A/N: We interrupt your scheduled programming to bring you a special edition of angst.


One year, two months, and five days after they left for Mandalore, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon returned to the Jedi temple.

Their homecoming was, in the grand scheme of things, a small annotation on the face of their combined history, destined to be remembered only in the quiet moments of life after the passing of years dampened the immediacy of the Here and Now. But that was the trouble with the present; it was here and now, pressing, merciless, raw and unaided by the buffer of retrospection. Time was the antidote, but its medicinal drip came at an agonizing, quotidian pace. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tock.

"Qui-Gon," Ben's surprise made him look like a boy again. It was past dark, and even on the neversleeping capital, the halls of the Jedi Temple were quiet and still. Qui-Gon's robes were new and creased from the laundry press, his hair still damp from a shower. Dark circles framed his eyes. He smiled, weakly.

Ben recovered and stepped aside. "Please, come in."

They sat in silence. Qui-Gon was too tired to make tea or ask for it.

"You're back," Ben observed at length.

Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows. "It took long enough." He sank into Ben's sofa in a manner suggesting he had not seen real furniture in a while. He eyed Ben. "I suppose that does not surprise you."

Ben was unsure how to answer, so he looked at his folded hands. He wished there had been a better path to arrive at this point. "How is he?" He asked, head ducked.

Qui-Gon drew in a long breath and let it out at the same pace. "You asked me to be patient with him. I've done all that I can - the rest is with the Force."

Ben nodded. After several long moments, he said: "I hope you do not blame me for allowing it to happen the same way twice."

Qui-Gon smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "I do not. I cannot say the same for my apprentice."

Ben had only ever done as he must; even when it felt like cruelty. "Some of the most valuable lessons are the hardest to endure." He glanced up at his master, hesitant for both himself and for Obi-Wan. "He won't tell you, but I will: thank you, for all that you said and did."

Qui-Gon seemed surprised. "All of it?" He chuckled incredulously. He gazed at the wall, pulling out exhibits of memory. "I smacked him several times, you know. Don't know if that's something you'd remember."

"Oh, it is."

"Embarrassed him. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes in… compromising instances."

Ben cleared his throat, going slightly red in the face. "Yes. Well." An awkward beat. "But you also told him what he most needed to hear. I still remember it."

"Oh?"

Ben looked up, referencing the imparted wisdom from the last year of decades ago. "'The Code is not perfect, but allegiance to imperfect understanding is the price we pay for efficacy in our calling'."

Qui-Gon was touched. "You make it sound far more eloquent than I," he complimented. "I can only hope Obi-Wan shares your affection for it. Unfortunately, I am not sure if your holocron made it easier or harder a truth for him to swallow."

"Hmm." Ben had to admit; he had not considered the potentially negative ramifications of it in great detail. "I had hoped it would help him see it… see her from a healthier point of view. But it's been so long since I was his age." He frowned, the thought just now hitting home that he could have made this all much harder for his younger self. "Perhaps I misjudged."

"Perhaps," Qui-Gon shrugged, "Perhaps not. He will overcome. Eventually."

"Mmm." Ben's brow remained drawn in taught lines, uncertain shades of regret casting shadows and creases on an otherwise young face.

Qui-Gon's sudden chuckle brightened the room. "I must hand it to you," He said with a smile, "You certainly know how to pick them."

Drawn from his thoughts, Ben looked up at him, bewildered. "How do you mean?"

The master laughed again, eyeing his former pupil with amusement. "I'd never met a woman who could make you shut up like that – who could debate you on ideology and win." He snorted softly at the memory. "Of course you'd fall for her."

Ben laughed with him, freed from the awkwardness of years past. "What can I say?" He shrugged, cheeks only slightly pink, "I have a type."

Qui-Gon shook his head, still smiling. "And good taste. I am glad to have met Satine, this whole mess aside. She's a remarkable person – I have no doubt she will go on to do great things."

Ben was gratified to hear him say it. "She will," he assured, tone soft with affection and pride.

Qui-Gon stretched out his legs, propping up his feet on the low tea table. He nearly knocked over a pair of potted plants as he did. "Force," he caught himself just in time, "are these mine?"

"Ah, yes, I'd nearly forgotten."

The elder man stroked the leaves and branches with a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I hardly recognized them."

"A year is a long time to grow."

"It is." Qui-Gon leaned back into the couch and began picking at his beard. Ben recognized it as a rare but telling tick of stress.

"Qui-Gon, you ought to go rest," he said. "They'll still be here tomorrow."

Qui-Gon looked up. "Of course." His hand faltered suddenly, as if he'd only just now realized that it had been fiddling at his chin. "Yes, of course." After a brief hesitation, he pressed his hands against his knees and stood, joints popping. Ben stood with him, offering a small smile.

"Thank you for looking after them," he said. Ben crossed over to the other man for a fond embrace.

"It's good to have you back, Master."

Warm reciprocation floated between them. "You as well, my friend."

Ben escorted him to the door and saw him out. "If you need me to talk with Obi-Wan, just let me know."

Qui-Gon paused at the door, casting an uncertain look back at the elder Kenobi. "I'm not sure that would be wise. Not now. The time for patience has not quite passed." He ticked an eyebrow in chagrinned apology. "He's stubborn that way."

"So am I."

"Color me shocked." They both chuckled, though there was little feeling behind it. "I'll let you know. He needs more time."

"I understand," Ben shuffled back awkwardly. "Good night, then, master."

"Good night."


Few people at the Temple actually saw Obi-Wan until he showed up for saber practice days later. Feemor and Aola happened to be training at the time, and Aola very nearly took off a lekku when she dropped her saber in shock and bolted for her fellow apprentice.

"Obi!" she launched.

Obi-Wan was momentarily nonplussed, but when his brain processed who it was charging at him and the pure joy rolling off of her, his face split into a grin. He attempted to say hello, but she hit him at full-speed and knocked the air out of his lungs as he caught her. She was taller than when he'd left. With her arms about his neck her toes still touched the ground, an improvement from last year. He smiled.

"Missed you too, Aola," he said. She hugged him tighter.

Unrushed footsteps came to stand near them. "Aola, you can't just hug someone in the middle of a fight. If this were a real skirmish-"

"But it's Obi-Wan," She protested. Face still pressed against Obi-Wan's shoulder, she couldn't see Feemor's grin. Obi-Wan could. He gave a little wave with the portion of his arm that he could still move behind Aola's vice grip.

"Hello, Master Gard."

Feemor smiled at him and nodded. "Good to have you back, lad."

Obi-Wan's face darkened with sadness for a split second, but he nodded back. "Yes, it's good to be back," he said, hollowly. Aola pulled away from him, beaming. Obi-Wan mustered a smile for her, but only Feemor saw the veneer for what it was.

"Alright, back to work," the master kicked at her heels. "Less hugging, more sabering." His eyes lingered on Obi-Wan for a moment longer, wondering what could've happened over the course of a year. A lot, he supposed.

"Obi-Wan," called a new voice – Qui-Gon, who'd just arrived in the dojo. "Ready?"

Obi-Wan's saber was out in a flash, eyes and shoulders itching for a fight. "Of course, Master."


Obi-Wan's year on Mandalore had given him dark circles under his eyes, new wrinkles in his brow, and stolen about fifteen pounds from his already lanky frame. But his fighting style emerged from the fray more vicious than ever, with all the fire of his initiate days and ten times the skill.

Qui-Gon would only fight him in small bouts before reprimanding him for his aggression and sending him to practice serene katas. It drove Obi-Wan to madness. After their reports were filed and the team transitioned back into Temple life, the web of hairline fractures that their mission had wrought in their relationship began to show under the stress. They seldom smiled. Their bickering turned sour. Once in the privacy of their apartments, they'd devolved into a series of arguments – full blown, vicious arguments – that were never fully resolved. Obi-Wan was under discipline most days. They were not a broken team; they were, however, a very strained team. They avoided each other when they could.

Dooku took it as an opportunity to snatch his grandpadawan aside and spend nearly every free moment schooling him in makashi. It was a brutal, magnificent spectacle.

Their duals usually entailed Obi-Wan getting his ass handed to him while Dooku walked away hardly winded. Even so, Obi-Wan always came back for more, charging blindly into a melee without looking both ways, running through the motions on nothing but muscle memory, dulled wits, and pent up frustration.

Ben sometimes caught the tail end of a duel – if you could call it that – after one of his junior saber classes. It had been a little over a week since their return, but he still hadn't spoken to Obi-Wan. Once in a while, Obi-Wan would do a double take to see his older self watching the fight, but he would always look away, pretending he hadn't seen. Ben knew that the extended mission had put Obi-Wan one step closer to understanding who Ben was, and why, but Obi-Wan didn't see it that way. In time, perhaps. For now, they could only look at each other from across a vast chasm of breached trust.

Patience, Qui-Gon had said. Hell, Ben had been the one to tell Qui-Gon to have patience. He hadn't predicted that it would be so relevant for himself as well.

It was actually quite shocking to see how gracefully Dooku triaged the situation. Obi-Wan was angry, moody, and unstructured. His stint in Mandalore had seen him living on the run in a warzone for an entire year. His body had paid a price as much as his mind. This, mixed with Satine's trials on his heart, turned him into a chemical, emotional bomb waiting to explode. No one, not even Qui-Gon, knew quite how to handle him.

Enter Dooku. The man was unflappable. He assessed Obi-Wan's situation at a glance, grabbed him by the proverbial ear, and tossed him into the dojo to throw his tantrums and earn a whipping at the same time. Exhausted, confounded, and too weary of his own apprentice to say anything, Qui-Gon let it happen with only cursory complaints.

However, Ben doubted that it was doing any good, and confronted Dooku on the point after a particularly ruthless show that saw Obi-Wan smearing bacta on his chest for a week.

"You oughtn't goad his anger," Ben reprimanded his elder in the hall outside of the dojo. Dooku continued walking, prompting Ben to jog to catch up.

"Goad? I hardly need goad him, Ben. He's done that himself."

"Anger leads to hate," Ben repeated in a knee-jerk fashion. Dooku scoffed.

"Hate may be the enemy, but anger is not the problem. So he's angry – let him be. He's been careless with his affections, is paying is paying the price, and is furious about it. But if he can't walk straight and he's too tired to move, he won't act on his anger." Dooku paused his step to turn and look at Ben, arms crossed. "You're close with him, Ben, aren't you?"

"Close enough."

"Then tell me; since I've begun goading him, has he been sleeping any better?"

Ben was speechless. "I…" he began, and thought about it. "I suppose… he's been sleeping more."

"As I say," Dooku tipped his head, reminding Ben that despite all his suspicions and distrust, Dooku had been training headstrong apprentices since long before he'd been born. "He's a nineteen year old boy. He needs time – but he also needs a good whipping to keep docile for that long." Dooku swept away, leaving Ben to ponder this wisdom. "Let him work himself to shreds, then he can meditate on how childish he's been."

Ben opened his mouth to object, but shut it with a snap. The point was aptly made.


Dooku was not a visionary – but he was, apparently, a prophet. It was a matter of weeks before Obi-Wan wore himself to exhaustion. Between dueling and katas and a workout routine designed to help him regain the weight he'd lost on Mandalore, Obi-Wan pushed his body as far as it would go and farther. And then, in the middle of a spar with Qui-Gon, he crashed. He fell to his knees, and then the floor, surrendered, and did not attempt to rise for nearly fifteen minutes.

Unfortunately, the slump that followed did not have the contrite flavor that Dooku had anticipated. Anger had melted away, but it was not followed by any kind of recovery. Depression was the only word for it – deep depression. Obi-Wan could not fight, so he retreated instead. The arguments with his master became silent stares and cold shoulders. The tantrums in the dojo became jerky, slow katas performed in solitude. He withdrew even from his friends, unable to speak of what he'd lost and why it was so important.

"I did not expect this," Dooku confided in Ben one afternoon after Obi-Wan failed to show up for saber practice. His voice was unexpectedly soft, devoid of its usual highbrow acerbity. Ben watched his expression very carefully as he asked,

"Expect what?"

Dooku's jawline tensed into a sharp line of annoyance, but there was something unmistakably sympathetic in his eyes. "A Trial," he said, and left the dojo.

Obi-Wan had been through many trials in his life, but none quite like this one. Ben recognized the stage of grief from his own experience, but was unsure of how to address it. He and Obi-Wan still hadn't spoken since the latter's return.

As it so often did, the Force intervened. As he so often did, Ben found himself – and his younger self – in level B-459.

Ben found Obi-Wan sitting alone, perched atop the high bannister of an old balcony. There did not appear to be any accessible stairs, so Ben leaped and climbed his way up to join the apprentice. He took his time settling into a seat beside the boy.

"Hello," Ben said at last. The word echoed off the chamber walls and faded into the raging quiet. Obi-Wan only glanced at him because there was nothing else to glance at.

"Hi," he said, too quiet to make an echo. The inches between them were like a chasm.

"Obi-Wan… I'm so sorry."

"Don't," Obi-Wan snapped, glaring out of the corner of his eye. His upper lip twitched, a snarl itching to make itself known. The Force boiled with emerging anger. "Just… don't."

Ben bit his lip. There was an absurd kind of terror in being spruned by yourself without knowing the exact reasons behind it. He was struck by the thought, ever more common in his daily introspections, that Obi-Wan was a very different man than he'd been.

"Is there anything I can say?"

"Apparently not," Obi-Wan shot back, the harsh edges of his words ringing off ancient stone. "Not now, anyway. I suppose it would've killed you to have said something last year."

"You wished I had warned you about all that waited for you on Mandalore."

"I could've used a warning."

"Why?"

"Why?" Obi-Wan turned to face the older man, face aghast. "Why do you think? So I could've braced myself, prepared or, or, or… done something." His hands were clenching into fists, which he shoved into his lap to restrain himself. "This is all your fault."

Ben absorbed this in chagrined silence. I blame you. There was real venom there. He eyed his younger self keenly. "And what would you have done?"

"Well there's know way to know now, is there? No thanks to you. I just know that if I could go back, and do it differently…" he floundered, unable to articulate what was in his heart. "And you did. But you didn't."

"I did. I gave you that holocron."

Obi-Wan squinted at him, disgusted. "What?"

"I made sure you had it with you on the trip."

"You?" He spat. "But… you… we talked about that – we talked on the kriffing ship, and you didn't say a damned bloody thing about it!"

A torrent of anger swirled about them, but Ben remained at the eye of the storm. "I said that the Force works in mysterious ways. It was all the help I could offer you."

"Bastard," Obi-Wan launched a fist straight at Ben's jaw. Ben caught it one-handed before it could it its mark. Upon impact, Obi-Wan's abused shoulder seized and he cried out in pain, drawing back to cradle his aching body and stretch his arm.

Ben regarded him with an unfeeling gaze. "You should have that looked at."

Obi-Wan glared at him.

With his opponent incapacitated and held in captive attention, Ben decided to appeal to the one facet of Obi-Wan Kenobi's mind that he knew would persist even in his anger: rhetoric.

"Let us suppose," began the Negotiator, "for the sake of argument, that I did warn you about Mandalore and Satine. Let us even suppose that you would have believed me. That I told you every gory, wonderful, horrible detail of that assignment and gave you ample time to prepare a strategy for coming out of it unscathed. What would you have done differently?"

"I would've avoided her," Obi-Wan said immediately.

"Which you would have done out of fear – and ended up suffering more than you are now."

This logic blindsided the padawan's argument, but Obi-Wan remained determined to corroborate what was in his heart. "Well then maybe I would've forgotten to Code altogether and left," he said.

"Left the Jedi Order?" Ben deadpanned.

Obi-Wan shrugged with deliberate nonchalance, hiding the tenderness of his right shoulder. "There's already one of me here, isn't there? They don't need me."

"That's not true, and you know it. Besides," Ben watched him for a moment. "You and I both know you could conscience leaving, Ben."

Obi-Wan's jaw tensed as hard as a rock, and if his shoulder were not spasming in pain, he would've thrown another punch. "Do not call me that," He hissed.

Ben said nothing for a moment, taking the time to draw up his knees and assume a serene reflection of Obi-Wan's brooding pose. "She did," he said. Obi-Wan looked away, holding his arms close to restrain his anger. "I chose to go by the name years ago, because it reminded me of happier times. One day you will look back on this similarly."

Obi-Wan said nothing, but the silent I don't believe you did not need translation. The Force had shifted slightly, fading from anger into confusion and hurt. Ben took it as a cue to press on, more softly this time:

"You do not have to stop loving her, Obi-Wan. You do, however, have to let her go."

"What does that even mean?" The apprentice frowned at him in frustration. Ben had no doubt that Qui-Gon had told him something similar, but if memory served, it had been little comfort. As an old man, Ben could see the truth in it; but the problem with truth was that it often hurt, and in that hurt, offered no immediate help.

He'd attempted to help his younger self with the Code that he hadn't known on Mandalore. It seemed insignificant in light of Obi-Wan's tumultuous state, but perhaps it would provide a seed of wisdom that, when the storm had passed, would grow into something more.

"Emotion, yet peace. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony," Ben picked the lines that seemed most pertinent, and waited for Obi-Wan to glance his way before he said, "There is a huge difference between love and attachment. Unfortunately, that difference is made up almost entirely of the ability to let go."

"It is the only evil that a Jedi must overcome," Obi-Wan remembered from Ben's holocron. The master gave a small smile.

"So it did help."

Obi-Wan huffed, frustration still bubbling below the surface. "I wouldn't call it help exactly, but…" he rolled his sore shoulder and ran his left hand through his hair. "I suppose." After a moment of thought, he said, "Qui-Gon said something similar."

"Qui-Gon is a wise man."

Obi-Wan sighed.

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the solitude, the isolation from everyday life. Thousands of people bustled above their heads, Jedi personalities pressing big and bright upon the surface of the Force. But down here, the thick and ancient pulse of the living world was for them alone. Contemplation needn't be still or peaceful for the sake of communal propriety. Obi-Wan's brow wore the deep furrows that Ben knew from his own reflection.

"Does it ever feel absurd to you?" the apprentice burst at length.

"What?"

"Destiny. Changing things. It must, mustn't it?It's just…" Obi-Wan struggled with the words, weeks worth of thought fossilized by anger and frustration and grief. "I meditate, and… and for just a few seconds, it all makes sense. I'm at peace. I can see everything the Force wills for my life. I understand. That's why I'm still here in the Order. But then I wake up and I still have to…" he shook his head and shrugged, desperately. "To brush my teeth, and fold my clothes, and Qui-Gon's probably nagging me about something. I have a burn on my left thumb that won't heal and I've fallen so far behind in my coursework that I don't want to think about it." Obi-Wan wrapped his arms about his knees and sunk his face into them up to his nose. Mumbling through the thick muslin sleeves, he said, "It's all so grandiose and clean until I have to live it. Then it just hurts."

Ben smiled, though part of him would've liked to cry. Wisdom was a prize won at high cost. When he spoke, he spoke softly, because he knew the weight of words could bruise. "No life in history has ever been lived in grandeur. Not my life, not your life, not any life you or I may have lived with Satine or outside of this Order." He turned his head to look at Obi-Wan, though the younger refused to reciprocate. "You only have one life to live, Obi-Wan. Don't let your heart trick you into forgetting that."

The anger and the confusion melted from the Force, its light fading into a deep, resigned and hurting hue. Obi-Wan blinked rapidly, face now sinking deeper into the crook of his arm. He sniffed loudly and shuddered.

Without saying anything, Ben put a hand on his nephew's back, then a whole arm. Obi-Wan sobbed quietly and Ben's heart ached for him. Suffocating emotion pooled around them in a writhing flood, burning blue and thick before dissipating into the endless Force. In the stillness left in its wake, for just a few seconds, the world made sense. When Obi-Wan lifted this head, the only scars left were dried tears. He wiped crusts from his cheeks and had to blow his nose. He looked terrible.

"We ought to go eat," Ben said. "You need to rise early tomorrow for class."

Obi-Wan smiled and let out a mirthless scoff. "Yeah," he croaked, unfolding his bones and standing by some borrowed strength. "I suppose."

They shuffled out together, hoods drawn high.


Recovery was long and hard. Obi-Wan's ascent from the trials of Mandalore was arduous and awkward. His identity as a Jedi was in flux; his relationship with Qui-Gon had shifted; his understanding of Ben was evolving, and everything he did he second-guessed.

And yet, amid the chaos, some good came to the lineage.

Obi-Wan was alone in the dojo, running through the kata he'd been trying to master for weeks. It was a lower level exercise, and should have been a cinch. He was stumbling through it like a youngling. Qui-Gon was watching from the observation balcony, hanging back behind the half-wall banister so his apprentice would not notice him.

Dooku had been doing the exact same thing some meters away. Quietly, he stepped over to his former pupil's side. Qui-Gon did not acknowledge him. They remained indifferently close, both watching the apprentice below. Dooku's brow had developed an unusual line, easily missed. "How is he?" he asked, the finest edge of his normal tone clipped away. "Truly."

Qui-Gon finally glanced at the speaker, not sure he'd heard the whole question. "Not well," He admitted. "I am afraid it is a true trial for him. I've never seen him like this."

Obi-Wan's movements were sharp and jagged; emotion leaked off of him in waves, starting and stopping in time with his tenuous composure. He stumbled in the same spot as he had three times already, cursed, and began again.

"He will have to get over her eventually," Dooku said.

"He will," Qui-Gon defended, "in time."

Dooku nodded and let out a sigh, soft enough and elongated just so that, for a moment, Qui-Gon thought he could see a specter of sympathy standing at his side. Moments ticked past.

"He will be a great Jedi," Dooku said at length, still watching Obi-Wan. "You mustn't let him down."

"I do not intend to."

"Good." The aristocratic airs were back, and Dooku brushed his cape aside to allow a graceful exit. "If you should need me to take him for an afternoon or two, do let me know."

"Yes, Master," Qui-Gon said. Just as Dooku was at the door, he wrestled with his pride and opened his mouth before he could think twice about it. "Master?"

Dooku turned in the doorway to look at him with that authoritative, condescending eyebrow. Qui-Gon bit back years worth of grudge to say, "Thank you."

Dooku's brow rose, expression softening - if only by a nanometer. He chuckled. "Now there's something I never thought I'd hear from you," he gave a half smile. "It is my pleasure, Qui-Gon. Force be with you."

"Also with you," Qui-Gon muttered, and watched him go. He sighed to himself and turned back to watch Obi-Wan finish his drills.


Progress was slow, but time alone wrought much improvement. It had been some weeks since his confrontation with Ben, and Obi-Wan was struggling to find a new normalcy in which to dwell.

Presently, he was sitting cross-legged on the sofa doing homework. Mandalore had originally been slated as a three month-long assignment, and the extra time away had set him back in his studies. Since returning to Coruscant, he had begun completing his remaining modules with individual tutors. It was a time-consuming, lonely process, but he was plugging along at the work with as much dedication as he could muster.

As a senior padawan, Obi-Wan had very little actual coursework left to do. The two classes that he was currently taking would be the very last of his apprenticeship before he began preparing for the Trials and, Force willing, knighthood. Engrossed as he was in the finer points of Huttese grammar, Obi-Wan did not think about this. Qui-Gon, who was watching his padawan quietly from the doorway, did.

Obi-Wan was growing up – he had grown up. All that remained was a little polish, a little experience, a little time. Qui-Gon was embarrassed to acknowledge the burst of paternal sentiment that welled up at the prospect. There was still much for them to learn. The future could wait; the present moment was the only one that mattered.

As Qui-Gon passed the sofa on his way to water his plants, Obi-Wan took a break from his reading to straighten his spine and roll his shoulders. He winced at the motion, rubbing at his right shoulder, which, weeks after the encounter with Ben, still pained him. Qui-Gon glanced up.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

Obi-Wan remembered the attempted punch and felt guilty. Cheeks slightly pink, he avoided eye contact. "A bit."

"Hmm." Qui-Gon finished with his plants and went to stand behind his apprentice. He grabbed the shoulder in one had and gave an experimental squeeze, to which Obi-Wan winced but said nothing. Qui-Gon shook his head. "You overdid it." He pulled at the neck of Obi-Wan's tunic so he could get at the shoulder's bare skin and prod directly at the knotted muscle.

"Ow," Obi-Wan complained, only staying put because he knew that it would help.

"It's your own fault." It was true, and he knew it, so Obi-Wan stayed silent as his master played masseuse. When Qui-Gon was done working out the worst of the knot with his thumbs, he rubbed out the tension from the rest of the shoulder, up into Obi-Wan's neck. He finally let go and watched as the younger man rolled his neck and shoulder experimentally. "Better?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan said. It was not completely repaired, but was a definite start. "Thank you."

Qui-Gon nodded, observing Obi-Wan from above. The boy was far quieter than he used to be, but there was understated wisdom forming in that quiet. They'd not spoken of Satine or Mandalore in several days, though Qui-Gon had seen Obi-Wan meditating often; he knew it had been about her. He glanced around the collection of open holobooks and datapads. He spotted Ben's holocron scattered in with the upper level seminar readings.

"How is it going?" he asked, setting his hands on either of Obi-Wan's shoulders and giving an encouraging brace.

"Better than before. It's still slowgoing." He was transfixed by the intimidatingly expansive reaches of his Huttese homework. Qui-Gon's attention remained directed at the innocuous holocron on the cushion next to him.

"You'll prevail, I'm sure."

"Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon glanced at the padawan braid that brushed against his hand. He drew it back over Obi-Wan's shoulder to examine it, neat twists of hair shining in the light.

"When was the last time you cleaned this?" He asked. Obi-Wan frowned.

"Earlier this week. Why?"

Qui-Gon examined it between thumb and forefinger, pausing at the end of the braid. "Take it down."

The master retreated to his room to fetch his hair kit, leaving Obi-Wan to frown at his braid, trying to spot the flaws that would prompt Qui-Gon to say anything. The man was hardly a paragon of keratin hygiene. He carefully unwound the various colored markers from along the length and unbraided the hair.

"It wasn't so bad," Obi-Wan said when Qui-Gon returned with a fine-toothed comb.

"No," said the master, focusing his attention on the task at hand, "but there is always room for improvement." Not a typical Jinn mantra, but Obi-Wan let it slide. There was a definite lulling experience in having your hair combed – even if a small part of your hair.

"This is far longer than I remember," Qui-Gon observed as he combed small tangles out of the unbound braid, which fell past Obi-Wan's collarbone and onto his chest. The apprentice glanced at it.

"Yes… I admit it's getting more and more in the way."

Qui-Gon smiled. "Well, you'll not need worry about it for toomuch longer," he said. Obi-Wan's eyes grew wide and he looked up in horror. Qui-Gon raised an amused eyebrow. "I said too much, padawan, calm down." He chuckled, brushing the hair ends with a finger. "It's got a ways to grow yet."

Obi-Wan nodded and said nothing more. After he was done combing, Qui-Gon rebraided the hair in a slow, deliberate dance, quietly reminding his apprentice of the meaning of the braid and what it symbolized. The master, the padawan, the Force; bound as one. One by one, he replaced the colored thread markers that tracked progress and growth over the course of years.

There was a purple marker for his loss of innocence on Bandomeer. Yellow marked the trial of mind that had seen him nearly brainwashed on Phindar. A black marker for the first life he'd claimed on Melida-Daan stood alongside its neighbor, a red marker for a trial of body. There was a green marker for wisdom shown in helping another, and blue for exceptional diplomacy and heroism. White marked the first time he'd saved a life, and brown the first time he'd failed to do so. The makers were thin on their own, but repeated several times on the length of his braid, creating a pattern, a code entirely unique to Obi-Wan Kenobi. The last band, a yellow marker put in place after Ben had appeared four years ago, marked the end. A long stretch of naked, unbraided hair followed.

Qui-Gon reached this last marker and continued braiding. Nonplussed, Obi-Wan watched at his master drew out a small spool of grey thread.

"Grey is a passionless color, but it symbolizes the hardships our hearts must face because of passion. The heart can be a fickle friend, and we must often overcome it in order to serve the Force." He very carefully wound the thread about the end of Obi-Wan's braid, binding it into place.

"Master," Obi-Wan protested uncomfortably, "I don't think… that is…" he fiddled with his thumbs even as Qui-Gon worked. "I've hardly learned my lesson on that."

Qui-Gon smiled, eyes crinkled in a bittersweet way. "No, neither have I. We are never done learning, Obi-Wan, and you are not done yet. But you have grown a great deal through this already. I will not leave it unrecognized."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan let the man finish, humbled. When he was done, Qui-Gon ran the braid appreciatively through his fingers. "I am sorry you must wear this color at all, but I am thankful that it is not higher up on your braid."

Obi-Wan smiled sadly at that. "Thank you, Master."

Qui-Gon stood, using Obi-Wan's good shoulder as a prop and giving it a squeeze as he collected the hairtools. "Well done, padawan."


Slowly, very slowly, Obi-Wan came back to himself. He was not the same person as he'd been before Mandalore, and he was not quite who he wished he could be. But he made progress. His saberwork recovered its usual grace and improved greatly for his renewed dedication. He trained with Dooku and Qui-Gon simultaneously, and for once the two masters did not bicker about it. He was able to spend time with his friends, fighting with Garen and laughing with Bant. He meditated more often and more easily now. Things made sense more often, for longer amounts of time.

He remained subdued most days, preferring company in small numbers and quiet settings. His favorite companion of late was Aola, whose irrepressible smile and nonstop chatter distracted from his own troubles. She enjoyed regaling him with stories of her travels in Corellia, discussing at length the many, many animals she'd seen and their various modus operandi for destroying things. Obi-Wan had always thought that she'd outgrow her fascination with deadly wildlife – Feemor thought similarly, he happened to know – but she hadn't, and it was deeply uplifting to see the sheer joy on her face as she described the intricate, deadly dental mechanisms of the Correllian deep-see sniper shark.

It was this habitual exuberance that made her mood swings so jarring. Obi-Wan had gone to visit the Gard/Tarkona apartments one thirdday evening, as he'd made a habit of doing every week, only to find Feemor gone and Aola in a solemn, severe mood.

"Aola?" He asked upon finding her curled up on the couch, worrying the edge of a pillow rather than pouring over her advanced xenozoology coursework. "Are you alright?" He went to sit next to her.

Aola tried to speak up several times before she found the right words. "You have visions, don't you, Obi?"

Obi-Wan wasn't sure where this was going; he knew from experience that it would be nowhere pleasant. "Yes." Obi-Wan knew by hearsay that she was gifted with foresight, like him, but they'd never really talked about it. "Did you have a vision?"

She nodded.

"What did you see?"

She looked up at him. She'd wanted to talk to him about her visions ever since he'd come back, but when he'd showed up so distraught over Satine and withdrawn, she hadn't wanted to trouble him. And by the time he'd begun coming around, the visions had stopped. She hadn't had a dream in months. But now, while Feemor was away subbing a class and Ben was Force knew where helping Bail Organa run errands, she'd been struck by a vision not at night in her sleep, but in the waking hours of dusk.

She told him about the vision, and how many times she'd had it. The man. The red lightsabers. The glowing eyes. "But this time, it changed again," she said, voice cracking with worry. "It wasn't… it wasn't two lightsabers this time. It was like a lightstaff – like the ones Master Krell uses, you know?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan was frowning deeply, trying to imagine the scene she described. "And the blades are red?"

She nodded, knees tucked up to her chin.

Silence reined in the small apartment space. The aircon came on with a small hum; the new breeze made Aola shiver. "What do you think it means?" she asked the older, wiser apprentice.

Obi-Wan felt neither older nor wiser. "I don't know," He said, truthfully. "It… could mean nothing." It was something Qui-Gon would say to him, but the words tasted like a lie. "What does master Gard say to do about it?"

"He says to meditate. But he won't be back until late tonight."

"Alright. Would you like to meditate with me?"

"I guess," she said, one lekku in her hands, fingers fiddling with the end in a nervous tick. She did not even look at the meditation cushions sitting across the room. "Obi?" she asked quietly. Obi-Wan looked over at her, face filled with concern.

"Yes?"

She shivered and tucked her feet inward. "I'm scared."

Obi-Wan's intimate experience with the unifying force gave him a sense of sympathy that neither of their masters would ever be able to comprehend. Without hesitation, He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

They meditated fitfully there on the couch until they fell asleep, Aola curled under Obi-Wan's protective arm, neither apprentice able to understand the warnings the Force afflicted on their minds.