Obi-Wan stood at the sink staring at a kettle of steaming water. He'd measured the leaves and put them in the pot, and then waited for the water to boil. It had. And it had stopped. But still he stood, waiting as though some signal would propel him into the next step.
Sometimes it took hours.
Or minutes.
He'd wake as though from a dream and find whatever task he'd set himself to unfinished. Then have to gather some focus and effort to start again. Or give up. He opted for that one a lot, it seemed.
It wasn't so much lost in thought as lost in being.
The door chimed, and the sound sliced straight to his nerves. His eyes fell shut, one twitching with irritation. For days now, the door chimed. We're dispatching someone to Fedor. We've gotten a preliminary story from Tir-Zen. The body's been burned. You're all over the newsvids. The Senators were most impressed with Anakin's performance.
Do you need breakfast, Master.
Do you want lunch, Master.
Grand Master Yoda had appeared at his door and spent too long staring intently at him before ordering him to follow. Up to a meditation room, where the old master recited the Code and led him to silence. There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is peace.
And the weakness in him clung to the familiar phrases and familiar chimes and familiar sound of Master Yoda breathing. And wasn't this the way of the Jedi after all? The proper way.
He couldn't tell anymore.
Wasn't sure if it mattered.
He lifted the kettle carefully and concentrated on pouring. Every move slow and measured. Grief grew vines around his ribs. It closed a hot palm across his throat. His chest was full of broken glass, and any movement too quick or careless would slice open a new wound. He breathed, but only barely, and told himself there is no emotion, only peace.
If asked to imagine what a severed bond would feel like, he would have imagined wrong.
The Force itself felt bruised. Using it ached like a cramped muscle on the leading edge of another spasm. And the worst . . .
The worst was turning his inner sense in search of that comforting connection and finding nothing. And then, fresh with realization and sorrow turning again, out of instinct. Because he could not remember. And he could not forget.
A cycle played on repeat until he cried just to break it.
He set the kettle unsteadily down, and the door chimed again.
"Yes, yes," he breathed, turning delicately.
He combed at his hair a little, in case it was a Council member, and tugged ineffectually at his tunic. As he faced the door, he gave himself a moment and a slow breath before touching the panel.
It was not a Council member.
Tir-Zen slowly lifted his gaze and met Obi-Wan's eyes. One of his cheeks was discolored, and some swelling spoke to the encounter on Fedor. His bloodshot eyes spoke volumes more. How long had he been back? A day or two? He should've found out. Should've gone to see—
"Tir-Zen," Obi-Wan said, his voice a tatter. "I'm so sorry."
Tee's eyes glazed with tears, but he fought them back.
Obi-Wan put a hand on the young man's shoulder, and then cupped the side of his neck, avoiding the bruise and not quite pulling him in for a hug. Tee swallowed and hung his head, and Obi-Wan released him.
"I tried," Tir-Zen rasped and swallowed hard. "There were too many."
"It's not your fault."
Tee looked up. "Everyone keeps telling me that. I pissed off Mizzul. He was after me." His voice shook.
Obi-Wan was in no condition to comfort anyone. And yet . . . he knew this guilt intimately well. "He was a hired gun. And he was doing a job. You didn't make anything worse."
Tir-Zen's expression twisted into a scowl, and he didn't answer.
"I promise you . . ." Obi-Wan moved until he caught Tee's gaze. "It's not your fault."
A bit of the fight went out of the young man's shoulders. "I could've stayed and fought. I could've—" He cut himself off, shaking his head, then shrugged.
The report Master Windu had delivered was scant on the details of just how Tir-Zen had survived an encounter with a Sith. Not that anyone wanted to use that word. But the Force powers. The lightsabers he'd seen through Aylee's eyes. And with Darth Maul dead . . . surely there would be another.
"What happened?" Obi-Wan asked. It was a cruel thing.
Tee's eyes closed.
"They ambushed us after we found the gem. That . . . woman. And the mercs. I— There were too many blasters. We were fighting. I-I don't remember. And then screaming. I tried not to look back. But I—" His face crumpled and words came out thick. "She threw her lightsaber. Cut his arm off. And then she crushed them. In their armor like cans. Shoved me across the bridge toward the way out."
Something sank in Obi-Wan's stomach and found a new home. The power she'd drained from him. That was the moment.
"She wanted me to run," Tee whispered, shame closing off his expression.
"She wanted you to live," he said, and put his hand back on Tee's shoulder. "More than anything. Always."
Tir-Zen nodded vaguely, without looking at him.
"And you did."
Another nod, and Tee swallowed hard. He shifted a satchel on his hip and reached inside. Obi-Wan let him go and backed up a step as Tir-Zen lifted an offering toward him balanced on both hands. It took a second to realize what he was seeing.
"Oh, Tee, no . . ."
Tir-Zen gazed at him, nodding, and held it out.
Aylee's lightsaber.
"Tir-Zen, I can't—"
"It hit the wall next to me when she shoved me out. She . . . would want you to have it. "
And there, another fresh wound. Because the boy was right.
He sucked in a shallow breath and carefully took the blade. The metal felt cool. He turned it over gently and examined the wear in the finish from her hands.
His throat closed. And his eyes stung.
A Jedi's most precious possession.
He glanced up to find Tee nodding and backing away. A strained wheeze escaped the young man before he turned on his heel and started away down the hall.
Obi-Wan stared after him, shocked. Then lunged for the doorway.
"Tir-Zen!"
He stopped.
"I will stand for you before the Council," Obi-Wan said.
Tee looked back over his shoulder, his face furrowed with confusion.
Obi-Wan swallowed and felt like he was floating. "If you wish to take the Trial," he said. "I will stand for you in her stead."
Tir-Zen's eyes widened as he took in the gravity of that offer. He nodded a few times and seemed to search for something to say before turning away. He left without another word, and Obi-Wan retreated back into his apartment, a little stunned himself. The words had formed themselves, and he'd spoken them without thinking.
And yet, without regret.
The door shucked closed behind him, and his attention fell to the lightsaber in his hands. The unfamiliar smoothness of it. The unaccustomed weight. He imagined the golden blade and felt a surge of . . . something at the memory of it piercing the darkness and cold—so unexpected and so sorely needed.
His offer might have been rash, but . . . he meant it.
Briefly, Obi-Wan held the lightsaber in one hand as though he might turn it on, his hand obscuring the wear marks. But he shied away from the idea and went back to studying the shape. Wandering feet brought him to his bedside, and he eyed the night stand. For a moment he thought, Put it away? But it was all he had left of her. All any of them had. And he couldn't bear the thought of relegating it to a drawer. Hidden. Discarded. Forgotten in dust.
Obi-Wan placed Aylee's lightsaber on the night stand, where it would be within easy reach. He straightened, contemplated it, and then nudged it into alignment with the edge. The feeling started as curl in the pit of his stomach. A quiver of fear and loneliness that took out his knees dropped him onto the bed. He folded under the weight of it. And as hot tears spilled over, reached out to lay his fingers along the cool metal.
The nightmares changed.
Images of the Naboo generator complex came less often than they once did. But in their place, something arguably worse.
The arena and the battle droid, spewing hails of blaster fire.
A bald woman, chalk-white and snarling.
The droid trying to cut him in half with a red saber.
Terror. The sure knowledge that Tir-Zen was nearby and dying.
The sound of more blaster fire and the searing pain of being hit in the leg. Panic and the sense of being trapped. Running from the Sith woman into darkness. Into the stacks of the Library.
"Jedi . . ." He heard her voice and knew it. Knew that he knew it, though it had no name.
He ran and turned a corner.
Collided with two—
Obi-Wan jolted awake, panting and chilled with sweat. Always the same. It always ended the same—a lightsaber to the chest and gut. The burn of impact hurtling him out of sleep. His gaze darted around the silver-dark room, and he felt the impression of something cold cutting into his left palm, as though gripped too hard. He sat up and held his palm under a shaft of light, angling it to shift the shadows. Nothing. He touched it, tracing the shape of the phantom pain, and frowned at finding no source.
The cobweb terror of dreams still clung, and he lowered his face to his hands, controlling his breathing.
Steady in . . .
Hold.
Steady out . . .
Warmth touched his shoulders, and he lowered his hands, frozen with alarm. The sensation moved, hot and tingling down his arms, and he jerked forward to throw it off. But it moved slowly over his elbows, down his wrists. He stared as his own skin.
It wasn't—
It felt like—
But that was impossible.
A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed hard as the touch slid between splayed fingers.
Was this madness? Was he going mad?
A patch of heat blossomed on the nape of his neck.
Obi-Wan ducked from it and shuddered out a confused cry of distress. Because it felt like—it felt like . . .
He let his eyes fall shut. Stopped staring at his own bare arms and instead let himself pretend. That Aylee's fingers laced with his. That the prickling heat against his neck was her lips. It was so easy to pretend. To see her in his mind's eye.
If he just forgot for a little while . . . maybe that would be all right.
And then the warm sensation slowly washed away.
The fear and uncanny dream dust faded.
And he felt a presence heavy in the Force. Like cool water. Like a running river and a sigh of relaxation.
Obi-Wan kept his eyes closed lest he break the spell and settled back into his pillow, letting himself dissolve into it—a drowsy, drunk relief. His breathing grew even and slow. His body weightless.
But just before he drifted off again, across the room, something beeped.
Obi-Wan frowned, the spell shattered, and pushed up onto his elbows, both annoyed and curious. He saw the blinking light on the table in front of the couch, and a second later the game board glowed to life, set with Chal'tek. Obi-Wan's heart thumped hard, and his mouth went dry. He stared at the holographic pieces feeling his pulse in his fingertips. His gaze flicked around the room and chest tightened, barely breathing.
Madness, after all?
His brow furrowed.
"Aylee?" he said, voice so small and thin.
Gooseflesh rushed down his arms and legs as a piece on the game board slid into its opening gambit. Obi-Wan drew a deeper, unsteady breath and sat up. He closed his eyes and carefully focused on his sense of the Force, a still raw ache like an exposed nerve making him tentative. A pressure touched his breastbone. That sensation, Living Force brushing together. Her, unmistakable and impossible.
He swallowed and fought back any emotion. In case he was wrong. In case he was a fool.
He didn't dare move in case he wasn't.
But how—
If he wasn't suffering a grief-stricken delusion, then—
They'd been after The Endless Gem.
"A resurrection stone," he muttered to the empty room.
That was the story anyway. A magic item crafted to resurrect a long-dead Sith Lord. But the recovery team had burned her body. There was nothing to resurrect.
The pressure against his breastbone throbbed through the Force. And he tried to think like she would have. Stories. Everything they thought they knew about the gem came from stories. Told. Written. Rewritten through languages and time.
What if . . .
"A mistranslation," he said, not knowing where the idea came from but the spot on his chest fluttered with cool pins. "A misunderstanding . . ." He frowned thinking through the legend and reconfiguring the points into a new shape.
"Not resurrection," he said, snapping his gaze to the game board. "Eternal life." A quest he'd watched Qui-Gon chase and study for years. It all fell into a perfect, terrible shape. He wanted to laugh. Cry. Sputter at the absurdity that she stumbled into his master's quest. "That's what it does, isn't it. The gem isn't for the long dead, it's for the newly deceased. An eternal life in the Living Force and you were—" He cut himself off, throat aching as he stared at the moved game piece. Heat gathered at his eyes. "You were holding it, when—" he said, voice thick as he flexed the hand where he'd felt the cut of sharp edges.
The last image he'd seen of her flashed through his mind. In the dreamspace across the bond, his gaze had kept sliding over a darkness, a vortex he could feel but couldn't make out. It harried him through nightmares, that sucking emptiness. And now it made a kind of sense. A vortex drawing in Living Force, transmuting it somehow.
The image of a chamber assaulted his vision and made him flinch. A cave. An altar. Overgrown plants and empty pottery.
Obi-Wan squeezed at his temples, breathing hard. But he understood it to be the place the Ho'Din had kept the gem. And more, where they brought their dying. The gem would absorb their Living Force as it left them. And then . . . what? Preserve it?
"I don't understand," he said quietly, and glanced at the game board.
Endless seconds stretched, and the pressure against his chest faded. Obi-Wan pressed his hand over it as panic gripped his lungs.
"No. Aylee, please! I'm sorry, I'll try!" His voice grew loud enough to wake Anakin if he wasn't lucky. And his gaze flicked around the room for any signs of movement or change.
She couldn't—she wouldn't.
He gasped as another vision flooded into his mind's eye. This time his own memory. Sitting on the grass in the park beneath a tree. Feeling the tiny flow of Force coming from the life around him. And that moment when he felt the tree like a gentle geyser.
Obi-Wan opened his eyes slowly and frowned in thought. The plants of the park. The plants in the chamber.
"They were trying to . . . make themselves live on in the trees," he said haltingly.
The spot beneath his palm warmed with pleasant friction, and the binding tension around his lungs eased.
"But not you," he said, tears gathering at his eyes again. Because what or where was she?
It struck him suddenly that he should tell Tir-Zen. But tell him what? That Aylee was a ghost? Not quite dead but not really here, either?
But if he didn't tell him . . . how could he live with such a secret?
Sensation pulsed against him, brushing his face. Bittersweet tears disappeared into the scruff of his beard. He should be happy. But . . . what if it was terrible? An undeath of agony?
And a feeling like hands touching his face, smoothing away the worry. He got an image of laying, entwined with . . . himself . . . on the ship. Naked. Contentment.
He blinked at the disorientation of a memory from both sides but understood. Rest. Contentment.
He relaxed. And then across the room Chal'tek board beeped impatiently.
Obi-Wan stared at it, blinking his vision clear, and then smiled a small tentative smile.
"Not tonight," he said, voice a hush and heart heavy. He settled himself back under the covers as though his bones had turned brittle. "Come to bed. We can play Chal'tek in the morning."