Sith Lord Darth Revan Thank you! I always worry about characterization with Obi-Wan, even though he's the character I write the most, hands down. You'd think I'd start getting used to it.

Ccino Sometimes, cliffhangers are inevitable. Heck, sometimes a month and a half long cliffhanger is inevitable, when you switch computers and lose files!

Ewan's girl I'm sorry for the lack of updates. I'm going to get jumpstarted on this, once I'm back from vacation. It's harder now, with work. Thank you so much for reading.

CYN I've erased all that junk. Thanks for clearing it up for anyone that might've read/experienced that unpleasantness. And thank you for reading, especially with your busy schedule.

Fudge I guess Qui-Gon's a Master of Delusion? starts laughing uncontrollably, then blushes Okay, I'll stop now. Thanks for your review, as always.

Audreidi I couldn't hope to be in the same class as some of the writers around here, but thanks. I think we'll be hearing a lot from Yoda in the coming chapters-and flashbacks.

Dracula's Lair Yeah, good ol' Palps...I love writing him.

Athena I think I sent you a PM about that. I'm scatterbrained sometimes. I've forgotten some of my best friends over at before when I was reviewing. But I apologize again, and grovel at your feet. I think Palps can handle Qui-Gon and Yoda-for now. Moohoohaha.

O

The eldest and most revered member of the Jedi Order stood, obviously stricken to stillness, with eyes coated in glaze, on the steps leading to the entrance of the medical center.

Qui-Gon stepped through the doors , and at once wanted to bask in the security, the very essence, of the Master. The wisps of snow swept over the ridged skull, the twitching of drooped ears, the tiny hands clasping the gimer stick. The only real constant of his generation lay in the small creature. Yoda was Yoda, despite the unfurling of all manner of darkness, resistant of change or degradation.

His rapture was short-lived, however. Shadow densely rung those weary eyes, and the hesitation of the dwarfish body was intensely unsettling. What had halted the Master from taking the last few steps?

The considerably taller Jedi knelt, so that they were roughly eye-level. "It's very good to see you, Master."

Yoda stared off a little longer, then blinked with a strange suggestion of pain, and looked at Qui-Gon. "Good it is, to see you." He cleared his throat, but only succeeded in sharpening the rasp, "Feared for you, I did."

Qui-Gon glanced down and swallowed. Already, they were to the abhorrent topic. It was all he saw, all he breathed, all that he could consume. The hunger had shrunk away in his stomach; the exhaustion was now burned into thoughtless custom. If he had hoped for an inch of reprieve, he had been selfish-and denied. "Thank you for coming so quickly. Do you...you have the--"

Yoda raised his hand, to quiet the fumbling, and produced the object of Qui-Gon's inquiry. The collar was not of the variety that one found piled in the Temple, to be attached and unattached with ease. In this case, a clumsy, thick shackle wouldn't be sufficient.

It was state-of-the-art, misleadingly slender and seamless, with a single vein of electric blue running through the center. The suppressor could have been mistaken as a mere cosmetic, a physical decoration akin to a necklace.

But jewelry could be removed with a quick twitch of a clasp. Once secured, the collar rooted itself in the bodily systems, leaching the inherent power of midicholorians from the blood stream, and rendering the wearer completely Force-blind. It was a dangerous extreme, so much that it was cordoned to its own storing cube, in its own section of the Temple Undergrounds. The only safe method of extraction was surgical, to be performed by chosen few members of the Healing staff. There was no way of neutralizing the theft, even when attempted by the most gifted of Force adepts. Due to the severity of the instrument, use was incredibly rare, and little was known about the lasting effects of the deprivation.

Of course, they couldn't march into the hospital and snap it around Obi-Wan Kenobi's neck...yet. They would need to wait. Otherwise, the combination of injury and Force-loss could prove fatal.

Neither Yoda nor Qui-Gon needed research to ascertain that ugly truth.

Qui-Gon ended his short inspection of the collar with a shudder quivering up his backbone. "I never hoped to see that so closely in my lifetime."

A small, sadly ironic smile. "Neither did I."

Qui-Gon felt a brief impulse to touch the accursed tool, "It holds unspeakable power."

"No." Yoda corrected. "Merely take away unspeakable power, it can. Divider it is, between life, and the glow of life in the Force. A strangler of the spark."

And Qui-Gon nodded his agreement, imagining the luminosity disintegrate among the ash in his former apprentice's eyes. If that's what it comes to, then he's surely earned it.

Yoda rested his hand against a wrinkled temple. "A mighty burden, it will be."

Qui-Gon watched the age-worn features intently, and prayed that, in this moment of exhaustion and resurrected heartache, he would be spared the usual cryptic undertones. "What will be, Master?"

But it seemed the Universe was in an especially vindictive mood, and the High Councilor shook his head. "Mighty--and terrible."

Then, he began to hobble inside, and there was a thunderclap in Qui-Gon's lungs. "Master!" He called.

The slow shuffling stopped.

Qui-Gon moved forward. "I feel I must warn you. He doesn't--He doesn't look the same. He doesn't look like the boy we knew."

"Simple, that is, to explain, Master Qui-Gon." The currents of wisdom deepened in Yoda's countenance, "A man, he is. And the boy?

"Perhaps the attempt was never made, to know him truly."

The doors parted to admit the newcomer, and Qui-Gon paused, the same old ghosts, with their new words of haunt, crowding at his shoulders.

O

Anakin drummed his fingers together anxiously. A clashing rhythm was sounding in his heart, comprised of high, slapping-sharp notes and tremulous little beats.

But no one could hear that conflict and for that he was grateful.

He stood beside Padme and watched for Qui-Gon's return. He was beginning to recognize that in order to achieve any semblance of calm, he needed the Jedi Master. Not only in spirit, but in form, in nearness. Otherwise, he was lost beyond the salvation of immediacy, and the tracks of passing banthas couldn't distract him from the looming uncertainties.

Anakin hated that feeling. He didn't want his skin to prickle or his eyes to water in regret. It would be the same as turning his back on the man who rescued him from a lifetime of hardship and bondage.

How could he betray Qui-Gon with such thoughts?

He wouldn't. He wanted to be a Jedi. The passion was there, to be the embodiment of a thousand Tatooine dreams, a symbol of honor and strength. But he wasn't a towering, noble figure like Master Jinn. He wasn't even as civilized as Padawan Chun. He'd lived every day of his life with a dirt-smudged face, though he always had his mother to wet her thumb and wipe some of it off.

Jedi didn't have parents. Anakin did. Would that make things worse? Would that make him...weak?

A blush burned inside him. Was that how he was supposed to think of his mom now? A weakness? He sighed.

He had a feeling Jedi lived very complicated lives.

O

Palpatine surveyed the boy quietly. Unrest. A watchword of his creed. A single splinter. The loose thread, that allowed everything to unravel much easier.

O

The dust clouded in his eyes, and for a moment, he was veiled from the enormity of the scene. The departing ship was lost beneath swirling grit, and the cry spiking in his throat was stolen by dry, bitter hands. He swallowed and nearly choked.

He stood in the billowing aftermath long after the dirt drifted down again. He didn't notice the film over his skin, or the bloody knick in his cheek from a tiny uprooted stone.

In that slender interval of time, while he was at the nexus of the tempest, the pain was dulled, and he existed in the moment, not needing to remember what-or who-had brought him there.

It wasn't until his eyes were clear that he realized.

He wasn't a Jedi. He wasn't part of the whole.

He was alone.

And he was a hole, a gaping ache that lurched inside, and could never be filled.

Obi-Wan's eyelids parted to allow warm rivers to pass. When he closed them once more, he could feel the damp cut of lashes, and rubbed hard to end the sensation.

It was still night, thickly night, and his body lay heavy against the molding grass. He remained still, hoping that his mind could be dragged to the dense lower levels with the rest of him, and grant him a few hours more of sleep. A chill ground in his bones, of which he was becoming accustomed. His only protection from nature was his cloak. It saved him from shivers, but little else. His tunic was soiled with debris and sweat. The plaited coil that had once been as precious to him as his breath was ratted and slowly coming undone. He would need to cut it off—as soon as his heart reached that point in its galvanization.

Until then, the braid was a snake brushing over his flesh, whispering of betrayal. So it was always a shock to wake covered in something like fever-sweat, clutching the symbol of his failed life.

He was never able to settle back into the lull, after that.

His eyes snapped open, to watch the scatter of throbbing stars, and he knew tonight would prove no different.

It had been a month-he thought, though he couldn't be sure-and unconsciousness had taken leave, a friend that was sorely missed. In its absence, Obi-Wan huddled in his robe and was the victim of explicit torture.

The dreams. But they weren't dreams, just fragments of fresh memory. They came to him in those rare instances of respite, and would stay with him as the sun rose...and fell.

The words were scorched anew, deeper, into his mind. His former Master's words were the dismal anthem that played repeatedly. Obi-Wan could recite the entire tirade with flawless accuracy. Sometimes he would, his mouth moving in silent murmuring.

The dreams roused him from relief, and forced him into coherency. When dawn was far away, he understood what he had done. The Padawan Learner in Obi-Wan was dead, and he gripped the blood-stained blade layered, too, by the vitality of Qui-Gon Jinn's veins.

He had wronged himself and the man who was willing to give him reprieve from a farmer's life.

And for what? An endless wander through a void worse than crop fields, hands sullied and heart unbound?

Cerasi was dead, and there was new blood to drench the steel, for he hadn't been strong or quick enough to prevent it. She was gone, and he was gone away from them all, banished of his own accord to the outskirts. The Young were glad for it. They were tired of failure.

So was he.

He shouldn't have been surprised. There were others-teachers, Padawans, Bruck-who wouldn't be. He stumbled through life with a clumsiness that was incurable. He was without grace, and now, there was no Jedi Order to cushion him.

Obi-Wan turned onto his side; stray images fluttered his thoughts.

The day of his spar in the Temple arena. The stands had been cramped with attentive eyes. It was the first set of duels between the new Padawans, to be followed by regular and Senior apprentice matches. But more importantly, it had been the moment that would separate him from his old reputation. It would finally bury the Agricorps talk that still permeated his station as Master Jinn's student.

He would be accepted, at last, among his peers.

Everything had been going well. Strikes were blocked, advances were successful. Until Padawan Ki'ja initiated a forceful attack that left him a little off-balance.

And he tripped. On her foot.

No one had seen the fire ignited in his cheeks, because once his face hit the mat, he didn't lift it again. Not even in recoil, when the winning blow smarted the base of his neck. The focus was shifted to a fight in the next section, and he was left to all but crawl from the place in defeat. His only spot of luck was that his Master hadn't been there to witness the embarrassment.

He ran through the corridors and raced up the stair.

When he reached his room, he was panting and bathed in perspiration. He flung himself on the bed and pressed his blazing face into a pillow.

It hadn't been ten minutes when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and first considered smothering himself with said pillow.

"It isn't the end of the Universe, you know."

His insides twisted and flexed. How could Qui-Gon have already found out?!

"Now, if your pants had fallen down, the Universe would have crumbled, no doubt about it. Nothing on any planet, anywhere, would have been salvageable. That would've been it. So I, for one, am grateful you stumbled. It's a much smaller tragedy, in comparison."

Obi-Wan could hear the humor sparkling in those eyes and was thoroughly annoyed. Worse, he was irritated at himself for being annoyed, which only compounded his mortification at what had happened.

Suddenly, he was very tired, and wanted to sink somewhere in the middle of the mattress, rather than deal with any of it.

As if Qui-Gon could hear every syllable of the inner dialogue, he sobered. "It really isn't as bad as you think it is, Obi-Wan. There isn't a Jedi in history who hasn't tripped over a foot or two."

Obi-Wan groaned.

Fingers traveled through his limp, wet hair. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, up until that moment, you did brilliantly."

The statement managed to turn Obi-Wan's head, and he looked up at the bearded face with open shock. "What?" He swallowed, "You were there?"

"I was late, so I didn't have the best seat. The Council meeting ended rather abruptly...when I left." The man smiled. "I had to find out for myself if all those hours of training had added up to anything."

The spark fled Obi-Wan, and he dropped his gaze.

Qui-Gon cupped his chin. "You were amazing, Obi-Wan. More than I imagined. You looked weightless."

"And then I tripped."

"Yes, you did."

Obi-Wan winced.

"But you're thirteen years old. I don't think you'll be expelled for it. It was a mistake, Obi-Wan. A small mistake made during a practice match. And what is a mistake, if not an opportunity to learn?"

The boy sighed, staring at the ceiling. "People always call me clumsy. Bruck...always calls me clumsy. And now Oafy-Wan's at it again." He fought the welling moisture, but when he blinked, it began to roll down his cheeks.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon reached for him, and wrapped him in tender arms, "You aren't perfect. No one expects you to be. No one wants you to be. Flaws are as much a part of you as your talents. They're what you're made of. It's what makes you Obi-Wan Kenobi, and no one else. I wouldn't want you to be anything else."

Obi-Wan's breath hitched, and he wound his arms around his teacher's neck.

He was accepted, in the only way that truly mattered.

He watched the moon leech the color from the dead grass, and hated the memory. Hated how it taunted him, hated how it made him long for that companionship, hated how he had begun to believe his errors were nothing to be ashamed of.

He was Obi-Wan Kenobi, with all the clumsiness and selfish blind spots.

But it wasn't what he wanted to be.

O