Candles Against the Sea
Chapter 8: Alleviation

Once again Qui-Gon was tending his exhausted Padawan's bruises before sending him off to bed. He hoped this wasn't going to become a habit. He didn't know how much of this he could take.

"Nibbi's a sweet little boy, isn't he?" Obi-Wan remarked suddenly.

Qui-Gon glanced up from the Padawan's knee, his eyes trailing slowly over Obi-Wan's bruised and torn knuckles laying limp in his lap. He remembered Nibbi's wide dark eyes, sad and hopeful and amazed, the tender, hesitant way he had brushed his little fingers over those bruises.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I can see why you want to help him so much."

He looked back at the knee, probing it with the Force. A few ligaments had been strained, and all the walking afterward had not helped. He should have insisted that the boy allow himself to be carried. Qui-Gon might not be able to ease it enough with the Force—perhaps they should visit a real Healer, or whatever Sylelius had that passed for one.

Obi-Wan, sitting sideways on the couch with his leg stretched out for the Master's inspection, shifted against the cushions, then stilled his fidgeting with a frown. "It isn't right," he blurted. He blushed at Qui-Gon's curious stare. "Nibbi, I mean. Why would anyone want to hurt him? I don't understand."

Qui-Gon ran his fingers gently over the injured knee, watching Obi-Wan's face. The boy didn't quite wince, but the shadows in his eyes deepened almost imperceptibly, and his mouth twisted in chagrin when the Master withdrew.

"Sometimes it is better that we do not understand," Qui-Gon murmured. "You do not want to be intimately acquainted with hatred, fear, indifference or wanton destructiveness, and that is what you would need in order to comprehend such darkness."

"You're right, Master," Obi-Wan said soberly. "I don't want to understand that."

Qui-Gon studied his face, again displeased by those persistent shadows. The boy should not be this utterly exhausted. Was he coming down with something? Qui-Gon did not detect anything, and the Force whispered no warning of physical danger, no matter how he strained his ears to listen.

Well, if he couldn't heal the knee completely, he could at least do something about that new scrape beneath the un-blackened eye, red and swollen, from the street youth's extended fingernails grazing by. But when he reached out to touch his cheek, Obi-Wan shied away. Qui-Gon looked at him in puzzlement, and the boy shook his head with a rueful smile.

"No, Master. You'd better not heal that one. People on Onorda Street will find it awfully strange that a street kid's bruises disappeared overnight. Can't have even more people realizing that we're Jedi. Same with my knuckles."

Qui-Gon dropped his hand with a sigh. "Yes," he grumbled. "And the names 'Quig' and 'Obi' will never be connected with Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi, the first Jedi to visit Sylelius in the better part of a century."

Obi-Wan grinned. "Why, Master! I didn't know you concealed such depths of sarcasm! "

Qui-Gon gave him a mock-glare, glad that the teasing was back. The boy was very resilient, obviously. It would be a pleasure to explore this new facet of their relationship—he looked forward to it already.

The Padawan sobered suddenly. "Most people see what they expect to see," he said softly. "On Onorda Street, they see two wanderers, down on their luck. In the President's chambers, they see two noble Jedi. But almost no one sees two names, two people, individuals with their own lives."

"That's true, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon recognized ancient Jedi wisdom, but was impressed by Obi-Wan's ability to apply it to their unique situation. Again the Padawan was teaching the Master. "Well, may I at least tend your knee? Since apparently you are the one giving the orders now."

"Oh, please, yes," Obi-Wan said fervently.

Qui-Gon smiled and turned his attention back to the bruised kneecap and swollen tissue surrounding it. Obi-Wan bore it stoically. He truly was a very brave young boy. Every moment Qui-Gon spent with him just cemented that fact more.

"Did you notice President Hindegar's daughter at the luncheon today?" Obi-Wan asked.

"I did," Qui-Gon said gravely, and flashed his Padawan a smile. "And she noticed that you noticed her."

Obi-Wan frowned. "She thinks I'm infatuated with her. I'm not. I'm worried about her. Master—something's wrong. Did you sense it?"

"She is grieving for her mother, Padawan."

"Yes, Master."

Brief silence. "Do you think it's more than that, Obi-Wan? Don't be afraid to question me, at least not in private."

Obi-Wan sighed. "I think it's more than that, Master. But I don't know what it is. Will we see her again?"

"At the candle ceremony tomorrow night, I believe. Other than that, I'm not sure."

Again silence fell. Qui-Gon felt quite comfortable it, but it occurred to him, belatedly, that Obi-Wan might not feel the same. Perhaps that was why he kept making these abrupt comments, his voice young and uncertain, as if he wasn't sure he ought to be the one starting the conversation. Now, as the quiet stretched, as comfortably as blanket in Qui-Gon's perception, the boy began to make small, fidgeting movements, halted before they became obvious enough to disturb Qui-Gon's work. Finally he laid his head sideways against the back of the couch with a sigh that was little more than a breath of air, and closed his eyes.

Qui-Gon watched the boy's face, young and freshly-bruised, the half-lidded eyes concealing that blue-green sparkle. Again the little frown made itself known between the Master's eyes, almost familiar, as it kept returning every time he took a moment to consider his apprentice. Perhaps now would be a good time to ask what had been disturbing the boy's thoughts lately, as he sat here open and vulnerable, hovering on the edge of sleep.

"Padawan," he said softly, continuing to pour light into the injured knee, feeling the swelling dissipate, the strained ligaments strengthen. "Is something bothering you?"

Dreamily the boy nodded as his eyes slipped fully shut, then opened partially, then began to droop again. He was halfway along the long, slow slide to slumber already. The hand laid loosely in his lap curled into a gentle fist, then opened again.

The knee was as whole as Qui-Gon could make it. He covered it warmly with his hand, applying the lightest pressure, just to let the boy know he was there. "What is it, my Padawan? What has been troubling you so?"

Obi-Wan rubbed his face sleepily against the couch cushion, as a felicat would rub its head against a friendly palm, then stilled, slumping bonelessly. "Did . . . did I fight very badly, Master?" His voice seemed to echo from a distant plain, soft and sad.

Qui-Gon reflexively tightened his grip slightly, then refrained himself. "What . . . what would make you think that, Padawan?" he asked, voice suddenly strained.

"Well, you didn't say anything . . . I thought, I thought perhaps were disappointed. Maybe you thought I was fighting in anger . . . you were always concerned about my anger. I didn't, Master. I didn't fight in anger."

"I know you didn't," Qui-Gon said softly. "I felt your desire to protect and help. Anger did not touch you."

Obi-Wan's hand gripped the fabric of his tunic sleeve. His body tensed slightly, though his eyes remained nearly shut, his voice soft and dreamy. "I did not want to hurt him. I had to. I fought so they would let Nibbi be. I had to hurt him to make that happen. I didn't want to." He shuddered, drawing in a deep breath.

"I know. I know, Padawan. You fought very well. You are a very skilled fighter, Obi-Wan, and you fought for the right reasons. I was not disappointed. Quite the opposite—I was most impressed."

"Truly?"

Oh, the boy sounded so very young and hopeful. It ignited an ache in Qui-Gon's chest, strange and sweet and sad. He fought it away with a shake of his head, giving the knee a gentle squeeze. "Truly, Obi-Wan. Truly. Now let go, young one. I know you're tired."

Obi-Wan relaxed, his hand falling away from his tunic sleeve, his mind falling away into peaceful darkness. Qui-Gon knelt there for a moment, just staring at his sleeping apprentice. Apparently he had been neglecting the boy, however unwittingly. He had forgotten what it was to have a youngster in his care—he'd been treating Obi-Wan as a miniature adult, not the growing, sometimes-uncertain young boy he was.

The knee was almost fully healed, but Obi-Wan would have to take it easy for a few days. Qui-Gon knew the boy would not like that. But right now, he was dead to the world.

He gently drew the sleeping boy into his arms and carried him to his room.

…………

"Hello, Nilla!"

Nilla had been adjusting the new painting on the lounge wall, recently donated by friends of the clinic. She whirled, her mouth dropping open. "Obi! I'm so glad you came back!"

She crossed to his side in three quick strides, already reaching out to take his chin in gentle fingers, turning his head to examine the new bruises. He could see her jaw tightening in anger, and did his best to head it off.

"Nilla, it was a fight. Honest. I know it looks bad, but it isn't really. I won."

She released him and took a step back, her hands knotting into fists to rest on her hips, lips still tight. "Obi, you don't have to lie. Did we not convince you of that yesterday? This is a safe place."

"I know. Look, Nilla. Defensive wounds." He lifted his hands and showed her the backs, the knuckles purple and red with the use he'd put them to. "I'm sure you've had the training to recognize these, as well as to recognize the difference between accidental and intentional bruising. No one is abusing me. I got in a fight with Tronak."

Nilla recognized the name. She let her hands fall from her hips. "You beat that bully in a fight? Obi, that behemoth is at least fifty pounds heavier and a foot taller than you!"

"Oh, believe me, I know." The young mouth twitched in a wry grin. "I felt every gram of that extra weight driving down on me. But I still won. You can ask anyone who was there yesterday, and they'll tell you."

She considered this, the flesh beside her eyes wrinkling in doubt. Then her gaze sharpened accusingly. "And what on earth possessed you to get into a fight like that, young man? What possible reason could justify that?"

"The same one that leads me to come here and volunteer my time. Listen, Nilla, I have a little problem, and his name is Nibbi. And I have a plan . . . ."