Stoned or A Rocky Start
By LuvEwan
On a monumental occasion, Obi-Wan hesitates.
PG
Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn
Disclaimer: Not mine.
~~~)(~~~
Coward.
The word hisses like a sharp, cold breeze in my ear.
Nearing the final steps of this new pinnacle, with endless sky and potential stretching out above me, I only seem to see the clouds. Gray tendrils coiling around the mountaintops, snaking up my arms and around my throat.
I can't breathe.
But I can move. Movement was required to rise quietly from my bed, walk from the berth I share with Anakin, then, with more briskness, wind down the halls…rush at a dead run to the remote viewing room of the transport ship—
Where I now stand, sweat clinging to my forehead and face. To flee our quarters was but a small excursion…it was my overworked mind that must have produced this relentless perspiration.
Coward.
I don't argue. Enough of my strength has been drained away. I can't spare any more, fighting a truth that doesn't bother to masquerade in niceties or euphemisms. It stings to hear so bald an accusation, but I refuse to spread salve, my own delusions, over the wounds. I know it is fear that fueled me, as I sprinted down the silent corridors. Pure dread that caused me to throw up intense shielding against my apprentice, such as I never have before.
I've had time to prepare for this. Gods, when you get down to it, I've had a decade—that was when I carved this, this tiny, smooth bead I hold between my fingers. Usually, these type of ornaments should be plain-colored, yellow, blue or red.
But it has always been my plan for the first, the milestone bead for my student, to be unique. It had never occurred to me, before that day in the meadow, that I would ever even have a Padawan. To instruct, to guide, to care for.
It wasn't until I sat beside my Master at the small, clear lake that I believed it was possible to, one day, be something like him. Not in noble character-I never delved that far into fantasy-but in station. Another thanks owed to him, another I can never repay.
The others had scattered after the game, heading towards the showers or meal hall. My hair was dripping wet, which meant it was standing at odd angles atop my head, thanks to the distinct apprentice style worn by all novice Jedi. The grassy fields of the Narlanian training grounds were deserted, save myself and my Master. Fading echoes from the sun spread over every leaf and blade, in a warm wave of orange tinged with outlying scarlet. Night was approaching; my eyes were heavy after hours of rigorous sport, and all my thoughts were focused on a sweet collapse on a soft bed.
But the commanding majority of my mind-my duty to my mentor-steered me from the homeward path to the shallow reflecting pond, past the hills.
Qui-Gon's face was captured in the jeweled surface, his eyes and nose and mouth rippled gently. When I saw my own, less elegant countenance, I turned away, toward him. He was sitting, his legs crossed and his arms drawn around them, pulled against his broad chest. He hadn't participated in the last rounds of the game, but encouraged me to. I knew he was looking for a chance to be alone (he was a brooder, that can't be denied) so I didn't ask if he wanted me to join him.
"Master, evening meal will begin shortly." As the words left my lips, I cringed inside. Wouldn't a seasoned Jedi Master be aware of the mealtimes?
Qui-Gon glanced up. The gleam of the setting sun caught in his eyes and a half-smile touched his lips. "Then I suppose that means we still have a bit of time left, doesn't it?"
I nodded carefully, the way I did whenever I thought he was projecting some secret meaning I didn't comprehend.
"Sit." He offered, patting the grass beside him.
I sat, and emulated his position, my knees near my neck.
He was quiet for a moment, studying the glittering water with a thoughtful expression. One of his favorite techniques, it seemed to me (and does to this day) was when he tried the patience of his young charge by saying nothing at all. After a few minutes of silence, it could become needling, and the most foolish statements seemed paramount, as long as they would fill the emptiness. In my first months and years as an apprentice, I often failed his tests.
I was sixteen by this time, and knew how to hold my tongue.
"You know, I've only been to the Narlanian Temple three times before." He commented, his eyes gradually moving from the shifting water to my face.
I was tempted to think HE was reduced to small talk, that I had finally won this little exam—but I knew him too well. Qui-Gon often worked off a tangent, pulling a strong moral from a vaguely connected story, and I didn't doubt he would reach some sort of point.
"I came here with my previous two apprentices, and once when I was an apprentice myself. That was a long time ago—as you can imagine—"
I smiled.
"Those weren't even there yet." He pointed to a pair of buildings that stemmed from the main Temple, then sighed heavily. "Master Dooku and I were sent here after an especially harrowing mission. He denied the need for vacation, of course. He would rather have spent the time pursuing more serious, worthwhile interests." There was a pale note of sourness in his tone, barely audible. "I was a little older than you, and we sat here. He didn't say much, he never did, but what he DID say has stayed with me ever since.
"He told me to keep faith in my abilities. He told me that self-doubt could never be a pillar of prosperity or power, that it would be a weapon used against me." Qui-Gon paused long enough to straighten my braid, laying it over my shoulder and brushing out the ends. "He told me that nothing could truly guarantee my spot in the Knighthood, but that if I didn't believe I was capable, it would guarantee my failure. And then…" He swallowed." He assured me that he, for one, believed I was capable.
"I know you're not well-acquainted with Master Dooku, but a veritable compliment from him was hard-won. The fact that he voiced his confidence in me was astounding. Every Padawan is unsure of their skills, every Padawan regards Knighthood as something of a dream for most of their apprenticeship. To be told that that dream was a reality…I can't explain. It gave me confidence for the rest of my training. Sometimes, it still does. Whatever the state between us now, I will always be grateful to my Master for that.
"And I want you to be able to feel the same, from this day forward." He rested a hand on my knee. "This isn't an act of obligatory tradition, Obi-Wan. I want you to know that. I say this…because I deeply believe it." With his free fingers, he cupped my chin. "I believe that you will be an amazing Knight. And when you think you have no faith in yourself, know that
I have faith in you. I have faith that you'll grow to be an incredible Jedi, and later on, an incredible Master."Qui-Gon said he could not rightly explain the feeling of ultimate acceptance from his Master. I was no different. To this day, I can't put into words the euphoria of that moment.
And after he said it, I couldn't muster a single syllable. I just stared at him, totally unblinking, unseeing.
His fingers fell away. "I'll save you a seat inside." He murmured.
I nodded numbly, and heard him, very distantly, tread the grasses up to the Temple.
I sat at the fringe of the lake until the sun descended beneath the horizon. The moonlight pooled on a stone near my foot, and I grabbed the small, craggy thing in my hand. In the fields, it was cooling to an uncomfortable degree, and the lights of the Temple were beckoning me to shelter, to food and rest, which had so recently been foremost in my mind.
I rose, slipping the stone into my pocket. I didn't know what I would do with it, another rock from another occasion was already against my heart, but I needed to have a memento from that day.
A few weeks later, I sat on my bed in my quarters, and patiently carved a bead from the rock, smoothing out the jags and revealing veins of warm red, brown and blue.
I didn't know if I would really be the impressive teacher my Master thought I would, but I had a start.
My apprentice would not have the 'average' first bead woven into his braid.
But, as with most things, my belief in that has been called into question.
I know Anakin deserves it. He saved my life-and the lives of many others-on the Pramilx moon. A release of toxic fumes overwhelmed me and the innocents I sought to protect. I have no recollection of what happened between then and when I woke on a cot in the medical bay, but from the deep gashes on his face, I could easily discern that my apprentice had endured an ordeal to rescue me and those under my charge.
He's only one boy, still young enough to giggle at a comically twisted face (or pout during a less-than-exciting assignment)…but he was strong enough to drag every last leaden, limp body out of danger.
He didn't panic. He didn't concern himself with his own safety, nor was he reckless.
I could not ask for a better reason to give him the bead.
So why when I pulled the precious stone from my belt, and Anakin's name was at my lips, did I stop? Why did I look at the slumbering face of my Padawan—and feel a deep, visceral pang of disappointment?
Why would this place, this cramped little room with nothing but a window and bench, be a solace?
I look down at the bead, cool and familiar against my touch. Sometimes…it almost reminds me of my river rock. While they aren't similar in appearance, I've always liked to think (especially in the last year) that a piece of my Master's essence is carried in the beautiful minerals and pure sheen. Gazing at the small treasure is akin to hearing his words again, knowing that his confidence in me was unwavering…
I had his undeviating faith, until that assuredness was crushed, and the bead might as well have been a dull hunk of grit. New words entered my head, his words, his declarations of Anakin's tremendous talents.
The Force is meant to be an immaculate presence in the mind, light and white and doubtless…how does a Jedi guard against intrusions of emotions, green seeping into white, a total loss of conviction?
He does the best he can.
He is patient, and waits for his reactions to weaken, waits for the day to come when his thoughts are no longer tainted by old memory.
He patiently waits until he does not regard his student with envy or resentment. With an inward calm, he anticipates a tomorrow when he does not hear the whisper through him, the small voice that tells him everything is wrong.
I do not hate Anakin. On the contrary, I have loved him as though he were my child.
Staring out the window, into empty, aching space, I wonder: Does that make it worse?
Am I a failure not only as a teacher, but as a person, that I stand here clutching the bead, clutching tight, as though it was in peril of being stolen?
And does that mean Qui-Gon was a failure, to raise such an ineffective, petty apprentice?
I have to blink hard, and lean against the window pane.
It can be too much, when you have too little to offer.
~~~)(~~~
Space has no concept of time. Once the limits of a planet's atmosphere have been broken through, and you're hurdling through the stars, it is a single, perpetual hour, neither morning nor night. It is the internal clock of the body that must take up the slack, tell us when to rest and when to rise.
A clock that has stopped, or at least malfunctioned, within me.
I've never been ruled by weariness. I find that, as my life matures, I can function quite well without sleep. In a state of cognizance, it is far more difficult to allow dreams entry into the mind.
And while I'm safe from the unpredictable reveries of slumber, I cannot be totally shielded from my own musings…a fact that causes me to wonder which is the more disturbing to endure.
Perhaps, if I did return to my bed , I would be saved further agony from these wrenching deliberations. Or, they would follow me to the dredges of unconsciousness, to take a twisted form, and haunt me still.
Either way, the problem persists, the bead burns in my hand and in my pocket. Sizzles and crackles against flesh, like the flames of a funeral pyre—bits of nightmare have transgressed to reality, I feel, as I seal my eyes against the wild rush of memory. Recollections branded into the tender places of my heart that resist every attempt at healing.
Because I refuse to let them mend.
It would be wrong.
To not experience the pain…it would be acceptance of premature, unjust death.
Just as weaving the bead into Anakin's braid would be?
No.
Nooo.
I turn from the wide viewing window, a clammy hand straying to my temple.
Anakin's advancement as a pupil of the Jedi Order is a separate subject entirely. That he is my pupil is of no consequence.
My pupil, out of involuntary forfeit.
My pupil, because his real teacher was murdered…
His teacher, who had been mine.
The teacher, that saw him suddenly and was blinded by brilliance. Blinded to me. Made me promise, with the dying breath that lives forever on, to train the person that had so recently transformed me into a weak shadow.
He was not meant to leave. Not then, not from the abrupt plunge of a sinister weapon, an evil imitation of the weapon that had been the center of his Jedi life. His legend was meant to include Anakin…training the Chosen One was supposed to be his divine avenue to immortality.
But Anakin's first bead is enclosed in my fingers.
Whenever the ritual words are recited, Qui-Gon will be silent.
How can my voice fill that void?
Simply put, it cannot.
I've known it all along, I think. In the moments when my lips are numb or a lump is lodged in my throat, and I can't produce a sound.
In the quiet, I know. In the quiet, the truth screams. And while it is deafening, I will always hear it again, untarnished to my ears.
~~~)(~~~
More coming soon…