Candles Against the Sea
Chapter 3: Explanation

Obi-Wan clipped his lightsaber on his belt and knelt by the little fellow, carefully touching the shaking shoulder. He spoke gently and quietly, hoping not to frighten the child, who was obviously used to mistreatment. "Hey, are you all right? Can I help you?"

The boy started at the fleeting touch, and peeked at the Jedi with one dark eye, head hidden beneath the frail protection of his skinny arms. His clothes hung on him in rags, and Obi-Wan could see dark bruises and livid abrasions through the rends in his tunic. His hair was dark, shaggy, and unkempt, but his one visible eye was sharp with intelligence and wit.

And fear, which slowly faded as the child studied the young Jedi. "You . . . you ain't gonna hurt me?"

Obi-Wan shook his head vigorously. "No, never. It's wrong to hurt little ones."

The boy slowly straightened a bit, sitting with his shoulders hunched against the wall, still watching him as if waiting for a blow. "Yeah, 'm a little one."

"How old are you?"

The boy held up seven grubby fingers.

"I'm thirteen, and my name is Obi-Wan. What's yours?"

"Nibbi. 'M a street vrelt. Dirty. You look like you came from uptown. Don't wanna be 'round here, lemme tell ya."

Obi-Wan sat cross-legged on the filthy pavement, still meeting that frank gaze, as if challenging the little boy to tell him he couldn't handle himself here. "Do you want me to go away? I would rather not, for a little while."

Nibbi drew his knees up to his chest and regarded the Padawan soberly. "No, you don't hafta go if you don't wanna. I like you."

Obi-Wan grinned. "Thank you. I like you too."

"You made the big boys go away."

"Yes. I'd like to make them leave you alone for good. That was cruel, their deciding to knock you around just because they could. Do they often do that?"

The child's small sigh held far too much weariness and pain, as if he had seen enough sorrows for a dozen lifetimes. "Yeah. Ev'y time they see me. I usually hide when I see 'em comin', but I wasn't fast enough this time."

"I'm sorry, Nibbi. Why do they hurt you?"

Small shoulders lifted in a painful shrug, a wince crossing the hunger-hollowed face. "'Cause I don't wanna give 'em the credits I beg. 'Cause I got in their way this one time, called the constables when they was tryin' to rob this old Bothan who wandered down here from uptown. But mostly just 'cause I'm here."

Obi-Wan felt terribly helpless. "I'm sorry, Nibbi." That one phrase just wasn't enough to express how sorry he was, how his outrage rose against a galaxy that would allow innocents to suffer like this, how he had to fight to release his anger to the Force. "Nibbi, why are you on the street?"

The boy's expression suggested that Obi-Wan had just asked for an explanation of why nerfs did not give birth to rancors. "'Cause I don't got no home."

"Well, yes, I gathered that, but the information I read indicated that Sylelius had a very good charity and foster system in place. Why aren't you being taken care of?"

Nibbi's dark eyes stared away over Obi-Wan's right shoulder, distant and troubled. "Was in a foster house after my mama and papa died. Wasn't no good. The dad liked his belt too much, and the mom, she thought there wasn't nuff food to go 'round, so I usually got nothin'. I ran away. Don't wanna go back, no never nuh uh. I hide when the constables come lookin' for charity cases. 'M never goin' back. This's better."

Obi-Wan sighed deeply, unwilling to imagine a home so horrible that the street was better. It was amazing that the little boy had trusted him this quickly and completely, sharing his story so freely. He had hoped that a quiet, kind conversation would open the child up enough to let the Padawan touch him. Now was probably as good a time as any to test that idea.

"Thank you for telling me, Nibbi," he said gently. "Will you let me see where they hit you? It must hurt a lot."

The dark, troubled gaze met his again. The boy seemed to shrink against the wall, studying the Jedi with sharp suspicion. Obi-Wan restrained another sigh. It hadn't worked.

But after a moment the boy uncurled from his fetal position, moving rather stiffly, and crawled over to sit in the young Jedi's lap. With pure, child-like trust, he leaned sideways against the thirteen-year-old's chest. "I like you," he whispered. "An awful lot."

"And I like you an awful, awful lot," Obi-Wan whispered in his ear. "Now, come on, let's pull that tunic up and see what's going on."

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Qui-Gon stood at the window, gazing out at the drizzly street lit now by streetlamps as the last light of the sun faded in the west. The reception had started ten minutes ago. Obviously, he and Obi-Wan were going to be late. If Obi-Wan even showed up.

Qui-Gon turned away from the window with a sigh. It had been raining for thirty minutes now. Surely Obi-Wan had started walking back as soon as it started. How far away had he gotten?

The Jedi Master reached along the bond, but Obi-Wan had raised his shields again, not as tight as they had been at the beginning, but not as loose as they had been for perhaps five minutes there in the middle, either. Something was definitely going on. Yet he did not sense danger. There was darkness out there, certainly, as there was darkness everywhere. But it was nothing unusual.

After another ten minutes, Qui-Gon commed Ambassador Grenik and told him that the Jedi would not be at the reception. Their presence had been optional, anyway—no harm done. But that small fear in his heart was slowly blooming into full-grown paranoia. What was taking the boy so long? He fought it down, allowing just a hint of irritation to replace it. Had Obi-Wan overstepped his bounds?

Qui-Gon was just grabbing his robe to head out himself when the door finally opened, and there stood Obi-Wan on the mat, soaked and dripping, shoulders slumped. He eyed Qui-Gon warily, as if waiting for a reprimand.

But the Master was too surprised to reprove . . . yet. "Padawan, what have you been up to? Where is your robe? Why are you spattered with mud? And—" He took a hesitant step forward, barely able to believe what he was seeing. "You have a black eye! Force, Obi-Wan, don't you dare tell me you ran into a door! What happened?"

Obi-Wan shook himself slightly, water spattering from his sodden garments. He brushed a hand through his spiky hair, pushing water down to drip on his neck, and tried to keep his teeth from chattering with minimal success. "It's a l-l-long story, M-Master."

Qui-Gon stared at his wayward apprentice for a moment, wavering between concern and irritation. The fatigue in the boy's face finally decided him. "Obi-Wan, get out of those wet clothes immediately. Take a hot shower and put on something warm and dry, then come out here prepared to tell me every last detail of this long story."

"Y-Yes, Master." Obi-Wan bowed slightly, gratitude evident in voice and expression, and departed to follow Qui-Gon's orders to the letter.

Qui-Gon went to the suite's kitchenette and made some tea. He had two mugs ready and waiting when Obi-Wan emerged, dressed in sleepwear, reddish-sandy hair sticking up strange places. His face was too pale for the Master's liking, and the black eye stood out in ghastly silhouette. It was a lovely big shiner, already displaying a mix of purple, green, black, and sickly brown that almost made Qui-Gon ill just to look at. Force, what had Obi-Wan gotten himself into? A lot of strength and anger had gone into that punch.

Obi-Wan accepted the mug Qui-Gon offered with a quiet, "Thank you, Master," and sank onto the couch. He seemed to melt into the cushions, relaxing for the first time in hours or days.

"Where did you go?" Qui-Gon began, keeping his voice neutral.

"Um . . . I think I ended up on Onorda Street for a while. Wandered about a bit. Met a few people."

"Did you go outside the six-block radius I prescribed?"

Obi-Wan eyed him guiltily. "Only for a little bit, and I had a good reason."

Qui-Gon sat up straight in agitation. "Obi-Wan, I will not accept excuses."

"But if you'll listen to my reason—" Obi-Wan started and sat up as well, irritation flaming in his voice.

"Padawan!" Qui-Gon was abruptly stern and quiet, reining himself in. "Reasonable disobedience is one thing, but blatant disrespect is quite another."

The boy deflated immediately, leaning back against the couch, his face flushing with shame. "Yes, Master," he said meekly. "I'm sorry, Master. I did not mean to be disrespectful."

It hadn't been disrespect, Qui-Gon realized belatedly, sitting back as well. It had been frustration brought on by extreme weariness and his own sharp tone. The momentary flare in his apprentice had drained completely away, leaving a deep, worrying exhaustion. "Obi-Wan, what have you done in the past two hours to wear you out so completely? You look like you haven't slept in days, while just before your walk you seemed to have enough extra energy to power a city."

Obi-Wan sighed. "I'm afraid I used a number of rather difficult Force skills that I do not have complete control over, and they took a lot out of me. It seemed to take forever to walk back—I barely had the energy to put one foot in front of the other. I'm sorry I worried you."

Qui-Gon ignored that last, unwilling to admit that he had been worried. "I'm sorry I snapped at you, Padawan. Apparently you've been through a bit of an ordeal. You said you ended up on Onorda Street?"

"Well, at first, yes. I heard some troubling sounds coming from an alley . . ." Briefly he told the tale.

Qui-Gon pondered silently for a moment. "You used Force amplification to scare them off."

"Yes, Master."

"Deception."

"Yes, Master."

"And it worked very well." He flashed the apprentice a rare grin. "It was well done, Obi-Wan. So that was the first thing that drained your strength? Then what?"

Well, the first thing had actually been the locking away of his turbulent little box, but the Padawan wasn't going to mention that. "Yes, Master, I felt normal then, no excess energy. But the little boy, Nibbi . . . he needed help." He related the homeless child's story quietly, sadness surging behind the words. "And when he let me lift up his tunic . . . it was horrible, Master. I couldn't believe it. They've been beating him regularly, it seems, with belts and rubber tubes and whatever they found lying around. I wanted to take him to a med center, but he refused, afraid that the authorities would take him back to the home he ran from."

Qui-Gon could see where this was going. "So you used the Force to heal him."

"Yes, Master."

"Obi-Wan, that is not your gift, and you have very little training in that skill."

"I had to," the boy said, a trifle defensively. "At least the ones that were bleeding!"

Qui-Gon smiled sadly. "You don't have to explain yourself to me, young one. But that obviously drained your strength much further. Then what did you do?"

"Well, you had given me a little Sylelian currency in case of an emergency, remember? So I took him to a café and got him a decent meal. That's when I went beyond the six blocks—the closest café was across the street and down a bit, and I didn't want to make the child walk too far." He paused, his gaze wary again. "Do you forgive my indiscretion now? I'm sorry I disobeyed you, but to be honest, I really wasn't thinking much about you at the time."

"I forgive you, Obi-Wan. Drink your tea."

The Padawan glanced at the mug in his hand, which he had evidently forgotten. He eyed it doubtfully. "What kind is it?" Qui-Gon was fond of strange herbal concoctions that the younger Jedi found a bit too strong and exotic for his tastes.

"Marjili with cinna. Your favorite."

Obi-Wan took a cautious sip of the still-hot liquid and favored his Master with a beatific smile, beautiful despite the huge black eye that dominated his face.

"Then what happened, Padawan? You still haven't explained that bruise."

Apparently the boy had forgotten about that, too. He fingered it gingerly, winced, and took another, longer sip. "Well, I took Nibbi back to his sleeping place—just a big box in the corner of an alley. It started to rain, and I knew I had to get back, but the poor little one was shivering. So I gave him my robe and put lingering Force heat in the box, just enough to keep it warm for a few hours. I felt horrible leaving him there, Master, but I didn't know what else to do."

"Padawan, long-lasting Force heat is yet another skill that you have not mastered."

Obi-Wan simply nodded, his eyelids beginning to droop.

"Well, young one, I'm beginning to understand why it took you so long to get back. It's a wonder you made it at all. Now, who punched you? Surely the child did not?"

The Padawan smiled gloomily at the thought. "Force, no. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm the best thing since the invention of cheese, or something. No, it was the bullies who have been abusing him. They were waiting for me—I wasn't paying attention, didn't feel the danger. Kicked me into a mud puddle and then pinned me against a wall. Leader got in the first shot." He flapped a hand in the direction of the nasty bruise, the bright blue-green eye within twinkling. "Quite a good first shot, it was."

Qui-Gon could not suppress a swell of horror at the image of his exhausted apprentice being held against a wall by five or six vicious young men, all of whom must have been much older and bigger than he. "Padawan, I do not share your amusement. I did not realize you were injured beyond that black eye. Do you need me to call a healer?"

"No, I'm not injured. It's just the black eye, and a bruise where they kicked me." Obi-Wan laid a hand tenderly against his stomach. "Not bad. I got away. Force wave."

Qui-Gon sat still, stunned speechless for a moment.

Obi-Wan gave him another tired smile. "I know, I know, yet another skill that I have not mastered. They were all knocked unconscious, fortunately. I could not have done anything else to fight them off. Barely . . . barely made it back . . ." He blinked sleepily at the mug, lifted it as if it was almost too heavy for his strength, and drank deeply.

"Obi-Wan . . ." Qui-Gon began tentatively. "Obi-Wan, do you know how many Jedi in history were able to gather and release a Force wave at the age of thirteen?"

"No, Master." The boy blinked at him, unable to understand where this question was going.

"I think there might have been two. Perhaps three."

"Oh. That's nice." Obi-Wan drank again. "I didn't really think about it. I just knew that that was what I had to do. And I knew I could, and I did."

By the Force, Qui-Gon thought incredulously. How did he manage to walk at all after doing all of that?

He moved to sit next to the boy, removed the empty mug from his limp grasp. "No wonder you're tired, my Padawan. No wonder at all. Here, let's see what I can do about that black eye."

Obi-Wan flinched slightly as Qui-Gon laid a hand against the side of his face, index finger and thumb touching the edge of the bruise, but did not pull away. He looked back at his Master with the serenity of complete exhaustion, not entirely aware of his surroundings anymore.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and drew on the power of the Force, pulling it in to flow down his arm and through his fingers, closing ruptured blood vessels, soothing swollen flesh, banishing the pooled blood beneath the skin. If Obi-Wan could heal a mass of bleeding wounds, even without a gift for healing, Qui-Gon could heal a simple black eye.

When he opened his eyes the bruise was not completely gone, but significantly reduced, as if a week's worth healing had happened in the last few minutes. Obi-Wan smiled peacefully, admiration and gratitude shining in his weary young eyes. "Nice," he murmured.

"What about your stomach?"

The Padawan lifted his tunic without a tremor and let Qui-Gon inspect the discoloration on his abdomen. It was deceptively small, from the toe of someone's boot, but dark and livid, revealing the power that had gone behind the kick. He did his best to ease that, too, and was relieved to detect no internal injury. Force, they could have hurt Obi-Wan seriously, if he hadn't been able to escape.

"Now, Obi-Wan, I think it would be best if you went to bed."

The boy stood slowly to obey, and would have fallen back on the couch if Qui-Gon hadn't caught him. "Now, now, Padawan, none of that," he teased gently. "One act of reasonable disobedience is enough for one day."

He supported the apprentice to his room and got him into bed, tucking the covers under his chin. He was amused to realize that the boy was already snoring, a soft whuffle and wheeze that made him seem about five years old. Then Qui-Gon went back to out the lounge area to finish his tea, and to ponder all that his Padawan had accomplished in only two hours.