Thanks to those who are reading and replying. It means so much to me. -LuvEwan

Six: On Guard

The cafeteria is always teeming with life forms. At any given hour, well, waking hour anyway, there'll be at least a handful of Jedi seeking a hot meal or hot mug of caffe. Outside this spanning room, most time is dedicated to study and physical practice. Padawans remain with their Masters or various instructors.

But when they reach the dining hall, there's an unspoken freedom. Old friends gather at tables, while the younger sector trickle away from their teachers to form clusters-I refuse to say 'cliques'- in which to chat, laugh and eat.

I glimpse Bant and Garen seated with their trays loaded. Padawan Muln joined a special flight unit of the Order, and is rarely at the main Temple anymore. I know how close he is to my apprentice, the tightly knit bond between them. One wouldn't need to be informed of their lifelong fraternity to know that--both sets of eyes dance with laughter, the refreshed memory of a thousand shared jokes, before they ever speak a word to each other. If the Jedi are lucky enough to be considered family to Obi-Wan, then Garen is, without a scrap of doubt, his brother. I expect then for Obi-Wan to join the two friends with his usual eagerness (I think he talks more than he ever eats) but instead, he stays at my side after we finish assembling our meals.

I can't say that I'm disappointed, nowhere near that, and I weave through the maze of benches and tables, choosing a spot against the wall. This is no flippant decision either--when you're on constant alert, it's a small relief to have one less direction to monitor.

It's right at the peak of day and characteristically busy. A mixture of aromas run thick and warm in the air. Stew is prevalent, maybe because it's the main dish on my own plate, but there's also the steam of vegetables and the sweet scent of baked bread. The din of clattering utensils and swell of voices reaches a high level. I have to wonder if everyone has followed my Padawan's example, and foregone their food entirely in favor of loud conversation.

Rather ridiculous, I think. If something happened, who could hear over the noise?

The jittery panic almost reaches my heart, but I grip my glass, forcing the energy to my fingers instead.

Gods, why would anything happen here?

I wait for a rational voice to respond, to assure the illogical side of my brain that nothing could happen. To counter, in a calm, slightly irritated tone, that tragedy struck in countless places, but never here, for Force's sake, in the damn Temple cafeteria!

But I'm given no negation.

I look up at Obi-Wan. He spears a chunk of tangy fruit, then twists the fork, spreading droplets of juice around his plate, but never bringing the morsel to his mouth. His eyes are fixed on some spot on the floor. This isn't so unusual. As much as he can surrender to silly, enthusiastic behavior, he can become an introvert, speaking very little, consumed by his thoughts and unaffected by his surroundings. Even as a restless, impulsive child, he's done this. I won't lie and say this never unsettled me. It's quite puzzling to see a boy with limbs too gangly for his body and strikingly innocent eyes, a sprite too tender yet to understand many aspects of nature and life, who can delve so deeply into his private realm of thought, and create an expression of utter intensity and maturity on his face.

He's older, and he still can project that visage. But now, it leaves lines that make him appear…too weathered.

I think this is a sign of worry. He takes after me in that way. Brooding. But he's not the pacing back and forth, wear a ring in the carpet sort. He's silent, motionless in his apprehension. Which is why he can elude those who would offer him comfort.

Another similarity between us. We hold our pain away from others--or we try.

This is fine for me. The concerns that plague me are my own, as they should be.

But him…I brush my hand against his, bringing him up from the dregs of his reverie. HE shouldn't have to suffer in quiet. "How is it?"

An impressive opener, I know.

He smiles. "Good." He's about as eloquent as I am this afternoon, but the word is almost elegant when tinged by his cultured, distinct accent.

I'm tempted to ask why he didn't seek out Bant and Garen, if he even saw them among the throng of eaters, but I'd rather be clueless to that than have to guard him from a further distance. It's better for him to be near. Better that I hear clearly that dulcet voice.

He takes a short drink, then "How is your food, Master?"

I suddenly find that in my analysis of his missing appetite, I've completely neglected my own. "Same as always." I answer with a chuckle, taking a quick bite. "Does it ever really change?"

Obi-Wan smiles again, seeming a bit eased by conversation. "No, unfortunately."

I laugh at that--maybe harder than was warranted, if only to push back the silence.

The sun streams through a high window, and sets his coppery hair a fair, glowing color…

And merciful Force, the angle is just so precise, hits him with a painful exactness…

Mere hours before he was…he was taken, we attended a stuffy buffet as guests of the newly reinstated President, on the planet Ejhlon. We had aided in uncovering an impeachment process as fraudulent, conducted without moral motive.

The Vice President was not among us that night, awaiting arraignment for his instrumental part in the crime.

After a grateful, ardent speech from the leader thanking us for our help, we were assailed with decadence. Tender, expensive meats, rich desserts and sparkling wines, all at our disposal.

Once we were seated, Obi-Wan began to laugh good-naturedly at the extremity of the man's appreciation.

I explained that he couldn't lawfully repay us, so the meal was his form of reciprocation.

"Well, even if we WERE allowed to accept payment, I think I'd rather have this." He grinned, and stuffed half a crisp, buttered croissant in his mouth.

I alternated between being mortified by his slip in manners and amused by the deliberate exaggeration.

The sun was beating down on the outdoor party, circumfusing him with warm light, especially at the gold-dappled tips of his hair.

Much like it is now.

I couldn't have known then, how could I have?

Things were going smoothly. The food was delicious, the talk was light and injected with bouts of laughter. When the final pair of drinks were presented to us, I accepted them without thought, even…

Oh stars…Even handing him his tumbler of juice and crushed ice.

But he didn't sense the danger either.

He wasn't a Master, though, was he?

No new revelations. On the contrary, I've agonized over each moment since that morning I woke to an aching neck and an empty room.

But no matter how many times I've considered the events of that day, it still hurts as sharply as the first.

I can't chase the pain away. I need it to be with me, within me, cutting at my heart and clenching in my chest.

So that I don't fail again.

So he can feel the sun, as he is now, and not the chill of captivity.

There's no guarantee that something will happen, while we sit here feigning an interest in our dishes, but I've learned the opposite is also true: I have no promise that something won't.