to give away after all.

When Bail's crying subsided, Yoda gently asked, "Know you, Bail Organa, why I wished to meet with you?"

"No, Master Yoda," Bail sniffled.

"Changed the Republic has. Selfish the people have become. Care only for their own interests, they do. Rules, laws, protection, safety - these are their concerns. We are losing our way." Yoda hobbled over to stand before Bail. "Find your own way you must. Look for it here." He poked Bail's chest with one claw. "Look to your heart, Bail Organa. Find what is there, and there make your stand."

Yoda's eyes took on a faraway cast, while never releasing Bail's gaze. "Dark times are ahead," he warned. "Fear for the future I do. The day will come when we will need people who are brave enough to care."

Go to part 2