Two: What If…?
Tonight will be different.
I swear it will be.
Since this morning, when I shuffled stiffly from his bedroom as he began to awaken, I've repeated the declaration.
While rubbing my dry, aching eyes, I made the silent promise. As I lathered my hair for the second time (Isn't it funny how one can so easily forget the first?) the decision was reached.
It isn't that the fear has left me. Far from it. If it were possible, if I could accomplish it without raising any eyebrows (or questions of my sanity) I'd knock down the blasted wall that separates our quarters. Then there'd be no need to sit in the dead silence, night after night, guarding against unseen enemies. Because he'd be so much closer then--
How close was he when they took him?
The truth impales me, and a great frustration wells inside.
What solutions can there be?
Protecting him is my purpose. For awhile, in the tender beginning, that wasn't nearly as clear to me. I didn't regard him as a miracle then…not until he performed one of his own.
After all, curing blindness, in any form, is remarkable.
In the early stages of our partnership, I shielded him from bodily harm, of course. It was the core duty of a Jedi-to preserve life-and I performed what was necessary of a Master. What the Council expected me to do.
But I…I didn't do what he expected me to do.
What was necessary of a friend.
Or father.
I gulp down a lump in my throat.
Hmm. I guess these recollections of mine are hard to swallow.
I might've laughed at such a coincidence--before. Today, I can detect no humor in it. As I think further, I realize that lately I've found little cause to smile or chuckle.
Unless he is laughing. Through him, I can. Even if it's a mere smirk tugging at his lips.
Otherwise, the Universe is a place rampant with dangers, dark corners, threats. Degenerates that would slit a throat if only to watch the resulting line of blood drip.
And damn it. I'm doing it again.
He's sitting in the living area, on the worn-out, battered couch that used to resemble Calliamian caramel in color, but has faded considerably.
I don't mind.
If it were to look pristine and untouched, it'd be a stale, emotionless piece indeed.
With its various stains and creases and one very noticeable rip, one can tell that there is someone who leans on the overstuffed arms, who dozes on the soft cushions after a marathon viewing of dramatic (and romantic, I always tease) holo vids, the bowl of sticky sweets still clutched in two equally sticky hands.
Someone who occasionally runs across it, or leaps over it, much to the counterfeit fury of his Master.
This evening that someone is pressed into the sofa's corner, engrossed in an old historical tome that once belonged to my teacher, then to me.
And, though I haven't confirmed it aloud yet, he knows the dusty book will be a new fixture on the shelf in his room. Not a permanent one, for when he has a Padawan of his own the tradition will be continued.
But that won't be for quite awhile.
A fool's comfort, I acknowledge, as I study his face from the kitchen unit, where I'm preparing dinner. The countenance retains a boyish quality, due to the roundness of his cheeks and the spiky hairstyle, but his eyes carry a fierce maturity, an intelligence that sets him apart.
The child-like features have helped me elude what I know is looming. The incredible talents, though, work constantly to destroy that.
I've taught him well, Yoda tells me on occasion, usually after viewing an impressive kata performance, or watching him interact with a group of adoring, wide-eyed initiates.
"Much to learn he still has, Master Qui-Gon. But, in young Kenobi already, I see the brilliance of a great Knight."
What pride I feel when I hear such praise, especially when it's the hard-earned sentiment of an oft-reserved, cryptic little troll.
Yes, I've trained him to be a warrior, a mediator, maybe even a savior.
But in the years it's taken, I've surpassed the role of mentor to him.
As a father, standing here observing him as he peers closer at a passage, I don't want him to go.
And in the Jedi mindset, it's the worst betrayal of my own specific obligations. The goal of a Master is simple: to train a Padawan until they are sufficiently skilled to obtain Knighthood. The Code dictates it as black and white.
Oh, but I can't stay within those strident limits, not when there is a swirling melange of color to behold. Beyond the deepest dark and purest light, I can see a shimmering palate of reds, greens…blue.
Blue when he glances up at me, shining blue. "Master, how old do you think this is?"
I pause, considering. "Well, it's at least as old as my Master, so…I'd say a century or so."
He grins widely at that, and laughs a rich, velvet, slightly uneven laugh he only uses in moments of inhibition.
I smile before forcing my gaze to return to grating cheese, knowing that I would gladly listen to that sound for much longer than it lasted.
Maybe---Maybe to make up for the months where this atmosphere was devoid of his warmth, and his silvery chuckles were a memory.
I know that he couldn't have had reason to laugh during his captivity.
So I hope that he cherishes it now, as I do.
Because who knows how long we have…He can never be safe. There'll always be something…There'll always be something.
And I can't help but look up at him again, caressing the auburn spikes and creased forehead without a touch. My hands are quivering as badly as my heart.
What if we never have another evening of this peace?
What if this is the calm before another storm?
The moment of normalcy that leads into total, gut-wrenching chaos.
The metal grater slips from my fingers, clattering to the counter.
His voice lifts from the silence, concerned.
"Master, is anything wrong? Do you need some help?"