A/N: Hey now—last chapter. I know I'm excited. This is actually quite a feat for me. Usually whenever I start long stories I never finish them. But this story really does lend itself to a sequel so I guess I still have that over my head. But please don't hate me for this ending, just remember that I always intended a sequel, okay? I would really appreciate feedback and any suggestions for what you'd like to see in a sequel or whatnot. Anyway, for the last time, here's the chapter :)
Chapter 18
The morning came with a painful emptiness for Obi-Wan. A day used to represent an endless array of opportunities, simply waiting to be discovered. But this day, in all of the glory of the sun rising over Coruscant's high rise buildings, illuminating the ancient splendor of the Temple, represented a loss to him. The enigma of the day could not be denied, but for the first time in his life, he knew not how to embrace the day or seize its opportunities. He was no longer a Jedi. This being decided, he was no longer who he used to be. He no longer had a destiny.
All actions he performed now were purely mechanical, inspired by the dimly functioning "common sense" part of his brain. He pulled out his travel bag, opening it on his unmade bed. He then proceeded to the small dresser. There he carefully and methodically emptied the drawers of the bland Jedi robes, placing them inside the travel bag. When he was done with his scarce wardrobe, he moved to the small desk. As a Jedi, he had few personal belongings. There were several souvenirs from various missions he had been on, all with lessons he hoped to remember through the items. He had a small pile of holopics of various people—one of his parents and family, some of his childhood friends, and only two of his master and himself. Attachment was forbidden by the Code, but, activating one of the holopics, he suddenly realized how errantly simplistic that rule seemed. The picture showed himself, only a few years ago, standing with his master. They had just finished overseeing negotiations on the planet Veenar, which was trying to cure centuries of conflict. With the overwhelming success of the negotiations, the Veenarians insisted that the Jedi share in the celebration of the unity on the planet. There was a great festival, which Obi-Wan had been reluctant to enjoy, despite his childish yearnings to do so. But Qui-Gon had allowed them the freedom to relish the extravagances, something that Obi-Wan had found as a Jedi he did not often get to do. It had been the last purely carefree time he had shared with his master. And although they had both objected vocally when the Veenarian leaders insisted on photographing them at the festival, they had, in the end, agreed. The Veenari framed the picture and placed it in the new museum of history on the planet, and gave a copy to both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. Such meaningless trinkets and trivialities were not a part of the Jedi way, but to respect the culture of the Veenari, they each accepted to gift graciously.
Looking at their equally subdued smiles in the picture, Obi-Wan could almost see their bond manifested somehow between them. Attachment was forbidden by the Code, but attachment was the fundamental aspect of the Master/Apprentice relationship. He may have been able to keep himself from attachments to others throughout the galaxy, but he could never deny the innate attachment he had to his master.
Qui-Gon had brought him to adulthood. He had shown him the way of the Knight. He had taught Obi-Wan lessons of fighting and of life. He was like a father to him. Qui-Gon had cared for him when he was sick or injured, he had counseled him when he was scared or confused. He had seen Obi-Wan at his best and at his worse. Obi-Wan realized then that as a Padawan he had not only broken the rule about attachment, but he had shattered it into oblivion. He adored Qui-Gon—he respected him in the utmost and he turned to him for everything. He was the most important person in Obi-Wan's life.
But Qui-Gon, for all his wisdom and compassion, was not attached to him in this way. Obi-Wan knew his master—his former master—cared for him. But it was merely a deep bond of teacher and student. And although he may be a teacher forever, there would always be other students. This time, though, Qui-Gon had not just found a new student. He had found his prodigy.
Obi-Wan stopped himself. His thoughts were growing more angry, more bitter. He could not, even apart from the Jedi, indulge such feelings. They would lead to his downfall. A broken bond—even one as deep and important as the one he shared with Qui-Gon—surely did not justify forfeiting one's life or the Light.
He stuffed the picture unceremoniously into his travel bag, along with the few other personal items from his desk. He then emptied the small closet. Looking around the room, he noted that little seemed visibly different. It had lacked ornamentation to begin with and the removal of his possessions made little difference on the suddenly sterile walls. Making his bed quickly, he organized the sparse furniture mildly. Even if his future lacked order and reason, he could see no reason for this room to be the same. Besides, he wanted to leave the Jedi with dignity.
Although he shared the quarters with Qui-Gon, Qui-Gon was gone, off in deep meditation, he was told, in order to sort out all that had happened recently. He had not requested that Qui-Gon purposefully not be contacted, but Obi-Wan had no desire to tell his former master of his decision. Exiting his room, he poked around the well-kept living area to see if he had left anything else strewn around. He found a few textdocs that he decided to take, but not much else. Although he subconsciously was fighting it, he knew it was time to leave.
Setting his bag down, he went to the fresher. He showered briefly and quickly changed his clothes, dumping the old ones at the top of his stuffed travel bag. Although his short hair needed little management, he ran a comb through it out of habit. Then he saw himself in the mirror.
His face looked different than usual, although he could not detect in what way. Then he realized what looked out of place. His Padawan braid.
The braid and the small ponytail on the back of his head had been a part of him since the beginning of his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. They had represented all that he was and all that he aspired to learn. Although they were nothing more than symbols, they had become as much a part of him as his training had been. The braid was to be cut upon his knighting. Traditionally, it was cut by the master. It was to be a joyous and reflective celebration for both involved. It would signify the end of a relationship and the beginning of two new and separate lives.
But now…now they meant nothing. Their presence stood out awkwardly. Before he could leave, they would have to go.
Reaching to his boot, he slowly removed the hand knife he kept hidden. Holding the ponytail at the back of his head taut, he position the blade just so, and with a swift and strong movement, severed it from his head. Holding it in his hand, he numbly dumped it down the waste processor. He fondled the back of his head curiously, feeling strangely lighter as the remnant of the ponytail blended in with the rest of his cropped hair.
Next he moved to the braid. This task was much more difficult. While the ponytail was traditional, it held far less symbolic meaning than the braid. The braid was worn by every species of Jedi Padawan that had hair. The three strands of the braid each meant something. There was the strand of the apprentice—the strand that was started with. Then the strand of the master was added, to help the apprentice learn his way in life. And lastly, and most importantly, there was the strand of the Force. Without the Force, the apprentice and master can never form a bond, they can never be joined. The braid united them in a tradition that had spanned centuries. Cutting this braid meant that the unity was so ingrained, that it needed not the symbolic representation. It meant that not only did the need for the braid leave, but the need to follow around a master did as well. The bond was internalized, and the lessons of the master and the Force were carried within.
His hand trembled as he held the knife just below the braid. Tears burned behind his eyes, blurring his own image in the mirror. It had to be done. The bond was broken already. He was no longer Qui-Gon's Padawan, and he would never be a knight. Unable to look at his own features in the mirror, he squeezed his eyes shut, hardly noticing the tears that slipped out from his eyes. He could never get it back. Everything was different now. He had spent 25 years as a Jedi—a learner, an initiate, a Padawan. But it was over now. His future was marred by his own imperfections, just like the distorted image he had seen of himself through his tearful eyes. The bond was broken—irrevocably.
With a quick and decisive, yet wavering, movement, he slashed the braid, severing it from his head.
He opened his eyes. The braid hung limp in his hand. The bond was broken. It could never be replaced.
For a moment, he could not bring himself to part with it. He still wanted it—he craved it and perhaps even needed it for his own psychological stability. His dreams, his hopes, his aspirations—broken. His soul—broken. Broken like the bond between a master and an apprentice. Broken forever.
Numbly, he placed the braid on the sterile, white countertop. Then, without looking back, he left the refresher, grabbed his bags, and left the Temple, the braid still lying forlornly, abandoned on the countertop.
The Roads Diverge
The man on the hilltop now stops his dreaming for an indulgence of emotion. The Road hurt, more than he could have imagined. The future he was denied changed everything—this was just as he had hoped and envisioned—but he had not expected such drastic results.
But why not? For all his wisdom and his knowledge and his ability, could he not see such a simple truth? Time forever remains a continuum, stretching from an unfathomable, distant nowhere to yet another immeasurable, indistinct nowhere. This moment of life exists but for one fleeting instant, and then it is gone, bound forever in the continuum. It may pass without great consequence, it may fade from the memories of every being that lives, but it is still there. And it is still indubitably as necessary as any other moment that passes. For upon that moment—upon this very moment—the future is built. It is the fundamental building block for what is to come. Greatness or tragedy may follow in its wake, but whatever does ensue is inexorably linked to the moment. In this manner, no moment is greater than another. A moment when a war is won falls to the same fate as the moment of a hero's dying breathe or a man's breaking heart. Even if, by some lack of desire, we let the moment pass without action, it is still and forever as important as any other moment.
It is like a game of dominoes set up by some Divine Force. Each domino is set up in advance, extending as far and as long as the Force sees fit. He set them into motion, knocking one into another, into another, into another. From this point of view, while each domino may be colored in its own brilliant or drab hue, in the end it still falls to the next domino, thus determining its shade by its own. Moments are linked. If we go back and change just one domino just ever so slightly, it still casts a different shade upon the next domino, which then does the same for the next, and for the next. But where, he will always wonder, does this trail of dominoes end? And can only one domino change their course, or merely their color? Does this Divine Force continually place one domino in front of another making a fluid and malleable future? Or, the man cannot imagine, has the path already been decided? He can only see the falling dominoes, one after another, and how they have brought him here.
Is he better off this way? His hilltop vantage point seems safe—distanced and with a clear view. No road could be worse, he thought, than the one he had already lived. He would accept mental anguish and rejection long before he could accept the guilt of a galaxy torn apart. Surely, then, though he suffers so, it is better. It must be better. Can it be worse?
Only time would tell. And, alone on the sand blown hilltop, he had all the time in the world. So he gathered himself, stilled his wrenching heart and observed as the dominoes fall one by one, forming infinitely the Road not taken.
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And that's it! Yay! Well, kind of yay. I know that isn't exactly a happy ending for Obi-Wan and I don't mean to leave him so despondently but a happy ending just didn't fit into this story, you know? But now that it's at an end I just want to sincerely thank everyone who has reviewed at any point in this piece—it has meant the world to me. A special thanks again needs to go out to Mel for her continued support (you should all read her story "Hidden Shadows Seeking Light" if you're not reading it already—it's fabulous). Anyway, sequel wise, I've kind of started what I want to do already, but I'm worried about how you'll all respond to it. Like I said when I started this, this little saga is supposed to span all through the prequels and perhaps even longer (but I'm not so sure if I really want it to go that far…). I could just skip ahead to Episode II timeframe, but what I really want to do is take up the time between the end of TPM and AoTC. I don't know. It's hard to explain without giving all the plot away. But I would love suggestions. A sequel will be awhile in the making, but hopefully not too long if I can get my creative juices flowing and can get my schoolwork done expeditiously. Thanks again for all the support—this has truly been a fabulous experience for me and that has a lot to do with you guys who read and respond to my story. Until I write again—thanks!