The walk from the Halls of Healing seemed longer than usual and not all because of the patch of pain nestled snuggly between Qui-Gon's shoulder blades. The saber wound on his back was healing well, but the ache remained along with the interminable burning itch that was the mark of integrating synthskin. His padawan's injuries, a badly rolled ankle, had been tended to as well. Yet, the child still favored the foot, though he was trying to disguise it. A thoughtful crease formed on the master's brow. The limp, he suspected, was likely a phantom pain more related to still fresh psychological wounds rather than any strained tendons or ligaments. Those soul wounds, the master knew, would have to be addressed as well and would not heal as easily as an ankle. But the child would heal, Qui-Gon was certain of that, and this time he would oversee the process himself from the beginning and only when he believed outside assistance was required would he allow it.
Qui-Gon took in a deep breath then exhaled and with the exhalation released the negative emotions that had surfaced when he thought of Obi-Wan's first session with a soul healer. That will not happen again, Qui-Gon thought even as he allowed the last of his anger to flow out of him and into the Force.
By the time master and padawan reached their apartment, Qui-Gon was once again anchored within his calm center. He palmed the door open and stepped inside, already looking forward to sitting down with a hot cup of sapir tea in his hands. So anticipated was that moment of relaxation it took him several seconds to realize that he had entered the apartment alone. The master turned to find his apprentice hovering in the doorway.
"Padawan?"
"It almost looks… normal," was the softly spoken and distant reply. Qui-Gon frowned, his lips forming a tight line as he tried to deduce the boy's meaning. He turned his attention to their bond only to find Obi-Wan's mind tightly shielded against him. Another serious concern that had gotten lost amid more pressing problems.
"Normal?" Qui-Gon repeated still unsure of what disturbed his padawan. Obi-Wan had not moved, had not ventured into their shared rooms but instead remained frozen at the threshold. His eyes darted over the space as if he were searching for something. Searching for what though, his master did not know.
"Right… It almost looks right," the boy answered then his eyes settled on the floor. "It's not though…"
Qui-Gon followed his apprentice's gaze to the floor. He saw nothing of note at first, but once he scrutinized the space further he noticed a small patch of carpet that was darker than the rest. The angle was all wrong for any shadow meaning that the spot was likely a stain, buy why would a stain so strongly capture the boy's attention? Even as Qui-Gon finished the thought the realization of what the stain was crashed into his mind with all the nuance of a speeder hitting a duracrete wall.
It was blood.
The stain on the carpet was a blood stain.
Qui-Gon closed his eyes. Mace had spoken to him briefly about Obi-Wan's confrontation with Xanatos's young agent, Adaen. Though Mace had not known the particulars of the event, he had deduced much from the condition of the Jinn/Kenobi common room. Scattered affects and broken furniture told of a heated struggle, but it was Adaen's body, his corpse, that truly told the grisly tale.
The room had been cleaned, of course. The furniture righted or replaced. Small items had been returned to their proper places and the space had been cleansed save for one spot. At that moment, Qui-Gon neither knew nor cared why the spot remained while all other signs of the earlier violence had been erased. All that mattered to stood trembling at his door.
"Padawan," the master called out gently. When he received no response, he moved closer to his shivering apprentice.
/Padawan./ the master repeated, this time across their shared bond. Though Obi-Wan did not draw his gaze from the spot on the carpet, the mental contact elicited the attentive response that the master's vocalization had not.
/Master./
/Padawan, look at me please./
Slowly, almost diffidently, Obi-Wan turned his head, dragging his gaze up to his master's face. The eyes that looked up at Qui-Gon were nearly full gray, a visibly despondent numbness chasing away the blue like rain-laden clouds over a morning sky. The master stifled a deep welling sigh.
"Obi-Wan, remember what we spoke of in the healing ward. You must let your guilt go. As for the rest," he said as he gestured vaguely to the stain and the room at large, "we will adjust and face it together."
"Yes, Master," the boy replied and the master knew it was an automatic response, not so much given in understanding as it was ingrained obedience. Again, the master had to repress a sigh. One day, he thought to himself, can the child just have one day without feeling the weight of the galaxy pressing down upon him? Even to Qui-Gon's mind it felt like a plea to the Force and perhaps it was. He was not one for wishing and yet this wish he hoped would be granted.
"It is late and I think we will both enjoy sleeping in our own beds for a change, hmm?"
"Yes, Master." Another automatic response.
"Rest well, Padawan. We have much to speak of, but it will keep 'til morning," Qui-Gon said as he lay a hand on the boy's slender shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Off to bed with you."
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan replied. The boy then moved towards his room door, but not without a last glance at the indelible stain. At the close of his padawan's door, Qui-Gon allowed his shoulders to slump. The ache across his back pushed forwards for his attention even as a comparable point of pain blossomed at his temples. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he reached again for his calm center. It was several minutes before he achieved success and only then did he open his eyes. He retreated to the small kitchen and set himself to the task of making tea. He allowed his movements to happen automatically, letting the years of muscle memory move through the ritual without the need for conscious thought. He had just poured the steaming hot water into his small tea bowl when the door chime sounded. Qui-Gon left his cup on the counter and went to the door, palming it open to admit his guest.
"I hope I am not disturbing you," Mace greeted once the door slid open. Qui-Gon offered him a rueful smile as he stepped aside to allow the other Jedi entry.
"Not at all. I was just pouring myself some tea. Would you like some?"
"Yes, thank you," Mace replied as he stepped into the familiar quarters of his friend. He took a seat on the couch and waited patiently until Qui-Gon returned from the kitchen with two cups of tea. The long-haired master handed one to his friend then took a seat in his armchair.
"I heard you had been released from the ward. I wanted to see how you were doing," Mace offered before taking a sip from his cup.
"As expected I suppose," Qui-Gon replied. "He found the stain."
Qui-Gon watched as a myriad of emotions flashed across the Korun Councilor's face, all moving so fast he was unable to identify them.
"I've put in with the quartermaster to have the carpet replaced, but it will take time. I apologize."
Qui-Gon dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand.
"The shock of returning to our quarters would have been far worse without your timely intervention. For that alone, you have my thanks," he said. Mace nodded, but didn't speak. Qui-Gon expression became somber as he looked down into the dark waters of his tea cup, fixing his gaze there as he spoke in a quiet voice. "I had not realized until we returned tonight that Obi-Wan is in the midst of his Agondi Mortata."
The hand that held Mace's cup froze midway to his lips. The Councilor turned to Qui-Gon with wide eyes.
"I… I hadn't realized," he finally muttered before his expression return to its more neutral state. "After everything else… What are your plans?"
Qui-Gon let out a soft, self-deprecatory snort, but kept his eyes on the placid surface of his cooling tea.
"Plans? I haven't the slightest idea," he answered. "I'm lost, Mace and I need to find my way because Obi-Wan is depending on me. He needs me to help him through this, but… I can't help thinking that he wouldn't even need help if it weren't for me." Qui-Gon drew his gaze from his cup and looked across at his friend. "I did this to him. How can I trust myself to fix it?"
Mace sat his cup down on the small table between them. He reached out and relieved Qui-Gon of his cup as well. He then looked directly at his friend and when he spoke his voice was calm, firm, and brooking no argument.
"You did not do this to him, Qui-Gon. Xanatos did."
"Yes," Qui-Gon hesitantly agreed. "But he did it to get to me. It was because of me, if not directly then certainly indirectly."
"Bantha shit," Mace replied, his uncharacteristic use of profanity surprising Qui-Gon for a moment and, perhaps, that was just what the other man had intended. "It was Xanatos who chose the Dark. It was Xanatos who tried to kill you all those years ago. It was Xanatos who tried to kill you and Obi-Wan on Bandomeer. It was Xanatos who kidnapped and tortured Obi-Wan. It was Xanatos who raised another boy and turn him into a weapon and it was Xanatos who got that same boy killed. Every step, every action it was Xanatos choosing to inflict suffering on others to fuel his need for revenge. That you were the object of his obsession is irrelevant to the assignation of blame. It is past time you see that man for the monster he IS and not the boy he was once."
Once Mace finished his speech the room fell into a less than companionable silence. Qui-Gon swallowed the knee-jerk retort that had been on his lips and the close of Mace's rebuke and instead chose to consider the other Jedi's words. Yes, it had been Xanatos that instigated and perpetrated the horrific acts of the past year, but something still didn't sit right with dismissing the young man as simply evil incarnate. Evil wasn't bred in the bone; it was learned in the body. Who was to say that it wasn't his own faulty lessons that began Xanatos down this path? When did Xanatos first become this monster? Telos? Bandomeer? Coruscant? Which choices were his own and which were forced upon him?
Qui-Gon shook his head derailing the increasingly convoluted train of thought. It was only a matter of collateral blame to determine the exact moment Xanatos became… whatever he was now. What did matter, and in this Mace would never convince him otherwise, was that he was responsible for putting Obi-Wan in Xanatos's crosshairs. He had known that on Bandomeer, but instead of correcting that or protecting his padawan, he had allowed the child to be taken and abused. How could he call himself a master when he had failed, repeatedly, at upholding his most sacred duty?
"You still don't believe me, do you?" Mace asked when Qui-Gon went several minutes without speaking. Qui-Gon gave him a darting glance and as he looked away the silence seemed to grow heavier than before. Mace ran both hands over his smooth, hairless head and let out a breath. "What about the Agondi Mortata? Will you have him go through the ceremony or handle it privately?"
Not answering immediately, Qui-Gon rose from his seat and walked over to his balcony doors. He stared out into the Coruscanti night and watched the endless weave of light trails left by the ships and speeders of the ever-bustling megalopolis.
The Agondi Mortata was one of the oldest rites of passage within the Jedi Order. Commonly accepted to have originated on Tython, the first home of the Jedi, the Agondi Mortata was known as the Trial of Mortal Sorrow – so named because it marked the first time a Jedi was forced to take the life of another. No Jedi sought to kill, but death, at times, was unavoidable. Sometimes, Jedi were compelled to end someone's life, but always in defense of their life or someone else's, always in defense of the Light. However, the reasons behind a mortal strike did not lessen the moral conflict the action caused. This conflict was usually made all the more intense and regrettable because of the Jedi's age.
Most first kills were made by Jedi still in their padawan years.
Qui-Gon finally allowed himself the indulgence of a deep and audible sigh.
It was true that most Jedi experiencing the Agondi were padawans, but rarely were they as young as his apprentice. At the tender age of thirteen, Obi-Wan was contending with trials he should have been years away from facing. But then again, that was part of the reason the Agondi ceremony had been created. A simple, quiet, and solemn affair, the Communas was a gathering of knights, masters, and some padawans that would surround the single Jedi and fill him or her with their compassion, comfort, and understanding. Every Jedi present would have passed through their own Agondi and could therefore fully empathize with the pain so freshly felt by the Jedi who now joined their sorrowful ranks. The Communas was about community and compassion. It was designed to offer a safe place to both mourn the life and innocence lost as well as begin to heal the wounds left by their taking.
Personally, and as an adept of the Living Force, Qui-Gon had always found the ceremony particularly beautiful. It had always felt good to help ease the way for another, and so he participated in the event whenever it was called and he was in residence at the Temple; at least he had until he returned from Telos without an apprentice. Qui-Gon had stopped then, finding only pain and sorrow in a time and place where he had once only seen beauty and love.
Now it was time for him and his padawan to face the Communas. Qui-Gon's reflection echoed his wry smile. Perhaps his padawan wasn't the only one facing a great trial. He turned to faced his company once more.
"I think… I think the Communas could be beneficial," Qui-Gon spoke pausing before adding "for us both."
Full relief did come not after Lantis's waking. There had been a knot in his heart that had loosened upon having her orange eyes gaze upon him after so long an absence, but so much doubt and uncertainty still clung to Vresh, pulling him down under the waters of his sanity. He needed to meditate, to center himself, to rediscover the peaceful core of his being he had known most of his life, but could not. He had tried, oh he had tried! But that stillness eluded him with ever attempt. He knew the healers had grown wary of him, that they suspected he was a step away from tossing their equipment around the room in a rage fueled Force tempest – not that he was angry…
Well, he was a little angry, after all it was his padawan who had been so seriously injured, in the Temple, under the protection and supervision of the Jedi. The same Jedi who had missed Xanatos's repeated entries into the Temple. The same Jedi who had allowed a dangerous monster to sleep in the same quarters with padawans. Padawans they were oath bound to protect. A padawan he was supposed to protect.
A padawan he failed.
Vresh sighed and rubbed a weary hand over his face. Perhaps the healers were right to be afraid.
"Morning, Master."
Vresh started at the sound of the his padawan's quietly spoken greeting, his hand immediately falling from his face and his expression shifting from despondent exasperation to soft affection.
"Morning, Scamp," he replied as he rose from his chair and carefully leaned over the medical couch. "How are you feeling?"
The master watched as the young felinoid closed her eyes and focused her attention inwards. She was silent for several moments then a deep crease appeared between her furry brows, her eyes opening a few heartbeats later. The reaction elicited a corresponding spike of worry in Vresh's chest.
"What's wrong? Are you in pain? I'll get Ar," he hurriedly spoke reaching for the call button, but the sound of his padawan's voice stopped him mid reach.
"No, Master. I don't feel any pain. I don't feel… anything," she said her voice rising and her eyes widening. "Master, I don't feel anything! I don't feel anything!"
"Shhh, shhh, it's alright now. It's okay, Padawan," Vresh cooed as he brushed gently against her whiskers and sent wave after wave of calm and love over their training bond. But Lantis would not be calmed. The panic in her mind slammed repeatedly against his shields smothering his attempts at reassurance.
"Master, I can't feel my legs!" she continued, her voice high and strained nearly into a yowl. The pain and distress in her voice, in her face, in the bond, forced Vresh into instinctive action. He gathered up her small body in his arms, pulling her close and cradling her head against his chest. Her arms scrambled about his torso, her paws and claws clutching madly at his robes before settling into a death grip around his ribs. Vresh did not even register the physical pain her actions caused.
"I know, Lani, I know. I've got you though. I've got you and I'm not letting go," he mumbled over and over into the short fur of head in a desperate mantra.
"Is it… is it permanent?" came a whisper from below his chin. In that moment, Vresh wanted nothing more in the world than to lie to her, to tell her not to worry, that she would walk and run and jump and spar and do all the things she had always taken such delight in, but he could not. He could not lie to her, not now. Not with this. This was too important. She was too important.
"They don't know, Lani. They hope so. I hope so," he answered. He pulled back from her just slightly so that he could see her face. "But no matter what happens, we will get through this. We will face it together and we will get through it."
A fur covered face damp with tears starred back at him, incredulity coursing across the bond.
"How, Master? How do we get through this?" she asked her voice thick with sobs fighting to breaking through. Vresh pulled her back to his chest and holding her tightly to him.
"I… I don't know, Lani. I don't know, but we will. We will. We will," he answered rocking her in his arms. The padawan continued to pour her pain into his robes and her master continued to rock her in his arm, repeating in whispered tones his two-word vow.
It was a long time before either of them stopped.