Happily
I have but one companion in this place, only the one, and he is trying my patience with his lack of appropriate shielding.
My hand finds his shoulder despite the dimness.
"Quiet down, Anakin."
The twittering in the back of my mind lessens as, for perhaps the tenth time, my apprentice attempts to reestablish his control over his thoughts. I cannot fault him for forgetting from time to time: the boy is young, and he is exhausted.
"Master…"
He is speaking to me. That word seems odd when he speaks it—I want to correct him. No, no, little one. You must be mistaken. I could not possibly be your master. I still have a master. His name is Qui-Gon Jinn. Perhaps you've heard of him—
But the words never seem capable of leaving my lips, because halfway through I always remember the truth.
I don't have a master anymore.
He's dead.
And even if he wasn't dead, I still wouldn't have him.
Qui-Gon had already left me long before the Sith—Maul, they called him—killed him. From the moment he freed this child—the one that now follows me—he signed the doctrine that determined my future. Without thought, without remorse, without explanation.
From that moment, I was his student no longer.
"Master?"
Master! Oh, don't call me that.
"Yes, Anakin?"
He fiddles with grimy fingers for two or three eternities. I close my eyes and attempt to coax sleep close. My energy and my patience have run out; if he wants to say something, he will wake me.
All too soon, the small hands tug my sleeve again.
"Yes, Anakin."
"Master,"—I wince—"is something wrong?"
"Wrong," I repeat. The question amuses me, for whatever reason. I open my eyes again. "What do you think is 'wrong', Anakin?"
His eyelashes flutter. A thoughtful crease takes possession of the space between his brows. "I'm not sure, sir."
Truthfully, Anakin, that doesn't surprise me.
My eyes wander along our prison, tracing the walls and the floors and our fellow captives. In the corner, there is a mother, holding close her shivering, terrified child. I see her smooth the bangs from his face over and over, whispering words of comfort into his small ears.
Comfort. What a foreign concept. I knew it once—I remember knowing it—but now it seems strange.
I continue to watch, curious. But nothing changes, and nothing drastic happens.
My attention returns to Anakin, as is inevitable.
"Anakin," I say musingly, "are you cold?"
"Kind of," he says. I nod, unsurprised, and proceed to remove my outer cloak for him.
"No, Master," he says, eyes wide. "Keep that. You need it."
"So do you," I say, tucking it about his small shoulders. He is so thin. Much too thin for a ten-year-old. My master would not have approved.
Anakin looks ready to protest again, but I silence him with a look—the sort masters are famous for. I learned it from the best. "Everything will be all right, Ani," I tell him soothingly, thinking perhaps that the nickname will help.
It works—he relaxes, pulling the too-large sleeves about himself uncertainly.
"You must be cold, too," he says.
"Actually, it's rather warm in here." My lips twitch, and after a moment, his do as well. I consider this a victory. He doesn't smile much, my—the boy that Qui-Gon rescued. Not since my old master's death, anyway. Before that, he was all smiles, a little ball of energy and enthusiasm. A small dose of death is more than enough, it seems, to transform a small child into an old man…and a padawan into a master.
It feels so odd not to have a braid to twirl between my fingers. I guess it's easy to take something like a padawan braid for granted—it's always behind you. You hardly see the thing at all until it is cut away and thrust before your eyes in someone else's hand.
I miss my braid. But more than that, I miss the person that first twisted it into existence. I miss having a large, stable shoulder to lean against.
My role in things has changed: I am to be someone else's stable shoulder.
And Anakin looks to be sleeping.
At any rate, he's still. That's enough for me.
Always on the move, that one. Back at home—at the Temple—he's even restless in his sleep. Thrashes and twists himself all in the covers. It's a wonder that he hasn't strangled himself yet.
The current situation must be taking a toll on him. He's still.
Our training bond is still in its infancy. It feels inadequate when I remember the other bond, but that is hardly a fair comparison. I touch on the link that this boy and I share, and I feel…I feel silence. That sounds odd, but there is no better way to describe it. Silence.
This silence isn't menacing or manipulative or anxious. No. I explore it with metaphorical palms. It is…tremulous and dark. Deep, like the nighttime sky over a troubled world.
After only a few weeks with Anakin Skywalker, I have grown to value silence in any and every form. It surrounds me, folds around me, like a much-loved coverlet, like warmth, like friendly blinking stars in an unfamiliar place…
Like…
What?
Like Qui-Gon, I want to think. Like his wry smile, his presence, his knowledge and experience…
No.
Perhaps it was like that in the earlier days, when I was young and naïve still. But not later on, and certainly not now. I can remember him with fondness and admiration, yes—he was a good teacher—but I cannot bring myself to venerate him.
My Master was not a god; he was a man. A respectable one, a kind one, but a man nonetheless.
And he made mistakes.
This realization, for whatever reason, hits me harder than the others.
Qui-Gon was not perfect.
It should not surprise me. In a way, it doesn't. I knew from the beginning that my master was human. Markedly so, at times. So, why, then, this horror at myself?
I am not disparaging him, for Force's sake. I cannot insult his memory by admitting his humanity. There is nothing disrespectful about my thoughts. They are thoughts, private musings, nothing more—I loved Qui-Gon. For all his faults and mine, I loved him.
Nothing, not even time, not even Anakin, can change that.
Anakin. Oh, at times I am not sure what to make of him. Unquestionably he has defined the rest of my life; he has given me a purpose. Yet what has he taken away in exchange?
Not my master. Maul is—I am responsible for that.
Not my childhood. That was gone long before we first exchanged hellos.
What has he taken, then? My braid? That's ridiculous.
//…Master?//
I fairly jump out of my skin. The voice is soft, but as clear as if it was spoken aloud.
Perhaps the bond is more developed than I suspected.
//Anakin?//
//Master.//
//Did you hear all of that?//
//…Mm…// His reply is distinctly sleepy. His head shifts against my shoulder; he sighs. //Wasn't listening. Sorry.//
//That's probably for the best. Sleep now.//
//Mm-hmm.//
And, just like that, the conversation is over. I feel the boy's drowsy mind meander off into the murky depths of his dream. Yet the bond remains open.
I am much happier about that than I have any right to be.
Progress—we've made progress. Master Yoda would be thrilled if he knew.
Time it will take, Obi-Wan. Patience you must have.
Patience, he said. If nothing else, I have had patience for Anakin from the beginning. No one can say that I have been intolerant. No one can say—
Wait. Hold on.
The door is opening.
It is a heavy door, an old one, and it protests noisily when it moves. I spare Anakin a glance, praying that it will not wake him, and shift into a more upright position so as to see over the heads of the assembled crowd.
A single figure walks into the room. She stops in the middle of us, the silent sea of her captives, and gazes at us without speech. There isn't a sound in the holding cell. No motion. Fear hangs in the air, almost tangible. We are waiting for something to happen.
Someone must come with me.
The voice rings in my head like a shout in long-kept silence. It is strong and sleek, authoritative, and emotionless.
Many slouched spines snap straight. They can hear her too, I realize, and the fact surprises me. The other prisoners are not Force-sensitive. I would have noticed if they had been. And yet, our captor seems to speak through the Force…
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps I am reading her presence wrongly.
She repeats herself.
One of you must come with me.
Why? I hear the unspoken question. Doubtless, she must hear it too. Her head tilts a centimeter to the side, but otherwise she makes no notice. Her stance is rigid, yet relaxed.
Someone must come.
Abruptly I understand. My mind forms the words almost before I can consider them. Take me.
Thrice before I have used my life as a bargaining chip. This time, it seems, my offer has been accepted. The warrior-captor tilts her head again, surveying me with pupil-less eyes, willing me forward. She is allowing me the chance to save this roomful of people.
And I will do it—happily, willingly, freely.
If it will save them, I will do whatever she asks. It is a small price to pay.
So you will come?
Her presence shimmers, perhaps in disbelief. It is difficult to say.
Yes, I answer.
She does not ask me if I understand the implication of my agreement. She does not say anything about what my fate will be once I follow her from the room. Her head straightens, and she makes a slow, measured motion with it.
Come, then.
Carefully, as not to jostle and wake Anakin, I free myself and stand. The crowd parts awkwardly for the two of us; I shadow my captor out of the room. She pauses just outside the doorway, and I stop too, a few feet behind, awaiting instruction. Surely she will not do it here, without any tools.
No. The boy, she says.
Again, I understand. And I am grateful to have been reminded.
With a sure, deliberate stroke, I sever the blossoming bond that will never mature.
Behind the closed door, there is a soft cry. My captor walks forward as if she doesn't hear it, and I am obligated to follow without turning back. There isn't a way to say goodbye now—the connection is gone. I feel a twinge of guilt. This will make two Jedi that have glided into and out of Anakin's life without so much as a farewell.
At least this go around he will not feel as much. We hardly know one another; I am not his hero.
I am no Qui-Gon Jinn.