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Twelve: No Other Reasons

I know it's impossible to be a full-blooded Jedi, to purge every human tendency that doesn't fit the mold. In short, perfection is something not even the 'defenders of the galaxy' can attain. Sometimes I think my apprentice would argue that-especially early into our relationship, when I was the mysterious rogue, the aloof Master, a man whose missions were studied in the textbooks the child read. Maybe Obi-Wan's not a child anymore (I must have indigestion, there's a strange burning in my heart right now) but I'm still the same man, for the most part. I'll never be able to rid the last traces of hero worship from his eyes when he looks at me.

A lovely feeling, to be so respected by him, even when it wasn't deserved.

But with that awed gaze comes responsibility (I better watch it or I'll start stealing that little troll's maddening syntax too). I must be the upstanding example after which he'll model his own life.

I wouldn't want Obi-Wan to experience what I am this moment, with T'hle'a's accusations branded in my brain, sizzling with tendrils of smoke. Because I'm not the ideal Jedi paragon currently, not when my fingers are dangerously close to curling into fists and a ragged yell is rising in my throat.

I'm a Master of this Order, I hold its ideals above all others.

But gods what wouldn't I give to let go, just long enough to scream, to release all this anger, not to the Force, but to the open air?

I sigh, glancing at a chrono mounted above the door.

After the horrendous encounter with T'hle'a, I guess I let myself believe it actually went on as long as it felt. I thought for sure Obi-Wan would be released from class by now.

I study the chronometer, the digital colon blinking in such a rhythm that my teeth are on edge.

He will be out soon, but soon is never soon enough, is it? Not when you're waiting, and the wait becomes a monotonous tunnel you travel, the road flat and shadow all around, riding and riding with unchanging scenery and only your thoughts to maintain sanity until not even your own musings are enough and you wonder if there was ever a world before the tunnel or beyond it….

Then, the light approaches, the door begins to open…

And I can breathe again. The Padawans file out the room, in pairs or groups, laughing or talking, heading toward the Dining Hall. Among the throng of friends is Obi-Wan, visibly separate from them, his eyes moving from some spot on the floor to my face.

He gives a timid smile and I walk over to meet him.

"How was class?" I inquire as we begin to walk.

He clears his throat. "Good."

Silence then, a flagrant opportunity to ask about the speech.

But why do I need to? I tried to explain to that woman, he's weak from his recuperation. She didn't believe me and maybe she's seen him now and then, but she doesn't see the dark circles under his eyes or how he'll sleep restlessly, kicking his blankets down around his feet.

There can be no other reason. But--no…There can be no other reason.

See what's she's doing, with all her suspicions and diluted theories?

I don't want to be absorbed by my worry. I want him to be nearby, so that I can teach him and guide him, without distraction.

I will not even consider any other reasons for his rejection of the speech.

He doesn't need the worry either.

"Maybe…Maybe tonight we could go to the Gardens, Master." He suggests, folding his cloaked arms across his chest, as if it were cold. "Or the fountains."

Larger space is more difficult to secure, it's not like the relatively small rooms with four walls and a window. The Room of a Thousand Fountains has that cement floor that's loose in areas.

"We'll see, Padawan." I say, resting my hand on his shoulder, already knowing the answer.