A/N: Whoa! This has taken me FOREVER to get posted. Sorry (in case someone actually cares). Life just kind of got away from me (in some good ways—some great ways really—and some not so great ways). Anyway, I'm personally not very happy with the way this chapter turned out because I don't think I conveyed what I really wanted to convey—especially in terms of Obi-Wan. I have him making some pretty big decisions here and I just don't feel like I got inside his head quite right and that the explanations fall a little short. So I could really use some recommendations on where I fall short here so I can try and fix it. But, anyway, here it is. Thanks for reading!
Chapter 16
Although Obi-Wan had little motivation, meditation seemed faintly imperative. His conversation from the previous day with Master Mundi echoed yet in his consciousness. He had much to ponder, and while simply awake he could not muster enough volition to reason and sort through the deadened mess in his head. Sitting rigidly upon his bed, he closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to welcome him back to its comforting bliss of separation. But, he did not embrace it. Instead, drawing on the Force, he plunged his mind into the familiarly distant realm of meditation.
The process, performed so many times, was second nature to Obi-Wan. The steps had been internalized long ago. After clearing his mind and then striving to lose contact with the outside world, he surrendered his consciousness to the Force, allowing it to direct his thoughts. He needed not relive the past few days—the events were already embedded irrevocably in his mind, distinct and certain. However, while awake he consciously disconnected himself from any and all emotions. The point of meditation was to objectify his situation and come to a rational conclusion—any conclusion at this point. But suddenly, now vulnerable in the Force, his emotions ravaged his meditation—grief, anger, pain, rejection, loneliness, confusion. They descended upon him so violently that he had to suppress a sob. With some effort, he managed to regain a semblance of control, his emotions settling just beyond his immediate self to a place that allowed him some reasonable detachment.
He could find no clear beginning to unraveling the mess in his head. So, instead, he opted to start with the question that Master Mundi had left him with: what did he want to happen next? He could not change the past. He could not predict the future. But he had, within his vain control, the fate of this moment. And, in truth, there were few things more powerful than a moment. A moment possessed infinite possibilities. A moment existed free from restrictions—independent of everything else. All great changes occurred, literally, in a moment. In one moment, a war ended. In one moment, another began. In a moment, one could fall in love. In another, one could fall apart. All it took was a moment—a moment of immeasurable potential.
But for all the glory of the moment, he thought sadly of the irreversibility of a moment. Once lived, a moment solidified into history. It then stood for all eternity, stained by the moments the preceded it and tainting the once that follow it. This moment, which existed in the scope of his consciousness, protruded obtusely into the plan he had once had for his life. Driven by urgency but weighed down by grief, his soul struggled with torment within himself. He had to act—he had to do something. The moment beckoned him, it demanded something of him. What would become of this moment?
He let the moment pass.
It rose and fell unimpressively before him, remaining unceremoniously sealed in the annals of history. Instructing himself to breathe slowly, he calmed himself. Time, the beautiful deceiver, leads all to believe that its endless qualities apply to the mortal, the concrete beings that pain and toil away in the galaxy. Obi-Wan could suffer to lose a few moments if the time that passed served his judgment in the end.
He felt his heart slow. He calmed his eyes that darted anxiously beneath his taut eyelids. His meditation deepened. He felt the Force. The Force had always been his guide. When everything else in the world failed him, he could count on the Force. It was the constant, it was everything. He craved it, yearning for its sweet security. Silencing his mind, he listened to it. It would guide this moment.
The once gentle tides of the silent Force overtook him unexpectedly in harsh reality and instead of a guiding pull, he felt as though the waves had enveloped him, drowning him ardently beneath their strength. The grimness of the situation resounded sinisterly within him. Groping for anything to hold onto in his sea of confusion, the abandonment reflected his inadequacies. But even as he grasped for that plank of solid reasoning, it did not support him. Although it indeed was solid, it could not keep him afloat because it left him utterly incomplete. His training fell apart in the light of the broken bond. All it took was just one contradiction within the confines of just one moment to crack the solid foundation of his training, undermining unquestionably. As he nearly surrendered himself to the miserable helplessness of his situation, the Force halted him, buoying him upwards. The sea, his turbulent emotions, mellowed somehow. In meditation, he could separate himself from his emotions with a blessed detachment.
Reprimanding himself severely, he sighed. All was not lost—not unless he let himself fall victim to it. His action incurred no punishment. His suffering was not a result of his mistakes. He was innocent. Enough time had lapsed during his apathetic limbo. His destiny was in his hands and not dictated by those around him. His only dependence existed truly in the Force. If he simply trusted in the Force, then he would find resolution and revitalization. His wounds would heal, and he would move on from this moment. He would be a Knight, and he would serve and protect the galaxy.
His thoughts began to race with a spark of enthusiasm—a sensation so foreign that its initial effects intoxicated him. But as his mind extrapolated possible futures, his training reasserted itself. Before he could begin to fathom the future he needed to deal with the moment.
But Master Yoda told me to be mindful of the future, something within him retaliated. His nature leaned away from the moment, hoping and grasping somewhat naively to the future. He clung to the Jedi sayings about the future and instilled them within his soul much more readily than all the others. Despite his years of trying to fill his mind with a plethora of other ideas, these still popped up more quickly and more dominantly. However, his training already formulated a counter-response.
Not at the expense of the moment. Keep your focus here and now where it belongs.
The clarity and certainty of Qui-Gon's voice ricocheted through his mind, ripping through his makeshift determination and weakly erected defenses. He could not accept the words—he could accept nothing from that man. He had devoted too many years of his life to following that man's every lesson, to listening intently to every word and every silence. He had emulated him, he had tried to understand him. He had questioned him and always come back to respect him in the end. He had listened to all the rebukes and corrections. He had heeded the instructions and regretted when he did not. He had tried with every fiber of his being to be the perfect Padawan—of course, he wasn't, but no one was. People are not perfect, they never can be. Even Masters…even Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon's faults had glared obviously to Obi-Wan at times. His impulsiveness seemed out of sorts with the respect to the Code, and Obi-Wan often disapproved of his master's flimsy interpretations of mission guidelines when adequate situations arose. Qui-Gon had a soft spot for seemingly useless creatures, and Obi-Wan usually found himself sorely out of place among such beings (although, to his chagrin, he often came to see the benefit of the relation in the end). But Obi-Wan had seen these faults as they should be seen—in the context of a man. Anyone can exploit a single flaw and bring down a man's image when the lacking is not weighed with the person. And Qui-Gon's strengths greatly outshone his faults…
Or at least they had. Obi-Wan could no longer see his former master at all. Where he used to know Qui-Gon Jinn, he knew only emptiness.
The words echoed painfully again. The teaching, however wise and prudent, made no sense anymore. He could not hear the words; he could only hear the voice. And suddenly, it was a voice he did not know. Everything pure and simple he had once held as truth suddenly skewed irreconcilably. The entirety of his training now evaded him, wrapped too tightly in the disjointed voice that would not leave his head. Had it all be a dream? Had he even been trained at all?
Even the Force now resonated differently within him. He was nothing of the man he had once been. He was nothing of the Jedi he had once been. Was he even still a Jedi? Could he ever be a Jedi?
It led him back to the question that had brought this about: what did he want to happen next?
What he wanted and what he could have were two totally different things. He wanted to be Knight—but could he? Somewhere, within himself, he knew he was capable. The life of a Knight, hopping from planet to planet, mission to mission—it would be wonderfully independent. His role as a mediator, neutral party, or mere presence would be blissfully detached. That lifestyle seemed more alluring than ever.
His emotions ran too rampantly through him. His desires pulled him too decisively. There was a foreboding reality to Knighthood now. It would come like a sweet savior to him, but what would he be sacrificing by giving in to it?
Something inherent demanded to be rectified within him. However, in the mess of feelings and thoughts in his head, he could not trace it. All he had was the distant, yet insistent, urgency that his future hung perilously in the balance of the next few days. The question—what did he wish to happen next—harkened to that urgency, falling in tune with it inexplicably. As his meditation deepened, his control strengthened and his detachment from himself grew. The confusion within him still remained an unsolved and untested mystery, but a great simpler truth suddenly encompassed him.
Opening his eyes abruptly, he ended his meditation. Sitting immobile, he felt his chest rise and fall with tight breaths. His heart pounded and his eyes stared ahead, unblinkingly. It was so clear. All he had left to do was inform the Council of his revelation and subsequent decision.
***
The light meekly illuminated the room. Sitting on the floor, his knees to his chest, Anakin watched the light fading through his window. His sandy head rested against the window pane as he gazed forlornly out the window, noticing from time to time the reflection of his own face on the glass in the fading light as well as the small potted plant, blooming and hardy that also sat along the window, soaking up eagerly the last rays of light. The streets of Coruscant were busy, filled with rushing traffic. Speeders dipped and wove gracefully while grungy air-taxis lobbed frantically through the stream of vehicles. This place was so foreign to him—so bustling, so large, so impersonal. The galaxy spanned much farther than Anakin had once presumed—suddenly all the stars he had longed to explore seemed infinitely more real and infinitely less inviting. Right then, he wanted nothing more than to smell Tatooine's dry air, feel the sand beneath his feet, tinker with C3P0…and hug his mother. If he couldn't have his dreams, he would rather have the simplicity of his other life—maybe he could go back. The Council would surely aid him in this request. If he could just free his mother—then they could work for their wages, perhaps buy a moisture farm out in the desert. They'd have to avoid the Tuskens, but it'd be better than the Hutts and the crime in the city. It would work, he thought rapidly, it would have to work.
He sighed. That was not what he wanted. That was nowhere near what he wanted. Things had changed though, that much was certain. Before, all the stars had been beckoning to him, eager to welcome him to some idyllic adventure. Now, he realized, they still called to him, but they called to him in desperation, in need, some even in deceit. As a slave, his narrow world-view had led him to believe that evil only existed on Tatooine. All things bad in the world somehow revolved around slavery, most prominently, his enslavement. The gang warfare the Hutts enacted simply stemmed from this basic evil. The crime and poverty all came back to slavery. It was the ultimate evil. If he could free himself from slavery, then he would be free from all the other evil that bogged Tatooine down.
But it was not that simple. From a life that he had lived utterly in the black and white now, unconstrained by the any limits of the galaxy, he found himself swirling amid shades of gray. Evil, though perhaps it had one common origin, had spawned a multitude of offspring, each varying to its own degree with villainy. It manifested itself wherever it could, in places Anakin had never imagined, and he was beginning to realize just how little he knew about the galaxy.
Still, in his naïveté, he never relinquished his newfound strength. He had the Force. And that meant more than anything else.
His eyes still searched the skyline, obscured and dotted with Coruscant's unending civilization. He could never go back to Tatooine. He could never live that life again. Not when he knew there was more out there for him. The galaxy, in its own indifferent way, demanded him. His role went beyond this Temple, although it surely started here—it would not be held by any mere organization or convention—not even the Jedi.
Why was the Council so against him anyway? What had he done? What threat did he pose? His heart devoted itself completely to the maturation and development of the Force with him. He would study without reservation, he would apply himself to the training wholly. He would shine for them. The passion, tinted by anger, became pointed and directed. He would shine without them, if he had to.
The Council members were much harder to read than any of the other beings he had encountered at the Temple. Even among the Masters and Knights he had aptly deduced their feelings and attitudes. He had tested their limits with great success. But in the presence of a Council Member—Master Yoda particularly—it was different. Their presence in the Force dominated and overtook the room. Despite the clarity of their Force presence, he could sense nothing but certainty and strength. It frustrated him, but he always enjoyed a challenge.
So far, his time at the Temple had been one challenge after another. He had thought that just getting here would solve everything—how foolishly optimistic he had been. It should have been that easy, he finally decided. But the Council members—for some reason they had been against him in the beginning. He could not tell if they were afraid—surely they did not know fear. It did not seem remotely plausible that they were threatened by him. So what did that leave?
Maybe they just didn't like him. They had to have something against him because Anakin had done nothing at all to provoke them. Yet, time and time again, they were unwilling to embrace him. They had rejected him dispassionately as he stood before them in an utterly defenseless state. They had scoffed in the face of his enthusiasm. They had trampled his hopes without care. How could these beings possibly be the most worthy Jedi? They seemed little better than the dictatorial Hutts on Tatooine—power hungry and unyielding. But at least the Hutts did not try to hide their iniquities with a guise of self-righteousness.
He would show them. The busy scene just beyond the glass no longer registered in his narrowed eyes and creased brow. Instead he gazed somehow into the future, to a time and place where he would exceed all expectation. With bitter satisfaction, he could never feel his conquests as he brought the galaxy to order as he had always perceived it should be. The Masters would see then, he thought again—they would regret denying him.
The passion had long ago been fostered by his growing discontent and incomprehension to unadulterated anger. The anger led then to fury. It was just as Mater Yoda had said…the path to the Dark side.
Startled, he realized the light had dimmed around him. At first he feared he had given in to that Dark Force Master Yoda seemed so preoccupied with but as he regained his grip on reality, he realized the sun had set. Sighing, relief calming his soul, he leaned his head again against the window pane. It was then that he noticed the potted plant in front of him. The plant had been one of the few ornamentations in the room, and he had liked its green flush and the life that seemed to radiate from it. But now…
His eyes widened in surprise. What had he done? How had he done it?
Shaken from his intense reverie, he tentatively stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. Silently, he crossed the floor to the potted plant. Kneeling, he took its limp leaves in his hands, feeling their wilted coarseness. The plant, only moments ago so vibrant and pure, now hung withered and emaciated. He had taken something utterly innocent and wholly naturally and destroyed it unabashedly. He had destroyed it with sheer volition.
Why? Something inside Anakin protested the act and lamented it naively. He had found himself to be capable of assessing people's feeling and sensing them in the Force. He had communicated with them and felt them with the Force. For all the wonder and grandeur involved in these acts, they were nothing compared to the outcome of this. His abilities had never manifested themselves quite so visibly. The Force flowed not only passively through him to others, but also through him to the concrete world. Not only could he perceive the presence and emotions of others, but he could manipulate things. But what good was that? Why would he destroy something so blameless? Why would he be provoked to retaliate against his problems in such a destructive way? It had been the Masters who infuriated him. But the plant…it was only a plant…
The question of why melted vaguely into his consciousness. Why seemed irrelevant. His mind drifted from the discomfort of the situation to the wonder of it. He could not change his actions. He could only learn from them. And asking why and searching for explanations seemed futile. The more intriguing reality was that he had. And if he were capable of this feat, he could only imagine what he could accomplish with training.
***
His mouth felt dry. He tried to nonchalantly wipe his slick palms on his beige tunic. Struggling desperately to control his breathing, he entered the Council chambers. It did not surprise him that each member was present, but it also did nothing to alleviate his anxiety. He had prepared himself since the day before for this meeting. But face with it, he felt his sense of certainty waver. Groping with the Force, he tried feebly to maintain a hold on his center, at least until he had said all he needed to say.
He bowed awkwardly, waiting respectfully to be acknowledged.
"It is good to see you recovering from your injuries," Mundi said in greeting.
"Yes, Healer Truek has given me a clean bill of health," Obi-Wan replied lamely, his mind racing to all the words he had planned to say and realizing these were not among them.
"That is very good to hear," Gallia said politely.
Offering an emotionless smile, he felt his mouth go dry. Swallowing hard, he said, "I do not presume that you have called me before you to discuss my physical well-being."
"No," Koon said with a slight sympathetic look.
"We have spent the last few days trying to piece together the situation between yourself, Master Qui-Gon Jinn, and Anakin Skywalker," Windu explained. "It is quite complicated, and we desire to proceed in the manner that is best for all involved without compromising the ideals of the Code or ignoring the call of the Force."
"And reached a decision, we have," Yoda continued.
Obi-Wan dared to interrupt. His heart thumped with more ferocity and his palms sweated more profusely. If he didn't speak now, he feared he would lose all his courage to do so later. "Pardon me, Masters, but may I speak freely before you pass down your decision?"
The Council eyed each other curiously. Such requests were not generally made. It was not that they discouraged such things, but usually those in their presence had far too much reverence, The words on young Kenobi's heart must weigh very heavily. Without speaking, the all agreed. "You may speak your mind," Windu finally told the young man.
Nodding slightly, Obi-Wan offered the trace of a smile in gratitude. "Thank you," he said respectfully yet somewhat meagerly. "You know that I honor your decisions and your wisdom. However, I am afraid that whatever you have decided does not matter anymore. I have decided to leave the Jedi Order."
The Council members appeared mildly surprised by Obi-Wan's decision. Each could clearly sense the splintered hope in the young man and felt the controlling despair to which he was a victim. Windu cocked his head. "You do realize the implications of this decision," Windu stated in a questioning manner.
"Yes," Obi-Wan replied gravely. "I have given the matter much thought and meditation. This is the only thing that makes sense given the circumstances."
"Bold words, these are, but have doubt, you do," Yoda interjected.
Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan kept his center, trying to release his apprehension and grief to the Force. "I do not wish to leave the Jedi," he admitted slowly. "But it is the only thing I can do."
"The Council believes you to be capable of undergoing the Trials," Gallia informed him.
His entire life he had longed to stand before the Council and be told these words. He had dreamt of it as an Initiate, anxiously pondered it as a Padawan. In conversations with his friends over the years, they had discussed this unknown culmination with awe and giddiness. When his friend Garen had been knighted the previous year, this approval had seemed closer and more real somehow. Garen had changed upon his knighting—he was still the same boy Obi-Wan had spent countless hours with as an Initiate, but now there was something decidedly mature and confident in him. It was his turn now. But before he could accept it, his sense came back to him. He could never be a Knight—not like this. "I am honored," he said, his voice quivering. After a deep breath, he continued, "But surely you can sense the emotional turmoil that is within me. These emotions are far too strong to be ignored, and I fear that I cannot control them. The Dark Side will prey upon these emotions should I undergo the Trials. I would be far too vulnerable to the Dark Side to proceed on this path in good conscience."
"There is some truth to this logic," Koon conceded. "But you cannot run from your emotions. You must understand and accept them."
"And I will," Obi-Wan assured them meekly. His voice strained as he continued. "But not as a Jedi Knight. I must focus all my attention upon healing. I cannot let myself be swayed by the sweet release of a mission to lose myself in."
Yoda's eyes narrowed. "Feel betrayed, you do," he finally said.
Obi-Wan's face wavered, his façade shaking in the presence of truth. "That is another reason why I must not be a Knight. I lack the ability to trust. Without trust, I cannot perform my duties successfully. I would be a risk to myself and those whom I serve."
The Council members all shifted, sighing amongst themselves. "We cannot force you to undergo the Trials. Nor can we keep you from leaving the Jedi," Windu said. "While your decision is understandable, and noble in a certain sense, it does bring us some regret."
"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan replied simply, casting his gaze downward.
"As are we," Windu rejoined minimally. "Are you sure you do not wish to postpone this decision a little longer? Perhaps meditate on it?"
It was like suicide—perhaps more cruel. Meditation would not change him. Nothing would—he was condemned to this fate—by what, he could not be sure, but he knew with absolutely certainty that he could not be saved from it. "This has been the only thing on my mind since returning from Naboo. My decision cannot be reversed. I am only sorry that I will not have the honor of serving with you any longer," Obi-Wan recited just has he had practiced. Taking his lightsaber from his belt, his hand quivering more than he had imagined, he walked over to Windu, holding the weapon out. The lightsaber was a weapon only for the Jedi, and leaving the Order meant relinquishing the weapon. He remembered hanging onto the edge of the reactor core on Naboo—the way his lightsaber had clattered past him, falling down and down. He had been carrying his master's ever since, he realized vaguely. His master had been carrying the remnant of the Sith's. Everything seemed backwards in that regard, but strangely right. His training had been founded on his master. To give up his training was giving up his master—exemplified now through the lightsaber. The action made his appeal complete.
Each of the Masters nodded politely. Windu took the lightsaber from the young man's hand. "May the Force be with you," Windu told him softly.
Obi-Wan just bowed in reply, trying to leave with his face composed. Tears stung the back of his eyes, threatening to spill over freely for the first time in a very long time. He felt numb and afraid. His stomach was queasy and his head light. The only thing he had ever wanted in his life was to be a Jedi Knight. That desire was his earliest childhood memory and it had propelled him through his entire existence—even up through the fight on Naboo his actions were anchored in the longing to be a Knight, to serve and protect as a Jedi. Now, right when that dream was to be realized, he was turning his back on it. And it wounded him nearly fatally.
Beginning to panic suddenly, his rational hold on his deviant emotions slipped. He wanted desperately to run back into the Council and tell them he was wrong, that he wanted to be a Knight. He was ready for the Trials; he was ready to move on. He thought of renouncing all the words he had carefully spoken, rejecting them completely and without reservation, leaving them forever behind him just like…He sighed. He would move on, but he could not move on to become a Knight.
Logic and reason always brought him back off that idealistic and childish craving. To become a Knight despite his current emotional handicap would not only be disastrous for his own personal sanity, but for the welfare of those entrusted to his care. He was a Jedi. His needs and wants came after those of whom he served. And, as his last act as a Jedi, he knew he had compromised his promise to the Order by clinging persistently to his emotions and wrapping himself tightly within his own grief. He perceived his training hollowly, and somehow he lacked the ability to trust anything, perhaps even the Force itself. And for that he would have to sacrifice his dreams. After all, dreams are not part of the Jedi way. Personal desires are not things to be indulged like that. He had to leave.
But maybe he could control his feelings; maybe he could let them go. Maybe he could still be an effective Jedi, he told himself, reciting the arguments of the Council. Obviously they saw something in him that he didn't, he tried to rationalize as he made his way to his quarters. But, inside, he knew that while they were infinitely wiser, their words would never cure his heart. It was something he had to do himself. Quite simply, he couldn't undergo the Trials because of his own inadequacies—he wasn't able to let his emotions go, he wasn't even able to accept them. He harbored fear, anger, resentment—everything that led directly to the Dark Side. The Code dictated that he just let these go. He couldn't. He had to leave.
Entering his quarters, he was barely aware of the world around him. The familiar Temple seemed distant and foreign. He heard the door shut behind him. Now in the solitude of his room, he felt his control weaken dangerously. He didn't make it two more steps before a choked sob escaped his lips. With his defenses breached, it all came tumbling out. Tears poured down his cheeks, and he sank slowly to his knees. He hadn't cried like this since he was very young. But the fear and pain in his soul overwhelmed him, and he could not stifle it any longer. Never in his life had he felt so alone or lost. The Order was lost to him now, and without it, without its journey to follow, he felt directionless and small. Despite his victory over the Sith, and all the other smaller victories along his path, and even all his defeats, he had nothing to show for his life. Sobbing on the floor, Obi-Wan felt completely defeated.