A/N:  I actually am getting this chapter out today!  Yay!  That's really quite a feat, you just don't know it.  Anyway, please let me know what you think.  This chapter goes out to Mel for all of her inspiration and support!  And thanks to everyone else who has responded so far!

Chapter 15

                Silence, when experienced too thoroughly, becomes more deafening than din.  Silence resounded through the corridors of the healer's wing.  It saturated his tiny room.  It enveloped his mind.  In silence came peace.  Only in silence.  So, suppressing every sensation and thought, he clung to silence.  But in the silence he merely found the noisiest truths he had been avoiding.

                Qui-Gon had abandoned him.  Qui-Gon had abandoned him for another.  And now he was alone.

                Bitterness threatened to take hold of his mind but he let it dwindle within him, dead without his will to feed it.  The Jedi did not allow bitterness into their lives.  Jedi accepted things then let them go.  Accept this, Obi-Wan instructed himself, then let it go.

                Let it go?  He couldn't even understand what it was yet.  How could he possibly understand abandonment?  How, after 13 years, could Qui-Gon have left him so carelessly, so easily, so… silently?  Qui-Gon had chosen the moment of conflict to sever all connections, letting the pain drown in the loudness of the moment.  Then, when silence had come, silence had taken over everything.  Silence pervaded every last inch of his being, consumed every cell of his mind.  Silence seeped through the depths of his essence.  The silence of…betrayal?

                Jedi accepted things and then let them go.  Bitterness is not the way of the Jedi.

                But why wasn't he here?  Why had he just been left, for better or for worse, to fend for himself?  Did it mean that little to Qui-Gon?  Or did it mean that much?  Both Master and Apprentice lost something—although only one was guilty.  Obi-Wan could certainly understand Qui-Gon's absence—he himself did not even know what he wanted or expected from Qui-Gon.  An explanation would deepen the pain.  An excuse would push him to despair.  An even an apology would insult the remnants of self he had left.

                So what did he want?  He wanted that none of this had ever happened.  He wanted Anakin to still be unknown on Tatooine.  He wanted Naboo to be the simple, peaceful planet it was before they arrived.  He wanted the Sith to disappear back into the folds time and come out to stalk someone else.

                Jedi accept things and then let them go.  Regret is not the way of the Jedi.

                He wanted the impossible.  But he would settle for the improbable at this rate.  In his forlorn condition, all he merely wanted was the presence.  He wanted—no, he needed—to feel that he wasn't alone.  Rejection was one thing; betrayal was another.  Qui-Gon had rejected him for Anakin.  But the betrayal…

                Jedi accept things and then let them go.  Self-pity is not the way of the Jedi.

                His existence had never hinged solely on his master's.  He was his own person.  As a Jedi, he was free from such dependency.  He had done no wrong.  He was still the same man he was before any of this had happened. 

                But so much had happened.  His thoughts drifted miserably again.  No man, not even a Jedi, could be a lone island in the middle of the vast ocean of a galaxy.  As an apprentice, his ties to the other land around him was necessary—children are not born independent and Jedi are not made without training.  It was as though he had been joined with Qui-Gon.  Slowly the land masses of master and apprentice began to drift apart, connected by a thinner and thinner strip of land.  The day would come when the two would be entirely separate, but even in that day there would be friendly communication between the two.  This process, natural for the Jedi, had been preempted by some horrific natural disaster, casting Obi-Wan off into the raging sea.

                Jedi accept things and then let them go.  Despair is not the way of the Jedi.

                So why did he feel bitter?  Why did regret loom over him?  Why did self-pity linger within him?  Why did he succumb to despair?

                His sorrows were not so unique—his trials were not so unusual.  The galaxy overflowed with tales of grief and betrayal, some on a much grander scale than Obi-Wan's.  The wrong could not be expunged via relativity, but the situation demanded a bit of perspective.  And Obi-Wan tried to recount all the other instances of pain and suffering he had witnessed, and therefore experienced, in his lifetime.  His first emotion that resounded through his memory was the feeling of failure when he was shipped off to Bandomeer, not chosen to be a Padawan and assigned an uninviting life as a farmer.  His emotions had fluxed constantly in that stage of his life, hoping dangerously high, only to be cut down.  He had bore that pain silently, using it to understand the grace of the Force that Qui-Gon had chosen him after all.  But it laid the foundation for everything he was to become, everything he was.  Vividly, he remembered the death of Master Tahl, shrouded in deception and received with utter grief.  Melida/Daan's years of bloody conflict, ravaging generation upon generation in the planet—that tragedy had spoken vibrantly to him.  Cerasi had breeched his Jedi impartiality, her grief and her courage spurring him to act rashly.  Never before he had faced such raw truths of the galaxy—that people killed in the name of glory.  He had never encountered a planet so bent on death that they would destroy themselves in order to destroy their enemy.  It was perhaps the darkest place on the galaxy he had yet visited, and Cerasi had been his guide, juxtaposing its gloom with her idealism.  Her death had shaken him more deeply than anything else he could recall.  Did the broken bond really eclipse such pain?

                That question, so plain in its objective, could not be answered so simply.  The broken bond encompassed all other emotions—it was the heart of who he was.  It was the access by which he had gained all his knowledge, all his experience.  In his times of utmost sorrow, it had been the steady and reassuring pull of the Master/Padawan bond that had always kept him rooted in the Jedi way.  When he had forsaken the Jedi on Melida/Daan, he had been far too impulsive, and the separation between himself and his master had cut himself off from an important aspect of himself.  He had betrayed Qui-Gon then…what goes around comes around…

                He could not lose it in explanation and justifications.  He could not make it disappear in abdication and rationalizations.  The loss of the bond affected him.  The absence of Qui-Gon affected him even more.  It did make him bitter.  Regret did loom over him.  He wallowed in lingering self-pity. Despair defeated his ability to reason.  In short, he displayed every characteristics that the Jedi rejected.  But, then again, he did not feel very much like a Jedi any more.

                The hours passed, and Healer Truek checked on him from time to time.  Soon, as the afternoon began to wane, a soft knock came at the door to his room.  He knew, without exerting any effort, that it was a member of the Council.  Had he employed any amount of energy, he would have easily identified which one.

                As it was, he said nothing, letting his lack of response signify permission to enter.  Accordingly, the door opened, and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi humbly and silently padded inside.  Obi-Wan eyed him with bland intent.  Being offered no salutation, Master Mundi grasped the responsibility and spoke first.  Trivialities seemed superfluously unfitting, so Mundi forewent them all together.  His purpose was fundamentally obvious, and it was not the style of the Jedi to speak evasively.  "The Council is eager to hear your report on what transpired during your mission to Naboo," he began.  "Clearly we desire to allow you ample time to recovery, but the situation is complicated."

                "Yes," Obi-Wan murmured in agreement, casting his eyes away from the Master to some unidentifiable point on the neutral wall.  If he looked at the Master he worried that his control would lost, and the last thing he wanted was to be broken like that.

                Mundi did not appear uncomfortable with Obi-Wan's distance.  Casually, the Master seated himself in the nearby chair.  Poised, he began his interview.  "I realize that this is not an easy topic to discuss, and I would like to assure you before we begin that all you tell me is for the confidence of the Council only.  You have no cause to be ashamed, no matter what emotions surface."

                Obi-Wan did not respond to the reassurance.

                Continuing, Mundi began vaguely, to see how Obi-Wan would react.  "Do you remember what happened?" Mundi asked, his voice gentle but solicitous.

                Emotion threatened to break through, but Obi-Wan steeled himself.  "Yes," he said simply.  He would offer nothing freely.

                "And what do you remember?"

                "Where would you like me to begin?" Obi-Wan asked, still refusing to look at the Jedi Master.

                "Perhaps your battle with the Sith," Mundi suggested.

                Like a recording being cued to the right spot, Obi-Wan spoke, "Qui-Gon and I engaged the Sith.  He was very skilled with a lightsaber and was a formidable opponent.  I was separated from Qui-Gon and before I could rejoin him, I was cut off by force fields in the reactor core.  I watched as the Sith defeated Qui-Gon.  When the field dropped, I immediately resumed fighting."

                "How did you fight?"

                Obi-Wan finally met the Master's eyes with a reluctant glance.  "What do you mean?" he asked, knowing the answer.

                "The Sith had just defeated your master.  Did you control your emotions as you resumed the fight?"

                Shame passed over Obi-Wan face as he looked away again.  "No," he admitted hoarsely.  "I fed on my anger and my fear.  It nearly cost me my soul, but in the end I rejected it."

                "How did you defeat the Sith?" Mundi prompted.

                "The Sith knocked me into the pit, but I managed to grab hold of something," Obi-Wan related the details.  "He thought I was done for, and so did I.  I lost my lightsaber and the Sith stood above me.  But then I reminded myself that I was not yet dead.  Using the Force, I called Qui-Gon's lightsaber to me as I leapt up behind the Sith.  Then I killed him."

                "Then what happened?"

                "I went to my master.  Qui-Gon's wound was mortal, but I could not accept his death, so I fed my Life Force into his, creating a crude healing bond.  It stabilized him but nearly drained me.  I spent two days in a coma before Qui-Gon brought me out of it.  Then we left Naboo."

                The detached, didactic discourse paused, waiting for prompting, but begging to be ended.  Ki-Adi pressed Obi-Wan onward.  Though insistent, Mundi never lessened the outward display of his compassion—even though he did not outwardly respond to it, Obi-Wan needed all the reassurance he could soak up.  The trauma, novel and alienating, would only find healing in acknowledgement.  "What happened while returning to Coruscant?"

                "The Trade Federation attacked, hoping to keep us from reporting back to the Senate."

                "By what method did they attack your vessel?"

                "After disabling our engines, a shuttle of battle droids force-docked with us.  Qui-Gon and I went to repair the engine, trusting Anakin to get us back into hyperspace while we held off the droids," Obi-Wan said.  Suddenly, he stopped, his voice tightening.  "Qui-Gon left to help Anakin on the bridge, and I faced the droids by myself."

                "By yourself?" Mundi wondered.  "Doesn't that seem a little ambitious for one man—even a Jedi?"

                "Yes," Obi-Wan voice managed, but in a strangled tone.

                "Why did you accept such an impossible task?"

                "I had no choice," Obi-Wan tried to explain evenly.  "I did not want to face them alone, but my master—"  His words caught viciously in his throat, his breathing quickening as a result.  Beginning to lose his composure, he willed himself to continue.  "Master Jinn insisted he needed to go help assist Anakin."

                "So you fought the droids."

                The interview seemed interminable.  Obi-Wan felt himself slipping to the edges of his control, the edges of his sanity.  Tears, hot and fiery behind his eyes, wanted to be relieved of their hidden torment.  No.  Not like this.  Not here.  "Yes.  I had destroyed most of them when I was injured."

                "Did you not try to summon Master Jinn to aid you upon your injury?"

                A flash of anger rose to the front of Obi-Wan scattered and apathetic mind.  Why did he have to remember?  Why couldn't he just forget?  All he wanted was to forget.  He wanted to forget as easily as Qui-Gon had forgotten him.  His eyes unblinking, his jaw clenched.  "Of course."

                "But the bond was broken," Master Mundi concluded softly, noting the young Jedi was at the edge of his self-control.

                A tear slipped down the pale cheek.  The movement of his mouth brought a practically inaudible sound that was easily read on the young man's stony face.  "Yes."

                Taking a deep breath, Mundi tried to approach Obi-Wan's mind in the Force.  He found the young Jedi surprisingly compliant, his grief easily accessible.  Careful not to intrude—too much psychological damage had already occurred—the Master assessed Obi-Wan's condition.  His physical wounds were just as Healer Truek had reported—healing adequately.  Soon the young Jedi could be released.  However, the mental status was much more complicated.  A barrage of intense feelings and thoughts swirled chaotically within the confused and tired mind.  At first glance, it truly did appear to be hopeless.  The emotions overwhelmed the young Jedi, seemingly controlling his mind.  The incessant shifting and mutating sentiments kept the subjective Padawan from ever aptly sorting through them, eluding any immediate attempts at acceptance and understanding.  Without these pivotal steps, release would never take place and the Jedi would slowly self-destruct.

                But all was not as grim as it appear.  The foreboding, ferocious storm ran deep in the Obi-Wan's consciousness, but, resting somewhere beyond all that, Mundi sensed something more.  Hidden beneath the turmoil, Mundi detected the bare essence of strength.  Somewhere, within Obi-Wan, the will to live and prosper in the Force existed firmly, immovably.  Undoubtedly the young man himself could not find it, and Mundi knew he could not show it to him.  In time, as the storm waned, he would discover it himself.  And then, Mundi somehow realized, Obi-Wan would arise stronger than ever before.  There was something he had never noticed about Kenobi—a potential that seemed to grow more with each passing second.  If Obi-Wan could only hold out while his emotions pelted him mercilessly then he would take his place someday among the great Jedi of the centuries.

                Although encouraged by this discovery, Mundi acknowledged the importance of the moment.  Obi-Wan's struggles were far from over.  Seeing a Jedi in such a bewildered state urged Mundi to offer immediately healing and consolation, but that was not what Obi-Wan needed.  To initiate such a healing right now would only hinder Obi-Wan's progress, proving detrimental in the end.  He was not the person to do so and now was not the time.  Instead, he decided to subtly spur Obi-Wan into controlled self-analysis.

                Truly concerned, compassion lined his face heavily.  Gently retreating from the young man's mind, Mundi again approached him with verbal questioning.  "What would you like to happen next?" he asked.  "Do you wish to be a Knight?"

                Obi-Wan cast his dulled eyes at the wall, staring bleakly.  For all the passion that wrenched his heart, nothing could overturn the apathy that shrouded his mind.  With a choked breath, he finally said, "Ever since I came to the Temple, Knighthood was my only goal.  Everything I have done, I have done in anticipation of being a Knight.  I believed it to be my destiny, chosen and unfolded splendidly by the Force's mysterious abilities.  But now…"  Obi-Wan's voice trailed off, his gaze searching the walls, hoping to see through them to some type of hope, of which he could find none left within himself.  He swallowed forcefully, looking back at the Master.  "Now I don't know what I feel."

                Mundi smiled sympathetically.  "Patience, Obi-Wan," he gently soothed.  "Much has changed and much has been lost.  Do not expect these things to be resolved immediately.  It will take time and perseverance."

                "I am not sure I have either," Obi-Wan admitted distantly.

                "Trust in the Force," Mundi advised.

                "That's what I've been doing."

                Standing, Mundi elicited a glance from Obi-Wan.  Sure to catch the young man's eyes, Master Mundi made sure that Obi-Wan did not look away.  "The Force is not responsible for the works of men.  And you are also not responsible.  The Force will bring you through this.  But it will take time, but I assure you, in the end, it will be worth it," Mundi told him.

                Obi-Wan watched, perplexed at the Master's words, as Mundi exited the room, leaving Obi-Wan again to his jumbled thoughts.

***

                It hadn't been until the last 200 years that Yoda could forego sleep in times of intense meditation.  His ability to utilize the Force and his body had finally been fine tuned enough that he could manipulate his body into not needing sleep.  It required a deep, continuous meditation, but when he roused himself from it, instead of feeling sleepy as one normally would after 24 hours without sleep, he felt refreshed and ready to pursue things more actively.  Rarely did he demand such things from his small body, but when the occasion arose, he had meditated for nearly a week, contemplating and searching the answers to his trial or question.

                Concerning the triangle type situation that enclosed the fate of the galaxy he had felt that supreme urgency.  Not only had he bypassed sleep, but his digestive track as well—ever since his viewing of the prophecy, the Master had not left his small seat in darkened room.  The suns rose and the suns set, but he did not move.  The other Masters would occasionally seek him out, maybe to ask his advice, maybe to see if he desire to discuss anything, but when they entered his unlocked door, as was his custom, they found him still and oblivious.  Reluctantly they crept back out, leaving the Master to his work—which they knew it was.  Yoda's connection to the Force surpassed their own.  Sometimes they would linger in his darkened room, studying him wonderingly, pondering if they should ever reach that level of communion with the Force before their eternal union with the Force.

                But, as suddenly as Yoda delved into that comatose-like state, he abruptly opened his eyes.  Squinting slightly at the sharp disparity of light on his eyes, he hopped off the small seat.  He had learned many things.  But there was still much he needed to know.  Now he needed to talk to Anakin Skywalker.

                Yoda did not need to enquire about the location of young Skywalker.  He knew without asking or without searching.  Through the Force, he quickly sensed that it was the falling of night that darkened the skyline outside.  As he neared Skywalker's quarters, he also became aware that the boy was within.  Without hesitation, Yoda buzzed and waited patiently as the boy called out, "Come in!"

                With a simple flick of the Force, the door opened.  Anakin looked surprised at the sight of Master Yoda and scrambled to his feet to greet the Council Member.

                The small Master hobbled up to Anakin, who, even with a child's height, towered over him.  His eyes narrowed as he probed Anakin's mind.  "How do you feel?" he asked, not sharply but emphatically.

                Anakin shied away uncomfortably, uneasy by the way the being carried himself and the tickle he created in Anakin's mind.  "You asked me that before," he said, remembering being tested before the Council.

                "True, this is," Yoda said.  "But changed, things have."

                "Yes, sir," Anakin said dutifully.  "How do you think I should feel?"

                "Control feelings, you cannot," Yoda instructed pointedly.  "Tell me, how do you feel?"

                Although his formal training had not begun yet (it had not even been approved yet), Anakin's awareness of the Force heightened into his consciousness.  Now, the strange little Master before him, he became acutely attentive to Yoda's unspoken inquiries into his mind.  "Don't you already know what I am feeling?" Anakin asked.

                "Sense them, I do," Yoda admitted.  "But acknowledge them, you must."

                Anakin looked cryptically at the troll-like Master.  "But words can't describe emotions," Anakin said.  "I mean, I could say that I'm happy or sad, or that I'm afraid or I'm confident.  But emotions can't be stripped and then forced into boxes.  I mean, what does the word "afraid" really say about me?"

                "Elusive, our emotions are," Yoda granted him.  "Complex, they are as well.  Inadequate words may be, but useful they still are.  Words make you reflect, they do.  Words you must use."

                Pushed to the edge of his calm, passion flashed in Anakin's eyes.  There was only one thing he could verbalize concretely.  "I want to be a Jedi."

                "Think you deserve training at the Temple, do you?" Yoda presumed.

                He had gained confidence since his first meeting at the Temple.  "Qui-Gon said—"

                Yoda pounded his stick on the floor, effectively silencing the boy.  "Lean not on words of others.  What is in your heart?"
                The burning passion in the boy simmered from confidence to earnestness.  "I don't know a whole lot about the Jedi," he admitted.  "You are obviously a whole lot smarter than I am.  And I don't know anything about this prophecy.  I don't know much about anything."

                "Tell me, then," Yoda prompted.  "What do you know?"

                "I know that I was born a slave," Anakin began.  "I had a price put on me like I was nothing but property.  But I have never been property.  I have always known that.  I know that I am equal with every other being in the galaxy.  I know how to fix things.  I know how to fly.  I love both of those things.  I love them more than anything…anything except my mother.  And I know, sir, more than you can imagine, that I am supposed to be a Jedi.  The Force—I can feel it now—it seems so clear to me.  You believe in destiny, don't you, sir?"

                "Moves us all, the Force does," Yoda agreed.  "Destiny, surely there is."

                "Then it is my destiny to be a Jedi," Anakin proclaimed, unbridled fervor coloring his voice.

                "Easy it is to confuse destiny with dreams," Yoda told him.

                "Then why am I here?" Anakin asked.  Again, Yoda stared intensely at the boy.  Scanning him completely with the Force, Yoda still came back to the same conclusions.  The boy was young—yet far too old.  He had his entire life ahead of him, his entire free life now, yet he had lost the precious years of training to the vile clutches of slavery.  It was unfair, but both Light and Dark move throughout the galaxy.  He was the Chosen One.  One way or another, Anakin Skywalker would bring balance to the Force.

                Yoda pitied him.  No child deserved this.  Anakin Skywalker had no idea what being the "Chosen One" entailed.  If he did, surely the boy would have opted for slavery.  But how could the boy know?  How could the boy possible foresee any tragedy or any hardships that excelled that which he had already suffered?  In his naïve mind, the future could only glow with possibilities and dreams—his destiny, as he called it.  His destiny might be great, but through the murkiness that lay before the boy, Yoda knew it would not be without great cost.

                "Hard to see, young Skywalker, your destiny is," Yoda finally assented, teetering again toward the door.

                "You won't let me be a Jedi," Anakin presumed.

                "There is much fear in you," Yoda reiterated.

                "I can learn how to control it," Anakin insisted.

                "Control not your emotions," Yoda instructed.  "Accept them, then let them go, you must.  Choose neutrality and justice, you must."

                "I can learn, sir," Anakin pleaded, his youth intensifying his voice.  "I can learn anything you teach me.  I will listen, and I will study—I will do anything."

                Stopping again, Yoda took his focus from the depths of the boy's heart and mind and widened his view to the boy on a whole.  His potential throbbed, pulsating throughout every fiber of his being.  In him existed unfathomable capability for goodness and discipline.  With training, Anakin would be, without a doubt, the most powerful and influential Jedi of all time.  But, in this rawness, the potential could also take on a far more sinister cast, enhanced by Darkness and greed.  Anakin Skywalker could also become the destroyer of the Republic and all it stood for.

                And, for one of the first times in his life, Yoda found no means to sort the two possibilities.  The Force had always been so clear to him, even as a Padawan.  He had flourished in his studies and his master had scarcely known what to do with him.  His clairvoyance astounded the Council even as an Initiate.  His ability to foresee events and manipulate the Force exceeded any all Jedi before and after him.  Until Anakin Skywalker, anyway.

                His uncertainty did not unsettle him in any way—Yoda had grown to trust the Force implicitly, and he had no faculties to succumb to jealousy.  His uncertainty served him in another means.  It signified an extreme imbalance in the Force—the prophetic rise of Darkness, he had no doubt.  This he had expected for centuries, and now that it was upon him, it did not seem so strange, only slightly ominous.  But it had not begun with some larger event—some rebellion on a key planet or the fall of the Senate—but it began in the future of a young boy.  The details of the prophecy aside, it was this mystery only that convinced Yoda that he was indeed the Chosen One.

                So why couldn't he eagerly accept the boy into the ranks of the Jedi?  Wasn't he their savior, after all?

                Of this, Yoda could not be sure.  It required more meditation, more study.  "Be not so eager," Yoda instructed.  "If desire too strongly, we do, then act without rationale, we will."

                With these words, Yoda left the boy where he stood, staring helplessly and crestfallen at the wise old Master.