Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born

Every Morn & every Night

Some are Born to sweet delight

Some are Born to sweet delight

Some are Born to Endless Night

— Excerpt from Auguries of Innocence by William Blake

Fidelity, Malice, and Good Friend

I used to enjoy singing.

It wasn't something I did quite often, mind you, but every now and then one of my fellow senior Padawans would unearth a piece of music from the archives or the Holonet and we'd form a small group, spending a couple of afternoons in the Temple organizing ourselves into a chamber choir. The Masters deemed it as somewhat educational, besides the fact that it made for a good bit of fun for us all, and began to encourage us to perform. Some of the Padawans were rather tone-deaf, but it didn't stop them; what they lacked in musical skill they made up for with sheer enthusiasm. I landed a number of solos myself, and during a Fete Day we performed for a gathering of whoever wished to attend.

The group had made another wonderful find during my absence, and had left a message for "dear Obi-Wan" on a datapad inside my quarters, stating that they were waiting upon my return from the mission so we could begin practising.

Master Qui-Gon had found the message a few hours after I'd been admitted to the medical ward. He told me later that his eyes had blurred with tears, created by an overwhelming, sinking feeling of guilt and sorrow. I, his Padawan, who had acted as nothing more than a relatively unwitting receiver of communications at that point, had paid the awful price for the freedom of a boy.

My breath had rattled my throat those short whiles before and after the surgery to reconstruct what damage the knife had done. I was told afterward that there was absolutely nothing they could have done for my larynx. It had been rendered totally useless, they'd said, especially because the knife had had something of a serrated edge.

I'd gotten out of bed as soon as I could, once again weary of inaction and needing to walk. I wandered about several levels of the ward alone before returning to my bed. One of the halls had had a full-length mirror, and I had seen enough to convince me the healers had been right.

The glaring, puckered slash across my throat and up the side of my neck made me astonished and somewhat angry that I had managed to survive the trip back to Coruscant for proper attention. I was still a bit weak and pale from the loss of blood and knew someone was bound to upbraid me for exerting myself so soon, if they found me wandering about.

But all of that fled from my mind before the mirror, before the truth that presented its vile self to me. I stood there a very long time, staring at what I'd lost underneath the marred skin of my neck.

I collapsed back on the bed once I'd gotten back to my room, my emotions fuelled and my body sapped of strength. A surge of despair and rage reared up, along with the thought: I shouldn't have lost my voice. I was hardly involved, simply protecting the ship while my Mas—

No. I would not allow such thoughts to have free reign over my mind, breeding in numbers and growing a shadow within me. I had to focus on something else. Something that, while true, could help me.

I knew I wasn't going to produce immediate results or answers. I know this, and yet still search as two familiar figures walk into the small room that I will likely call my own for another week or so. One entire wall is transparisteel, allowing me to look over the city planet without being seen by others outside. This is my favorite room in the hospital ward; I've labelled it so over a few visits and usually can get a favor or two from the healers.

But the room is inconsequential at the moment; I turn my head from gazing out the window-wall to see the pair enter.

Master Yoda comes in first, of course. It's not an issue of ranking, simply that Master Qui-Gon feels somewhat uncomfortable at seemingly "barging in" upon me. Perhaps he doesn't yet realise this wasn't his fault, and that I welcome his company more than ever. So when I reach out to him through the Force, my best natural form of communication even more than before, I am flatly relieved to sense he hasn't thrown up most of his shields, hasn't put up that impenetrable fortress around his mind to hide his pain. I wonder if he suffers more than I. Pain is a thing that cannot be compared to itself; I will never know.

I attempt a smile but begin to cough, and see him stop in his tracks as the pain rips through my throat against the carefully precise work of the surgeon healers.

Master Yoda seems oblivious to all this. I know better than to think of something like that, but he wears a face of pragmatism, only in his green eyes a spark of something I cannot identify. He hobbles forward on his gimer stick, and manages to pull himself up on the bed, seating himself by my blanketed knee and giving me that piercing unshakeable gaze that has never passed over me without leaving an impression.

I'm surprised to think that I'm glad for the matter-of-fact attitude he carried into the room with him; everyone else has expressed their deepest sympathy and sorrow. The thing I detest the most about that is their actions leave me no audible way to respond. I can only put on a mask of thanks, and send a touch of gratitude to their senses. If they actually receive it, I'm never sure.

But Master Yoda settles himself comfortably on the edge of my blanket with an air of confidence, and gestures for Qui-Gon to seat himself in one of the chairs near the bed.

My Master does so woodenly. I speculate for a moment how he would've reacted had I died, but I turn my attention back to Yoda, who automatically commands so much of it.

He blinks owlishly, regarding me for a moment before speaking. "Feel unneeded, do you? Useless and stationary, hmm?"

I nod once, successfully fighting back a fresh wave of tears and indignation.

"Lies," he says, patting my knee reassuringly. "A purpose and a place you still have."

I cannot control the bursting flow of questions that flood from my agitated mind. [Where? How? What? With whom? Will I actually accomplish anything worth accomplishing?]

Yoda seems taken by surprise for a moment. "Clarified your thoughts in the absence of the spoken word, have you."

I glance at Qui-Gon, who looks on with a note of wonder on his features that I've come to know so well, turned saturnine by recent events. [Do you understand me, Master?] I try to send the inquiry as clearly as I can.

"Word for word," he murmurs. "You send thoughts like the way the blind man listens."

I remember hearing something about how, in the absence of one of the five senses, the remainders are sharpened for some measure of compensation. I suppose that is what has happened here: in my inability to speak, I am given an acute sense of communication through the Force. I think it will develop more over time as I adjust to this handicap.

"Interesting," comments Master Yoda, leaning forward a bit to peer at me closer. I feel stripped bare to the bone before that stare, and shift a bit under the blanket.

He taps my kneecap thoughtfully with one bluntly clawed finger. "A new place, you have found among us. Robbed you have been, and gifted in turn. Deliberate on the best role for you, the Council will, in your presence." He leans closer, as if confidentially, and I think I hear a note of unheard-of excitement under layers of pragmatism in his gravelly voice. "Extraordinary, is this. Communicate on such a level, only occasionally can the most gifted of masters. A purpose, you have, and determine it we must." He sits back with a quietly contemplative look upon his deeply lined face, still tapping at my knee.

[Where is Anakin?] I ask both of them. A dark voice urges my soul to indulge in hatred of the boy, but I wonder if I should not thank him for making the opportunity for the presentation of this new gift for me. In that, I feel a genuine link and affection toward him, limited as it might be at the moment.

"He's being taken on a brief tour of the Temple," comes my Master's hushed voice. "He said he wishes to come for a visit as soon as that's finished."

I nod slowly, feeling the stretch of the scar tugging at the skin just underneath my right ear. [What of the Queen?]

"Meeting with Senator Palpatine, she is." Yoda frowns. "A restlessness in her, Qui-Gon sensed."

[She wishes to be with her people,] I think to them. [I suppose she'll want to return to Naboo shortly.]

Qui-Gon glances out the window. "She also expressed a wish to visit you before her departure."

[But…] Somehow the thought startles me. [If she's returning, that means we haven't completed the mission yet. Are you going without me?]

Evidently the transmission is almost too much, as the words come from my mind all at once instead of a steady linear flow as before. Qui-Gon takes a brief moment to decipher my meaning before responding sternly. "You are in no way fit to be continuing this mission."

I sit upright indignantly. My Master must have seen the telltale flash in my eyes that he's so often described before; he knows nothing but common sense will work on my nerfish stubbornness.

"A sick Padawan will do me no good on Naboo. Think, Obi-Wan. There is still a measure of danger."

I sink back and stare out the window. Perhaps I'm still somewhat weak, but I could still handle a bit of peacekeeping…though I sense Master Qui-Gon's premonition that this last stage of the mission will involve peacemaking.

I still want to go. I am abhorred by the thought that while my Master may be risking his life, I will lie here, a useless lump of flesh steadily decomposing in bed.

"Hmm." The gruff voice of the tiny Master sitting by me interrupts the thoughts I had supposed were hidden to him. "Purge your despair, you must. And a healing trance you will enter as soon as your two visitors have come and gone, hmm?"

[Yes, Master.] The thoughts of despondency are utterly driven off into the oblivion from whence they came. Besides, I reason with myself, Master Qui-Gon has come out of many dangerous situations, both paired with a Padawan and alone. He's more than able to take care of himself. Yet I still feel that uncomfortable ache of worry deep within my chest, remaining despite my best efforts to convince myself it's unreasonable.

I seek out the bright pinpoint of light and life by my bedside, seeking what I have always known from my Master. He, in turn, releases comforting bits of reassurance, but only the amount he senses I need. We both know I must not become too dependent on things like this, that what is given to me must first be dictated by need, not want, though occasional indulgences aren't frowned upon. My trials are close at hand, and soon I must become used to being my own Master, in a sense.

"Good, good." Master Yoda's voice intrudes once more as he clambers down from the bed, almost disappearing behind the edge for a moment before assuming his slightly hunched-over posture and making his unhurried way out of the room.

Qui-Gon does not immediately move, though, simply sits as still as one of the ancient statues in the Temple gardens a moment before rising from his chair.

I must crane my head back a little to keep my eyes on his face.

He comes closer to the bedside and reaches out with his hand, putting cool fingertips against my forehead. Perhaps he's checking for fever; perhaps he just wants to make certain I am still there. Whatever the reason, he says quietly, "You are a wiser man than I am. I foresee you will become a great Jedi Knight." Then his hand leaves my forehead, and he turns to walk out of the room.

A mystifying statement, really, coming from nowhere in particular, or so it seems. A message from the Force, perhaps? I sense this isn't the last I'll see of him before the mission, that he's leaving to bring Anakin before they must go. Still, I know he's already said his goodbye.

I move my head to look back out the window-wall, my mind numbed for a reason I do not yet know.

It is as if time rushes on and suspends itself simultaneously; I watch the various airborne vehicles race between the buildings and move painstakingly slow in the same infinitesimal point in time. Sometimes they ponderously move in a blur, sometimes they accelerate madly to a near-stop.

How paradoxical is the sapient mind and its perceptions.

So it is that eternity passes in a handful of minutes before my small visitor arrives, the door giving plenty of clearance for his head while barely admitting the top of my Master's graying crown.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Qui-Gon says. "The Council wished to have a word regarding Anakin's place in the Temple."

I feel I have waited forever. I feel I have waited five minutes. It matters not as I peer through Anakin's sun-bleached hair to the boy's bright blue eyes underneath, and attempt another smile of welcome. Thankfully, this time I do not erupt into a coughing fit.

Anakin assumes Yoda's position, seating himself nearly at the foot of the bed, swinging his legs as they are not yet long enough to reach the burnished floor. "I hope you're going to be okay," he says cautiously, obviously trying not to look at my somewhat mutilated neck. "Does it still hurt?"

[A little,] I send. It's a bit more difficult to reach his untrained mind, but his presence is so brilliant I have no trouble at all finding him.

His eyes widen and he sits up. "Was that you? How did you do that?"

My smile grows a bit. [Yes, that was me—I'm talking to you through the Force.]

"Wizard," he breathes. "Will I be able to do that, too?"

"Not many can," explains Qui-Gon. "Most other Jedi can only send images and emotions. It's usually easier for us to communicate through talking, in that case."

Anakin frowns, turning back to me. "Then why don't you…" Colour rises in his cheeks as he realises.

[That's all right,] I quickly assuage him. [I nearly tried to say hello when you two walked in. It might take a little while to adjust to this, is all.] I am careful to send the message word after word and not jumbled as the instance before, so as not to confuse him.

Anakin beams. "It's like I can hear your voice right in my head. It sounds just like you! Can you talk to other people like this?"

I pause for a moment. [I can with sentients who are Force-sensitive, but that's all who I've communicated with like this so far. I don't know if it would work with anyone else.] I tug a small keypad in front of me, and as I rapidly punch in letters, the words appear on a small screen by the bed: BUT THAT'S WHAT THIS IS FOR, JUST IN CASE.

Anakin is thinking about this, I can tell. "But what if you have to talk to a person who isn't a Jedi and you don't have a keypad?"

I smile wryly. [Then I'm in trouble. I would probably need someone who is Force-sensitive to translate for me, so to speak.]

He turns this thought over in his mind as well. "I could do that."

I exchange knowing looks with my Master. [I don't doubt that. But it would be a rather tedious job, don't you think?]

"It wouldn't have to be. I could go places with you and see all kinds of things. And maybe you could help teach me how to be a Jedi." His bright expression falters for a moment. "If they let me."

[Ah… the Council. They are doing their job by being cautious.]

I sense a feeling of frustration coming from my Master, nearly the equivalent of rolling one's eyes. "Patience is indeed a virtue to be practiced, as well as insight."

This next message I send to my Master only, carefully hiding it from Anakin as I put the keypad back into place. [Perhaps they're right. He is dangerous.]

I receive, in turn, a measure of disagreement that borders on defiance, and am surprised. I know he's always held strong opinions, but I cannot think of a point in time where he allowed me to see a measure of emotion so vehement about an opposing viewpoint. My Master is another living paradox, full to the brim with an ardent serenity. The Living Force is strong in him; it always has been.

I look from Qui-Gon's face to Anakin's. My Master's expression is solemn and determined, a hint of thrill in his midnight eyes. Anakin radiates youthful exuberance, tinted with fear and doubt. One of his legs still kicks against the bedside in a show of unharnessed, uncontrolled energy.

Anakin is one of those people who have the uncanny ability to attract others. He has a sort of innocent duende, really, an unconscious charisma. I hope dearly that he never loses it to cynicism. While there is so much room in him for generous compassion, his yet unseeded mind is a fertile breeding ground for thoughts of darkness. I know the Council has seen this in him as well, and it must have been a difficult decision to turn so much positive potential away.

The next thought I direct to both of them. [Who will train him if the Council has a change of heart?]

Qui-Gon hesitates, and I know. With a burst of selfish anger and dread, I know. I try to quell the emotion, but it's only a little too late; he picks up on it.

[That's it, then.] I turn to Anakin, who begins to understand. [Make sure he teaches you well.]

"But you aren't done yet," he blurts.

"I recommended to the Council before we began the mission that you were nearly ready for the Trials," Qui-Gon says, and I notice the slight tentative tone in him, barely there.

He doesn't want to let me go like this, I realise. But everyone knows if Anakin isn't accepted now, he never will be.

I must receive what my destiny has handed to me, and be thankful this did not happen at an earlier point in my training. [I'll take the Trials, then, as soon as I've recovered fully.]

Anakin releases the corner of blanket he had scrunched up inside his small fist and looks to Qui-Gon, unsure of whether he'd sensed the cue to say goodbye or not. In response, my Master rises once again from the chair, and looks down at me. "Keep in touch while we're away."

[I will.] I fully open my end of our apprenticeship bond already. [But you must let me know if you require any backup.]

My Master smiles, just a little. "We'll see what happens. May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan."

I remember something just as Anakin hops off the bedside. [Wait, Anakin. There's something I forgot to thank you for.]

"What?" he says curiously, coming back.

[You took my hand just after I was carried into the ship on Tatooine.]

"You felt that?" he asks incredulously. "But it almost looked like you were…were…"

[Dead. I know. But I wasn't, and you helped me find peace.] I take his small hand in my own and squeeze it lightly. [Thank you.]

He grins awkwardly. "No problem."

A smile plays upon my lips as I watch the both of them leave, Anakin glancing over his shoulder and giving a small wave before disappearing around the corner.

I draw my knees up, and fold my arms over my stomach, leaning back against the piled-up pillows. A painting on the opposite wall draws my attention for the first time, and I study it with half-closed eyes, my head tilted back. I believe it is a copy of some famous work I've never seen before, but the texture of the image reminds me of a small moss painting from Alderaan I once saw, somewhat unprofessionally done but still very attractive. The picture before me, though, contains all the resplendency a truly talented artist would weave. A group of aliens I don't recognize, an insectoid species, turn to see darkness gathering in the sky before them. The colours are vivid and contrast so well, I wonder that I hadn't noticed the hanging piece before. There is a distinct yet realistic style to the painting as a whole that I vaguely seem to recognize; perhaps I will recall the name of the artist later. There is something particularly captivating about this piece, an enticing dread of the darkness, yet leaving the soul filled with a determined hope.

I'm unsure of whether time has abandoned me again as I come back to reality and hear the light, even fall of footsteps quietly echoing down the hall through the open door. It's a certain sort of tap that I've never heard from a Jedi's customary boots, but the footsteps are unaccompanied. For that reason, I doubt my visitor is Queen Amidala, as she usually trails a rather large entourage.

I sit up, and see a young girl step into the room. She's dressed as one of the Queen's handmaidens ad I wonder if her Highness was too busy to come by, sending her condolences the next best way. I recognize this particular handmaiden, as she seemed to be the leader of the group, and remember her name is Padmé.

Something jogs within my memory. She comes up to my bed with an almost regal bearing and I smile an uncertain greeting. What is this annoying little prod within my mind? It activated at the sight of her, but my hazed mind cannot come up with anything at the moment. If it is important, I believe it will present itself.

She smiles back, and says a little breathlessly, "I'm sorry I had to come in just like this, but we're somewhat pressed for time and I didn't want to slow myself down with all the attention of full dress."

My eyes widen and I snare the keypad quickly. So this is what my mind was trying to tell me. I hesitate before I key in: YOUR HIGHNESS?

"Yes. How are you feeling?"

I'M SORRY—I DIDN'T REALISE. I'M FEELING ALL RIGHT.

She swallows hard. "I believe I owe you a more than profound apology."

I shake my head. YOUR HIGHNESS, IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. I COULD POINT THE BLAME AT ANYONE, REALLY, BUT THAT WOULD HELP ME NOTHING. I ALONE CHOSE MY FATE, AND I MUST EMBRACE IT.

She is very still for a moment. "Will this set you back on anything you had planned for?" I'm taken aback by how very young she appears just then. This Queen Amidala is a girl no more than fourteen, hardly old enough to even begin to think of adult life. I've seen many women twice as old as she with only a quarter of her maturity and wisdom. It impresses me, to say the least.

SOMEWHAT, I admit. BUT I FOUND I AM ABLE TO MENTALLY COMMUNICATE WITH OTHER FORCE-SENSITIVES.

"I thought Jedi were already able to do that."

TRUE, BUT WHERE THEY CAN SEND ONLY PICTURES, IDEAS, AND EMOTION, I CAN CLEARLY SEND SENTENCES AS WELL.

The Queen is evidently fascinated with the idea. "But does this work on anyone else?"

I shrug helplessly.

"You must find out sometime," she pointed out. "Why not now?"

The idea startles me. To try something like this on the sovereign Queen of Naboo? BUT, YOUR HIGHNESS—

"It won't hurt, right?" she interrupts. "It would make me feel much better about all this."

VERY WELL, I concede, and push the keypad aside. This could be a difficult process. First I must push away the cobwebs that have accumulated in my mind in the last little while. Then I must locate her presence, the easy step. Though not sensitive, she has a strong mind and personality and I've long known how to isolate individual minds in my attention.

I send the message with the utmost care. [Can you hear me?]

She does not respond, standing patiently by the bed.

I try again, having a better feel of the one-sided connection, and send the impulse a little stronger this time. [Your Highness?]

Her eyes suddenly dart to me. "I heard something fuzzy. Was that you?"

I nod, and send it even stronger. [How's this?]

Her mouth spreads into a grin. "Perfect. That's wonderful; now you can talk to anyone."

[Perhaps. It would depend upon the openness and concentration of the individual. I sense you've cleared your mind a certain amount to let me through.] I break the connection, beginning to feel small signs of strain, and take up the keypad again. IT'S DIFFICULT FOR ME TO MAINTAIN MY CONCENTRATION, HOWEVER. I smile, and type: THANK YOU FOR YOUR WILLINGNESS.

"It was the least I could do," she tells me solemnly. "You'll be missed upon our return to Naboo."

MASTER QUI-GON IS MOST CAPABLE. I HOPE THIS WILL BE COMPLETED AS SMOOTHLY AS POSSIBLE.

"Thank you," she says reflexively. "But I have my doubts that will happen, though it will be much easier with a Jedi Master still on the team." She meets my gaze one last time, and I can see the anxiety within her brown eyes, her fear at what she'll find—and have lost—upon her return. "Take care."

I bow my head as best I can. [May the Force be with you, your Highness.]

Queen Amidala smiles oddly at the feeling of my voice within her mind before gracefully leaving me to my solitude.

I take one last glance at the picture on the opposite wall before sinking into a healing trance and a night-realm of turmoil that seizes me shortly after.

There is a wall that I sit upon. It is excessively narrow, but extremely strong. The only thing preventing me any real pain as I straddle it is the flat ledge on top.

I look to one side, my right side, and glance down at that face of the wall. It is bright and gleaming, shining clean except for a few smudges of dirt at the bottom where the soil from the lush flower gardens reaches the wall. The stone has a dazzling effect, scattering brilliant rays of light everywhere. I look up, past the profuse gardens, to the lawns beyond, and think I catch a glimpse of playing children.

That is all the beings on the left side will allow. A cold pain erupts up from my ankle hanging down on that side, and shoots up my nerves all the way to my hip. I do not want to look down upon the dwellers of this domain, but my eyes are drawn away from the light and I cast my gaze into the darkness, wishing to pull up my leg but unable to do so.

I can make out misshapen beings moving within the hazy ebony mists that foul the air and render it nearly opaque. All the light in these lands is a dim, cheerless gray that tantalises the eye to know more of what it sees but leaves it unfulfilled.

One would expect the wall on that side to be cracked, sullied, and generally disregarded, but what I can make out speaks otherwise. A matte black corrugated metal with wicked spikes at intervals reinforces what is already there. Thankfully, my leg rests in a trough, between and well enough away from the spikes on either side. Past the metal wall, which is already a handspan thick, there is a shallow creek of water that gurgles by, looking surprisingly clean and cool. An amount of grass even grows beside it, and as I watch the misshapen forms come and drink, their skin clears up and they regain the beauty they had lost.

I wonder at the occurrence of this oasis in what seems to be an otherwise forbidding land. Does the other side not afford more comfort to the soul anyway? I glance back. There is a creek on the lit side, as well, running about twice as deep and fast, meandering through the bushes and trees. I think I catch a brief glimpse of the children splashing about—

No, those waters are for the foolish.

It is the voice I have often heard in these lands, the one that refers to himself as Good Friend. He sounds much like my Master in inflections and nuances, but there is something about him I do not like.

Nonsense. You know I'm trying my best to help you.

There he is, standing beside the wall, close to my suspended leg, offering up a hand. He's standing on the left side, though. The dim side.

But all that aside, Good Friend's darkly-smeared face looks amiable enough. He smiles wonderfully, his light blue eyes sparkling through the grime as he tries to stretch his hand farther. I wonder if I should take it, and look back to the lit side, where I thought I saw the children.

Come now. Good Friend taps my ankle with a measure of impatience. Do you really wish to amount to nothing? Those children do absolutely nothing but frolic all day long. Their lives are meaningless; it's quite obvious they've been brainwashed. Won't you come over? We have so many things for you to do, to be.

That last word catches my attention, as it was meant to. I want to be, with all my heart.

Good Friend's fingers stretch out again. Are you going to come? Or must I wait upon someone else? There aren't that many with your talents, you know. I would suffer severely. Everything you want is here and we will give it to you with no questions asked.

What do you want me to do? I try to ask him. I cannot speak in these worlds, either; the scar still stretches across my throat.

To be yourself, and no one else. He looks so benevolent.

I reach for his outstretched hand, but snap back at the last moment. I don't want to come. I'm afraid.

Of course you are, he says reassuringly. Everyone is before they have to take a big step. Come on, I know you can do it.

I swallow, my tongue thick in my mouth, pressed up against the roof of my mouth, and tentatively reach out with my hand once again.

Something catches my eye, though, just as my hand meets that of Good Friend's. Something is floating down the creek.

I am repulsed by the sight. It strikes a blow to my spirit in an unfathomable way, and I am overcome by the sensation of horrified nausea.

It is the figure of Qui-Gon Jinn, gently being carried down the waters, a crimson hole burned through his chest.

I open my mouth in a silent scream as Good Friend grasps my hand securely and pulls me off the wall with a horrific snarl. The name seems such a tragic parody now. He wipes some of the black grease off his face as I land on the ground before him and I see a familiar red-and-black pattern revealing itself through the muck as his blue eyes blaze a fiery red.

His hands clamp down on either sides of my head and give a jerk. I hear the sickening snap of my own neck as I fall back into oblivion.

I never yell when I wake up from a nightmare. Nor do I sit up in a cold terror. My eyes simply snap wide open and stare at the ceiling for hours, and I often take off one of the two blankets I always sleep under to allow myself to cool off, for the sweat to begin to evaporate.

The lack of reaction is simply because I've had so many nightmares. All through my childhood I was plagued with them, and they slowly grew longer and darker as I grew older, rooting themselves securely within my psyche.

As I gaze up at the high ceiling I recall I've had this particular nightmare, the one about the wall and "Good Friend", several times, with slight differences between each.

This time, when Good Friend's eyes had been blue, I had recognised them as my own. That, quite possibly, made this the worst nightmare I've had yet.

But what does it mean? I am disturbed by what it could mean, and I will be even more agitated if I am told it has no meaning; that would implicate I went through all these nightmares for nothing at all, not even a warning.

My eyes fix upon a point on the ceiling, riveted there. I decide I must seek a Master's counsel on this, one of the dream interpreters. They often mingle with the healers, and the most prestigious of them is a hard-headed little Chadra-Fan, named Besu Che. I will seek her out in the morning.

But for now, I have a long and sleepless night ahead of me. I dig out a small datapad lying on the night table beside my bed, and switch on a small overhead lamp, beginning to record the details of my dream.

Hopefully Master Che will have some answers.