Obi-Wan was convinced that Ka'tau was prescient. Her words on knowing when to retreat had served him well. She had threatened to put him back in the infirmary if he did not leave the command center and get some rest.
Still, it was not out of fear that he obeyed, but rather that he was tired.
In so many ways.
It was not just the physical and mental strain put on him by a healing body, the war had taken more than its toll.
He was weary of battlefronts and barracks, troopers, the clatter of blaster rifles, yet knew there was no way to escape them as long as the civil war divided the Republic.
Shuffling tiredly through the narrow corridor of the modules that made up Barracks Unit Delta, his scuffed boots left trails in the ash-coated floor. He tugged miserably at the cloak draping his shoulder and covering the protective sling his left arm rested in. It also aided in limiting his movements, saving him from inadvertently pulling on his wounded chest.
His breathing came in shallow gasps, desperate to avoid the stab of breathing too deeply. Periodically, he would pause on his journey to rest, to catch his breath. Seeming to always feel winded. He never had worn out so easily in his life. It was not a feeling he like. There was helplessness in it that left him unsettled.
Pressing a bound hand to the cool durasteel wall for support, Obi-Wan straightened and exhaled carefully. Knowing that he was only two modules away from his private quarters, he was spurred on through the portable housing structure and over the metal strips that covered the joints that held the units together. While he shared the same construct as the troops, he did not share that same large rooms lined with cots they did. It was one of the few luxuries of the battlefront.
There was an exterior door close to his quarters, but walking in the acrid, smoke filled air was too hard on already weakened lungs. The air inside the barracks had some filtration so the walk through the long corridors was far more pleasant. Though it did not completely eliminate the fine ash powder that lingered about the Bourei Valley.
Again, he was brought to mind what a fitting name it was.
In the early mornings, as the first glints of Haigara's red sun broke the horizon, the smoke and ash imprisoned in the valley looked like wandering spirits drifting over the ruins of battle. He understood why the natives called it the valley of ghosts.
At the sealed door that separated his quarters from the rest of the barracks, he stared at the metallic brown-textured surface. Pale fingers slid along the coated surface before slipping into a small indentation. Extravagant things like automatic sliding doors were not to be found here as he drew it along the rail and into an opening in the wall.
He paused, noting the filtered light that spilled in through fogged windows above the simple cot pressed against the wall. There was a strange quiet, a peacefulness not found anywhere else in the simplicity of the chamber: a cot with the bedroll neatly at the foot, a standing locker that same warm gray as the rest of the room, a desk across from it and next to the metal sink and simple mirror on the wall that stood next to the truncated refresher unit door. In some ways, it reminded him of the Jedi Temple with the colors, the simple order of the room, but more than that, and the quiet.
But unlike the Temple, it was not safe.
Sarujaa raiding parties had destroyed a munitions storage unit on the far side of the base just that morning. Though their leader was dead and their cause no lost, there were still those who sought martyrdom and Amanohara. They would take what lives they could in their passage to the otherworld.
Stepping inside, he slowly drew the door closed behind him. With ginger movements, he shrugged his worn cloak off his shoulders. Catching the material with his good arm, he trudged the few steps to the cot and laid it across the head. Something caught his eye, giving him pause. Propped up against the bedroll, was the obake, the tiny effigy of Ka'tau.
Smirking, he picked it up and studied the ragged creation. A subtle reminder, he thought, that she was watching. "I said I would rest," he told the doll before returning it to its place.
Remaining still, he quietly took a few cautious, yet deep breaths, holding each one and centering himself. With a new focus and the pain—sufficiently pushed back—he drew his attention to the mirror, fixed to the durasteel wall. Below stood the small, brushed metal basin. Still clinging to the silvery surface of the sink, droplets of water shined in the cold, bluish white lighting of the chamber. Instant day, he thought dully. It was a psychological effect, never allowing anyone to get too comfortable, always keeping everyone on guard. At least, his position gave him control of the brightness. Turning back to the door, he offered a gentle wave of his hand. Reaching out with the Force's fingers, the controls slid downward, dimming the lights to the point that the afternoon sun pouring in through the window was dominant.
He stopped to stare at the light that fell across the edge of the cot onto the floor. There was a small hint of warm yellow, as if the heat of the Haigara sun could cut through the gray haze that draped the sky.
Stepping up to the sink, he brushed pale flesh against the cool metal and drew his fingers through the translucent beads. A motion sensor kicked in and an icy jet of filtered water shot out of the faucet, splashing across his bandaged hand. The shock of the liquid crashing against his palm made the Jedi withdraw as a chill raced down his spine, freeing him of any lethargy that injury had foisted upon him. The flow ceased as he shook his hand, splattering water everywhere. Groaning at the mess he had made, Obi-Wan grabbed for the dark brown towel hanging on a nearby hook.
Drawing the towel across the mirror, he tried to wipe away the splatters, but the harsh filtering chemicals that made the water safe, only smeared the reflective glass. With a sigh, he set the towel down and drew a finger through the splashed basin before pressing it to his lips. The bitter taste of the hard water was stark compared to his memories of the Temple. He longed for the cool liquid, the fresh, tasteless water. The comforts of home.
Thoughts of relaxing in the shadow of the small waterfalls in the Room of a Thousand Fountains and the moisture-laden air that seemed to cleanse the spirit warmed him.
It had been months—far too many—since he had been home. Not since Anakin had been knighted. They still passed messages, when time and circumstances allowed. His former padawan's duties always kept him on the far side of the galaxy. Always too far away, offering grainy holoimages and filled with vagaries of battles.
He had not checked his messages in days, not that it mattered. Few got through since the fall of Aldera Relay Station. There had been other things demanding his attention, his recovery being primary. Still, spans without a message from Anakin always set him on edge.
A soft laugh as he silently chastised himself for being a silly old master, still worrying about a padawan all grown up. It would have been easier to let go if he had not felt the knighting to be so abrupt. The Council had moved forward, regardless of his concerns, but he understood why. They were desperate.
Anakin was a good pilot and commander who had led the Republic forces to victories over opposing navies. Their paths as teacher and student had diverged.
Still, doubts lingered.
Doubt lingered about so many things.