Disclaimer: All belongs to the great and powerful Mouse.
Summary: Even for a Jedi there is a price for perfection, but what if fate offered a chance at a refund?
A/N: You asked for it and now you've got it. This is a post JA timeframe story. The story starts with the 24 year old Obi-Wan found at the conclusion of the story Perfect. While it is not necessary to have read Perfect, it is strongly advised as a lot of things won't make sense without the events of the previous story. Though this is AU, there are some spoilers for events in the Judith Watson Jedi Apprentice series. This story is darker than my usual tales. Be advised.
A/N 2:Also, this story, this chapter particularly, comes with warnings. Feelings of depression and suicidal ideations are presented. If this is a danger or possible trigger for you, I humbly suggest that you skip this chapter. A short recap will be provided at the beginning of the second chapter for those who exercise this option.
Thanks:
AnnabethShadownight-Kenobi: You asked and so you will receive though it may not be all that you hoped.
Geri K: Thank you so much! I'm not one for doling out hope, but where there's plot, there's possibilities...
Azuraskye: Thanks! And yes, behold part 2!
MJLupin27: Oh wow! Thank you so much for your kind words! I hope you enjoy this one just as much!
HauntingMemories: Yup, there's a sequel and you're about to read it! Also, thank you for your very detailed review. It really, really made my day and made me feel very validated as a writer. Thank you.
I.c.E.d.C.u.P.c.A.k.E: I don't know if this qualifies as closure, but it is... well, more...
Maria de Sanctos: Thank you and believe it or not, I often feel the same way. Perfect, for me, was an attempt to get out of my comfort zone and write a darker piece where things didn't fit neatly together at the end. I honestly never intended a sequel, but I hope that this new addition only adds to the greater story and takes nothing away from what the previous one accomplished.
SK12Monster: Thank you! I worked very hard on get the scenes and characters just right. I'm so happy it paid off!
aGreatLoudThump: Sorry I made you cry? Well, actually no, I'm not sorry. I'm thrilled. Writing Perfect was a labor of love and I am glad you enjoyed. I hope that holds true for Imperfect as well as it was even more difficult at times to write.
Treeofsilverleaves: I'm so glad to hear you identified so closely with Obi-Wan. It makes me feel really good about my characterization when I find that someone is truly moved by a story. Thank you!
TheLittleCatmole: Yes, there is a sequel and here it is!
Celeste Belle: I am flattered that not only does this story move you to tears, but that you also return to it to read it again! Thank you so much! As for an alternate happy ending… would you settle for a continuation of the story?
NostaligcFool: Thank you so much for your wonderful compliments. It truly made my day. As for your wish to read more in this univers….Granted!
Please R&R!
Prologue
(Ten months after the events of Perfect)
Padawan, where are you? That is the question I ask myself everyday. It is just one of many. With every breath, every heartbeat, I wonder where you are, what you are doing. I worry if you are safe, if you are happy. I hope you are.
I fear you are not.
Fear.
I have much of that within me, so much so that I let it drive you away from your home. Away from the Jedi. Away from me. And that's precisely what it was… fear. I was afraid that I was not a good master, that I was incapable of being so. My failure with Xanatos the bitter evidence that validated the truth of my concerns. Then I met you and all those old fears came to the fore. I let that fear guide me when I should have focused on guiding you. I was so frightened of failing you that it allowed for no other outcome.
I failed you, Padawan. I knew that the moment I touched your mind, the moment I touched your pain, the moment I saw myself through your eyes…
Pity. Disappointment. That is how you saw me, how you thought I saw you. The truth is I have never seen you that way. Not once. Not ever. But you were right about pity and disappointment being a part of your apprenticeship under me. You thought these two things were your master, but they were not yours. They were mine.
I have permitted pity and disappointment to master me since before you were born. They are, perhaps, the greatest of my failings, though they share good company with my arrogance and stubbornness. Maverick they call me. Rebel. Fool is what I am. I realize now with you gone how poor a Jedi I am, how poor a master, and how poor a man. None of these are mantles I am fit to wear.
But you are. You can still if only you would return, not to me, but to the Temple, to the Jedi.
You are meant to be a great Jedi, my Padawan. Please, I beg you, don't let me take that from you. There is little of me left that I value, but I would gladly surrender it all for your safe return.
I have never given much thought to religion. After seeing so many people, so many planets with each its own religious customs, beliefs, and mores, I have never felt a need to add my own to the great multitude. I had the Force. That was enough, but now… now I find myself praying daily to any gods who may listen. I would serve them all. I would sacrifice myself upon any number of strange altars. I would praise or curse the divine. I would even submit to the Dark. I would do anything.
Anything…
To give back what I took from you.
Mace and Yoda think I am losing my mind. Perhaps I am. There are days when I sit here staring up at the model galaxy spinning before me and I can almost feel my sanity slipping away, but I cannot bring myself to care.
There is nothing left for me here without your bright presence, without your Light. The galaxy is now such a dark place that the Darkness no longer frightens me.
Perhaps that is what I should fear… I think Mace does. There is something in his eyes when he looks at me that looks like pity. It looks like disappointment. I know that's what
Master Yoda sees in me. It is what I see in myself.
I am so sorry, Padawan. So very, very sorry, but I do not wish for your forgiveness, only for your return. Grant this undeserving, old fool this one last request.
Please.
Come home, Obi-Wan.
Part I – Chasing Spirits
(Two months later.)
The day's Council session had been long and frustrating as most had been of late and Mace found that he was tired, wanting nothing more than to return to his quarters and to recline in his favorite chair with a hot mug of tea. Mace sighed as he moved quietly through the halls of the Temple. Yes, relaxing was exactly what he wanted to do, but the Councilor could not, not yet. He still had one more thing to do.
The Councilor drew in a deep breath as he paused outside the door to familiar quarters. After only a moment's hesitation, he pressed the door chime. The door slid open and Mace stepped inside to find himself in the now expectedly dimly lit and disheveled living space. Data pads and books lay on every surface interspersed among sheets of flimsi and stellar maps. Used plates and cups dotted the tabletops in unwieldy stacks, but most prevalent about the small space were the empty bottles. And they were numerous. From high-end, exotic liquors to cheap ales that could likely strip an engine, bottles of every kind, brand, vintage, and flavor lay strewn about the room, resting where ever they had been carelessly discarded once their contents had been consumed.
Mace then eyed the single resident of the quarters. The Jedi Master sat in his large armchair, his hair a tangled mess on his head, his uniform crumpled and stained, his eyes red and bleary. In his hand sat another large bottle, this one of Corellian whiskey; its contents half gone.
Mace pulled his cloak in close to his body as he sat charily on the clutter-covered couch. Still no word of greeting had been offered him, only a tacit acceptance of his presence.
"Qui-Gon?" Mace finally ventured when several minutes went by without a word from the other master. Qui-Gon brought his slightly lazy focus to bear.
"Hello, Mace," he greeted with a slight nod of his head followed by a swift chug from the tightly held bottle. Mace frowned.
"You're drunk."
"Hardly," Qui-Gon snorted. "But… all things will come in time," he finished with a smile. He lifted the bottle and held it out to the Councilor in invitation. Mace made to decline then paused a moment before reaching out and taking the offered alcohol, but instead of drinking it he placed it by his side and out of the other man's immediate reach. Qui-Gon's gaze narrowed.
"That is very rude."
"But necessary," Mace answered. "Qui-Gon we need to talk."
"No, Mace. You need to talk. I need my bottle back."
"What you are looking for won't be found at the bottom of that bottle."
"What I'm looking for? What I'm looking for cannot be found, doesn't want to be found, at least not by me."
"So this is your solution?" Mace replied as he gestured to the chaos littered around them. "Sitting here in your quarters slowly killing yourself?"
"Would you prefer a more expedient approach?"
"What I would prefer is for you to let me help you."
"I don't need any help. I am perfectly fine."
"Fine?" Mace asked incredulously. "You haven't been on a mission in weeks, Qui-Gon."
"And whose fault is that? I was not the one who decided to place me on inactive status. That was the Council's decision," Qui-Gon responded with a noticeable heat in his tone.
"The Council had no choice given your performance on your previous missions," Mace intoned. Qui-Gon waved the comment off.
"I completed the missions."
"Barely," Mace retorted. "And sometimes only by luck or the gracious attitudes of your hosts. Twice you nearly caused a diplomatic incident and once your were detained for assaulting a civilian."
"That was… a misunderstanding," Qui-Gon mumbled.
"You thought you saw Obi-Wan," Mace declared, his sympathy plainly obvious in his rich baritone.
"I see him everywhere…" Qui-Gon spoke softly, his gaze drifting off to some far away point. "There was a time I thought… I thought I saw him in a crowd. I was sure of it, but when I looked again… he was gone…"
"Qui-Gon…" Mace began with a sigh. "You can't carry on this way. It's too much."
Qui-Gon shook his head and, for the first time since he came in, he looked directly into Mace's eyes.
"You're wrong. It's not enough. Not nearly enough."
"Qui-Gon," Mace said as he moved to the edge of his seat. "Obi-Wan made his decision, his choice. You can't keep blaming yourself for this. He,"
"Left because of me! Because of me, Mace!" Qui-Gon yelled, his large eyes and tangled hair giving him the appearance of a wild man. "I am to blame! Me! I failed him…"
"Qui…"
"You didn't see him, Mace," Qui-Gon continued, his voice becoming soft and his gaze dropping to the floor. "In his mind… I saw… such despair, such longing… All he ever wanted was to be a knight, to serve the Light, and… to make me proud. And what did I do," he said with more than a hint of self-deprecation. "I doused that light. I took away that dream all because I was too blind, too ignorant to see how much he was hurting. Hurt that I caused."
Qui-Gon drew in a shaky breath as he choked back tears. He looked at the Jedi before him.
"I know exactly how he felt, what he felt when he thought of me and my teaching… I saw it… right there in his mind and I am ashamed," he paused shaking his head and once again lowering his gaze. "I should be punished for what I've done, but nothing I do will ever be enough."
Mace sat quietly for several minutes before speaking and when he did, his voice was soft and calm despite the turmoil of the past few moments.
"Qui-Gon, you mourn the loss of the Jedi Obi-Wan could have been, but what of the Jedi we had? What about you? The Order needs you. Your friends need you. Please, let us help you," he implored. Mace waited for a response. At first, Qui-Gon said nothing then the longhaired master raised his arm, reaching out. For a moment, Mace thought he was reaching out to him, finally accepting the offer of help, but before Mace could respond the bottle of whiskey he had confiscated flew into the master's hand. He watched as Qui-Gon leaned back in his seat and took a long, deep draught from his reacquired bottle.
Mace shook his head in disbelief.
"That's your answer? Just keep drinking?"
"It beats the alternative," Qui-Gon answered with a shrug.
"Which is?"
"Not drinking," he replied, punctuating the reply with another gulp of whiskey. Mace sighed disgustedly and rose to his feet.
"I have no intention of staying here and watching you self destruct."
"Then leave," Qui-Gon answered with a gesture to the door. Mace opened his mouth to say something more, but then he shut it. With a sigh and one last shake of his head, he left the dim quarters. Qui-Gon only absently considered his friend's departure as he continued to drink the potent beverage in his hand. Within a few minutes he realized with dismay he had finished the bottle. He cast his gaze about the room in search of another, but all he saw was the empty collection of his past endeavors towards blind inebriation. He was fairly certain there was a new cask of Fintermillian wine in the cooler, but he lacked the motivation to rise and get it. Instead the master sank deeper into his seat, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He waited for the blessed numbness that drunkeness was supposed to bring, but the numbness never came. The pain inside him remained and he knew it would never leave.
Some timeless time later, Qui-Gon awoke on the floor of his quarters. His mouth tasted like fetid paste and his limbs felt heavy and sluggish. With great effort the master pushed himself off the floor and rose unsteadily to his feet. A glance out of his balcony doors told him that several hours had passed and night had fallen over Coruscant, though the city-planet never truly went dark. With a wipe to his bleary eyes, Qui-Gon stumbled forwards and opened his balcony doors. He took in the scene around him. Almost impossibly tall buildings dominated the landscape, each a microcosm world, their lit windows like starlight while thousands of beings traversed the skyways, the endless flow of traffic leaving bright swathes of color in its wake. At another time, to another person, the scene might have been beautiful, but for Qui-Gon there was nothing before him except the painful realization that life continued on around him despite his own personal despair.
Somewhere out there was Obi-Wan. Not here. Not on Coruscant, but somewhere in the greater galaxy.
Lost to him.
Lost because of him.
Qui-Gon shook his head and grasped the simple railing that separated the balcony from the infinite space beyond. He closed his eyes and leaned forward slightly, his hair catching in the wind. The air was cold against his skin, the chilling touch playing complement to the icy pangs in his chest.
Without conscious thought he climbed over the rail. His robes caught in the wind now, whipping and snapping about his frame. His fingers wrapped lightly around the balustrade, his booted heels planted on the ledge. Qui-Gon straightened his arms and leaned forward. He once again closed his eyes as he let his other senses take precedence for the moment. He could feel the vastness below him, knowing that only his steady grip prevented him from being enveloped by that vastness.
It would be so easy.
All he had to do was let go. Let go of the pain, let go of the guilt, the despair, the longing… the rail. Qui-Gon's grip loosened and his body leaned slightly further out as gravity pulled him towards the open air. For a moment he let himself feel. He granted himself permission to examine the wreckage that had been his life. The master looked deep within himself, searching out that place that for over a year he had been trying to mask with missions and spirits.
He was not surprised by what he found.
There was a hole inside him, one that was as expansive and as deep as the vastness before him. It was a wound that he had inflicted upon himself. A wound that worsened each day, festering, weeping, and oozing with the darkness that was the blight on his soul. Qui-Gon knew he was tainted, but now the stain was present for all to see. And the wound ached. Oh, how it ached! It ached and poisoned him with every beat of his heart, every breath of his lungs. The stench of it was etched in his very skin. The darkness ate away at all he was like a virus. No, it was not a virus for he was not the victim here. If anything, he was the virus. He was the one infecting those he had once held closest to him. He was the cancerous rot of the Order and he had already cost the Jedi three lives.
Tahl.
Xanatos.
Obi-Wan.
Qui-Gon eyes clenched tighter at the admission, at the memory of each loss, each casualty that he had caused. His gripped loosened a bit more. As much as the thousand regrets he held over Tahl and Xanatos tore at him, it was the guilt over his failure with Obi-Wan that pained him the most. He had failed him, his padawan, so grievously...
His fingers loosened their hold a bit more.
Gods... Gods, what had he done! Obi-Wan was given to him to train, to raise in the Light, to bring into being the Knight of the Order he was meant to be, but what had he done? He had extinguished that light with more efficiency than any of the dark force users in stories still told in the crèche and researched in the archives. Though Obi-Wan's body still lived, he had surely killed the Jedi that was housed within. Crude matter. That's what had survived his tutelage; the crude matter lived, but the luminous being was gone. Where there should have been confidence, he had instilled insecurities. Where there should have been faith, he had instilled despair. Where there should have been trust, he had instilled doubt. Where there should have been light, he had instilled darkness.
This was the truth, his truth. He was a master of nothing except misery and devastation. He was not a servant of the Light, he was a harbinger of the Dark and Jedi philosophy was all too clear on what should be done with such miserable and tainted beings.
Qui-Gon flexed his fingers, preparing to let go one last time. Just one last twitch of muscle and his suffering would be over…
Qui-Gon opened his eyes.
It would be over.
No. No, that could not be. He could not accept such an easy escape from his penance. He deserved to suffer. He deserved pain, not freedom. The wrong he inflicted on Obi-Wan demanded it. His continued torment at living was right.
It was justice.
With a sigh, Qui-Gon opened his eyes and climbed back over the railing stumbling forwards in a large, graceless mass. He absently passed through the open double doors of the balcony not bothering to close them as he ambled onwards to the one room in his quarters that had remained sealed for the better part of a year. After only a brief hesitation he palmed the door open and stepped into the darkness.
It was just as he had remembered it, completely unchanged except for its emptiness. The small cell was meticulously neat from the made sleep couch to the overly organized shelves. Only a thin layer of dust betrayed its true nature. One the couch lay the datapad Obi-Wan had been reading in preparation for their departure to Naboo. Beside it lay his traveling cloak, left behind just like his life here all because he believed himself unworthy of the privilege. Qui-Gon moved deeper into the room his hand unthinkingly reaching for the heavy, brown cloak. He took it and raised it to his face, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of its owner. It was all that was left of his padawan. The only thing that he had not destroyed. The void in his mind and heart suddenly surged outwards threatening to swallow the master whole. Qui-Gon did not stop it. He allowed the hollow to take hold of him, the very weight of his grief pushing down upon him forcing him to fall on the small couch. He curled into a tight ball, the borrowed cloak clasped tightly to his chest. A deep and mournful wail fought its way out from deep within his body, a haunting presage to the wracking sobs that followed.
The master had never cried, not really, not since he was a very small initiate still heartsick from leaving his family. Certainly he had mourned before, grieved and been soul sick, but never had those hurts passed his lips or their tears reached his eyes. Not like they did now and Qui-Gon was powerless to stop them. He was a man caught in a tempest. His soul tossed about inside a maelstrom with no hope of safe harbor. He let the storm have him for he was an insubstantial man. There was nothing strong enough to ground him. Not anymore.
No Jedi would behave this way. No Jedi would leave themselves to the mercy of their own corybantic emotions. In between his sick and slobbering sobs the master quailed at that realization. He was not acting like a Jedi because he wasn't a Jedi and that he hadn't been for some time.
In truth, there was only thing left for the master to do, only one option left him.
With a silent shudder he gave up the last of himself. He surrendered that last little piece of the person he once thought he was and offered it up to the emptiness of his existence. He lay there helpless as he felt that bit carried away on the wind leaving him alone in the void.
It was late in the morning when Qui-Gon finally awoke. He was still in his clothes, still holding tightly to Obi-Wan's cloak, but he was clearer now. Clearer and a bit lighter for the release that came before his slumber. The master sat up slowly reluctantly parting with the heavy brown drape in his grip. He slid off the sleep couch and headed to his own bedroom shedding his soiled clothing along the way. Qui-Gon stepped into the fresher opting for water over sonics. He stood under the steaming spray and allowed the more than a day's accumulation of dirt and filth to be washed away. If only all stains could be removed so easily, he mused glumly before resuming his ablutions. Once he was finished in the shower, Qui-Gon stepped out and reached blindly for a towel only to find empty air.
"I don't think you own a clean one at this point."
The presence of another startled Qui-Gon, but he relaxed just as quickly as his mind registered who the uninvited guest was. He moved the wet hair out of his face and opened his eyes to find his friend and Councilor leaning in the doorframe.
"A mildly soiled one will be sufficient if it's dry," he replied wryly. Mace took a moment to study the floor around him before choosing a towel that seemed to match the given requirements. He handed it to Qui-Gon who took and began to quickly dry himself off. Mace moved outside of the fresher and back into the common room to wait for him. Qui-Gon, now dry, took a deep breath then stepped in front of the mirror.
It was worse than he had expected.
He knew he had let himself go the past few days...? Had it really only been days? The dark circles under his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks, and the scraggily length of his beard all confirmed that his inattention had been the stuff of weeks not days. Force, he looked like a wildman or an indigent from Coruscant's lower levels. In his mirrored self Qui-Gon saw nothing of the Jedi that had reflected in that same glass for decades. With an audible sigh, but a firm hold on his resolve, Qui-Gon stared down his doppelgänger.
"You do not belong here," he intoned and then he reached for his clippers. Stroke by stroke he culled the unruly scruff, each pass revealing something more like the self everyone knew. It was several minutes' work before his task was done and his beard once again was styled into his usual custom. He set himself next to the task of detangling his long hair, hair grown longer from neglect. It was painstaking and painful work, but in the end the now slightly damp locks lay smooth and shiny, though not with as brilliant a luster as it once had. Qui-Gon also noted, as he put his brush down, that there were quite a few more streaks of silver running through his chestnut locks or at least more than he remembered having.
Now groomed, the master turned himself to finding clean clothes, not the easiest of tasks given the current state of his bedroom. In the end, he had to settle for some thoroughly rumpled trousers and tunics and a robe with a small splotch of something near the hem. Thankfully, his obi covered the worst of the stain and in mere moments he was fully dressed though admittedly very wrinkled. Qui-Gon moved out of his bedroom and into the common room to find Mace patiently waiting for him on his couch. With a nod to the other master, Qui-Gon headed into the kitchen in search of teacups. After a few minutes searching he found two that did not show signs of use.
"Tea, Mace?"
"Please," the Councilor answered from the other room. Qui-Gon set about his work noting absently at the near normalcy of it all, before that thought was pushed to the back of his mind. There would be time to dwell on that later, if he so chose. Now was the time to move forward, lest he lose his nerve by over thinking. He reentered the small common space carrying two steaming cups. He handed one to Mace as he held his own and sat down in his armchair.
"You look...better," Mace ventured as he glanced at Qui-Gon over the rim of his cup.
"Last night proved very...illuminating," Qui-Gon temporized as he took a sip from his own mug then he looked directly at Mace. "After your exit last night, I didn't expect to see you again."
"I admit when I left I was rather... unsettled," Mace began as he sat his cup down on the low table between them. "However, Master Yoda felt something last night that disturbed him. It disturbed me as well."
Responding to Mace's serious tone and body language, Qui-Gon sat down his cup as well. He leaned back in his seat and interlaced his fingers over his stomach.
"You have something you want to ask me," he intoned. Mace leaned forward.
"Must I ask it?"
"Yes."
"Did you plan to kill yourself last night?"
"To say it was planned, I think, would overstate the matter, but to the point of question, the answer is yes," he replied simply. Mace's mouth hung open in an uncharacteristic display of genuine shock. The Councilor stared for several seconds before shaking his head and turning his gaze to the floor. When he finally looked up again the shock was gone and there was an unmistakable question in his eyes.
"Why?"
"Why what? Why did I almost throw myself off my balcony? Or why didn't I?"
"Both, I suppose."
Qui-Gon closed his eyes as he tried to marshal his conflicting thoughts and emotions into some kind of answer that his friend could understand.
"I just wanted it to end," he finally spoke.
"What to end?"
"Everything. All of it," Qui-Gon replied through still closed lids. "I was just so tired..."
Mace was silent for several moments before speaking again.
"And now?"
"Now," Qui-Gon answered as he opened his eyes and looked at the Jedi seated across from him. "Now I realize that I must go on; that it is not up to me when things shall end. That I am beholden to a greater purpose, one I must see through no matter what."
With what Qui-Gon could only describe as a relieved expression, Mace nodded and relaxed his posture on the couch.
"That... is very good to hear," he finally spoke. Qui-Gon just nodded his head.
"I can assure you that there will not be a repeat of last night," he answered honestly.
"Good," Mace responded as he picked up his now cool tea and took another sip before replacing it on the table. "What can I do?"
"Do?"
"To help you. You've had a breakthrough moment, Qui-Gon, and I don't want to see you backslide. Tell me what I can do, what we can do to help you?" Mace asked earnestly. Qui-Gon leaned forward and stared his friend in the eye.
"Well, there is one thing..."
"Name it."
"You could help me...clean up," Qui-Gon finished with a raised eyebrow. Mace's face broke out into a rarely seen grin.
"Happily, my friend."