A/N: I am not a doctor. Please excuse my pseudoscience and internet-researched medical terms and protocol. It's all made up. If it's wrong… The Force made me do it.
Ben Kenobi had many talents, and one of the best was his ability to bluff. Not only to bluff, but to take a lie so obviously false that it belonged in a waste heap, polish it up, and spout it off so convincingly in such detail for so long that everyone within hearing distance began to believe him.
In another life, Ben suspected he could have made a devastating politician.
Luckily for the citizens of the free galaxy, he was a Jedi, and was duty bound to use his powers for the greater, if not somewhat underhanded, good.
"Could you repeat the number?" asked the overworked, underpaid clerk who definitely didn't have time for this nonsense.
In the dull confines of a municipal customer service lobby, Ben's smile was deeply offensive. "Of course, it's nine five one one seven one zero zero zero zero eight six two five four..." the clerk hit the keys one by one, not looking at them as she did so.
"And you said this was for…" Her chair creaked as she leaned over to examine the twenty-page form that Ben had just spent two hours filling out. She scrolled. "...reimbursement for… expenses of childbirth?"
"Yes," the Jedi nodded. Through the perforated glass screen through which they'd been talking, the clerk looked at his lightsaber, blinked at it, and looked back up at him with a blank expression. Low-ranking civic employees were notoriously hard to read through the Force; their monotonous duties often lulled them into a natural state of mental shielding without their knowing. There were two published studies in the Archives on the phenomenon, and one ongoing.
Ben cheerfully interpreted the clerk's uninterested expression as a silent request for clarification.
"You see, earlier this year there was a supreme court witness in Jedi custody who was twelve months pregnant at the time - a Yontari, lovely people - and while she was in at our Temple she went into labor. Naturally childbirth is not a typical undertaking of our medical facilities, so when it came time to finish the paperwork, there was no clear avenue through which to appeal for reimbursement, and the Senate keeps our Order on a very tight budget, let me tell you, but a friend of a friend of mine let me know about this grant, and after talking it over with my superiors, I think we could apply for a cut of the funds - a very, very small one at that, it wouldn't really be a big deal - to cover this unusual circumstance, which will make life so much easier for myself and everyone else who has to fuss with the paperwork and-"
"Okay, whatever," in a break with all municipal employee codes of conduct, the clerk displayed an emotion. She waved her hand at him. "Give me a minute."
"Of course, thank you."
When Ben did not budge from where he stood, smiling and holding his hands politely in front of him, the clerk glared up at him through the glass. "Take a seat, sir," she instructed, jerking her head toward the sitting room.
"Oh, of course." Ben hurried back into the lobby and sat down in a chair that may or may not have been older than he was.
The clerk shook her head, uploaded the paperwork to a datachip, and took it away to process.
Once she was gone, Ben huffed and let his mask fall. He rubbed his head, trying to stave off the headache he'd been nursing since the night before. However useful the quagmires of bureaucratic process were, trudging through them was exhausting. He glanced at the chrono on the wall and did a double take. Had he really been here for four hours?
"No wonder he turned to the dark side…" Ben muttered to himself.
"You know, I don't think I've ever heard a Jedi huff," said Bail Organa, smiling as he came into the lobby.
"Ah, Senator, what in the galaxy are you doing here?" Ben smiled and stood to grasp Bail's arm in a friendly greeting.
"Just turning in my receipts," Bail waved a datachip in the air before depositing it into an inbox by the empty clerk's desk.
"Isn't that sort of thing interns' fodder?"
The Alderaanian shrugged. "I don't employ interns - not that kind, anyway. Besides, it gives me an excuse to get up and walk around." He glanced through the glass window. "Where's Alice?"
"The clerk?"
"Yes."
"Ah. She's running some paperwork for me, I believe."
"Oh." Bail gave Ben a quizzical look. "And what sort of paperwork do they send a Jedi Master to file?"
Ben would not break character, not even with Bail. "A reimbursement form for an obscure medical expense incurred earlier this quarter."
Bail raised an eyebrow, eyes bright with suspicion. "Really?"
"Yes. It took me forever to dig up for the occasion. I'll tell you about it another time, in a less public place. How have you been?"
"Well enough. And yourself?"
Ben shrugged nonchalantly. "I've been in the Treasurer's Bureau since it opened this morning," he said. Bail glanced at the chrono, horrorstruck. "I don't suppose you have time to keep a Jedi Master company for a few minutes, do you?"
Bail shrugged. "I don't see why not."
And so, they sat and talked, alone in the dingy waiting room of the lowest applications office in the Republic Treasurer's Bureau. Inevitably, the topic migrated to familiar territory.
"The Alaris Prime scandal continues," Bail said while cycling through the latest gossip, "though I doubt it can grow much larger."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Federation stock has plummeted ever since the Senate opened an investigation. Unfortunately, the Federation is so large and the offense so strange, it's not likely to bring anything to light for years, at least, and you know they have to be sweeping things under the rug in the meantime."
"Yes," Ben nodded, "but they won't be able to carry on with whatever they were doing on Alaris Prime, that's the important thing."
Bail shrugged. "I suppose so. Other than that, the buzz has gone mostly quiet, and to be honest I'm grateful for the break. The Coalition is trying to move forward with a…"
Inexplicably, Bail's words began to fade away, drowned out by a loud ringing noise. It took over Ben's mind as if from within, his headache grown to a peak degree. A wave of sudden dread washed over him.
"Ben?" Bail asked. The spell broke, and Ben looked up to find that the senator was looking at him in concern, one hand on his shoulder, "Ben, are you alright?"
"Yes," Ben blinked, and rubbed at his chest. "No. I don't… something's wrong," he said, searching his senses, trying to determine where the dread had come from. "I'm not sure what it is."
His commlink buzzed at him. He gathered himself and answered it. "Kenobi."
It was Feemor Gard. "Ben, are you on Coruscant?"
"Yes, why?"
"You'd better get to the temple."
The sinking feeling hit home, dropping a stone into his gut. "Why?"
"Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan are back from Kamino. There was… there was a Sith."
"What?" Ben straightened up in his chair, a shot of adrenaline making his hands feel cold, "What happened? Are they alright?"
"The Sith is dead. They got in late last night. Qui-Gon's okay, but Obi… he…" Feemor sighed shakily, and Ben could almost hear him run a hand through his hair. "It's really bad, Ben."
Ben's face slowly drained of blood, leaving him pale and swallowing hard.
"...Ben?"
"I'll be right there," the master replied, and closed the line. He put away his commlink and looked around himself as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. Bail was watching him with wide, concerned eyes.
"Do you have a cab?" he asked. Ben blinked at the question, as if just realizing he could not walk to the Temple.
"I took a shuttle here."
Bail nodded. "I'll drive you. Come on."
They left in a silent rush.
When Alice returned to her desk several minutes later and found the smiling Jedi master gone, she sighed, sent the processed form to the address listed on the paperwork, set the datapad aside, and forgot about it.
Across the curved horizon, the battle over a single life waged on.
Twenty hours ago, Vokara Che had arrived on Kamino and found the Kallidahin medical team buzzing around Obi-Wan Kenobi in the post-op room. He was unconscious, pale-faced and blue-lipped, despite the blood transfusion, the IV, and the oxygen line. It took several panicked minutes to communicate with the Kallidahin healers - who could apparently speak despite having no mouths - but at length the clones' resident medics were able to bring their Jedi comrades up to speed.
Obi-Wan had been struck across the face and torso with a full-powered lightsaber. The head surgeon communicated the full list of injures in an even, calm tone:
Third degree burns across the face and torso; hairline fractures in the skull; broken left clavicle; trauma to the right orbital socket; corneal burns; ruptured right temporal and facial arteries; ruptured left subclavian artery; ruptured right temporal, left jugular, and left subclavian veins; torn left bicep; soft tissue damage to lips and the right eye; electrical nerve damage whose severity had yet to be determined; possible concussion; severe blood loss.
It was a grim litany, but Vokara was a professional. She refused to look shaken, even as her apprentice's naturally wide Nautolan eyes grew wider.
"We are trying to stabilize him, but his body is recovering from the hypovolemic shock very slowly. His genetic makeup is different than what we are used to."
The clones, yes; Vokara had seen some on her way in, and they'd done nothing to soothe the dread pooling in her gut. She wondered how much genetic modification they'd funneled into this program. She made a mental note to interrogate Ben about it later. "We need to get him back to Coruscant. I mean no disrespect to your abilities, but we Jedi take care of our own, and just as I am sure clones do, Jedi present their own challenges in the medical field." Namely, they did not require as much medication as normal humans, but needed significantly more Force-induced healing trances. Left to it, the Kallidahins would likely dose Obi-Wan into a fully-fledged coma, and Vokara would not allow that.
"I understand," said the clones' head healer. "But let us stabilize him first."
Vokara nodded, and looked past where they'd been talking to the supine figure of Obi-Wan, still surrounded by healers, tubes and bandages appearing as one conglomerate heap on top of him. There was hardly any visible part of him that looked familiar, save the long padawan's braid that dangled off the edge of the gurney. The monitors beeped away, indicating a high pulse and low blood pressure. As Vokara watched, a Kallidahin replaced the empty blood bag with another.
"How much blood did he lose?" she asked.
"Approximately two liters," the other healer replied. Vokara's eyes widened silently. "He is not out of the storm yet, Master Jedi. He is only at the eye."
Master Che only nodded. This she knew well; either he would recover, or he would take a turn for the worse. Either way, it would happen in split seconds while Vokara watched, and there would be very little she could do about it. And until then, she would have to wait.
"Tell me when he is in a condition to leave," she said to the Kallidahin, and glanced back through a window to an observation room where she knew Qui-Gon had been waiting for her. "I need to see to my colleague."
He was sitting in the exact same chair in the exact same position as the one she'd seen him in when they'd arrived. He was also covered in dried blood, but she did not mention it. Quietly, she sat down next to him.
"Is he going to be alright?" he asked at a whisper.
She would not lie to him. "I don't know." He said nothing. "Qui-Gon, what happened?"
He shook his head. "The Sith was here, claiming to be Sifo Dyas. We fought. Obi-Wan and I were separated. I… I was sure he was going to kill me, and then Obi-Wan appeared, drew his attention, and…" he shrugged helplessly. "There was a rayshield. I couldn't do anything but watch."
There were no words she could possibly respond with. She put her hand on his shoulder. "He's alive," she said, the words for now hanging in uncertain, unspoken tones. "The Sith did not win." She paused a moment then asked, "Is the corpse still here?"
"I suppose," Qui-Gon realized. He hadn't thought of it. "Where we left it, unless someone moved it."
Vokara nodded. She looked over into the hospital room, where Luna was speaking with the medical staff and running her own tests on their patient. "I think my apprentice has things handled here for now. I will go see if this body has anything to offer us. As soon as Obi-Wan is stable, we are leaving for Coruscant."
Qui-Gon only nodded, eyes still riveted to the boy in the other room, face haggard and exhausted. Vokara wanted to say something to him, but in the end gave his shoulder a strong, wordless squeeze.
Four long hours later, after Obi-Wan's face regained some of its color and his vitals stabilized, they were ready to leave for Coruscant. He was still unconscious, which was alarming, but made him easier to handle for the trip. Qui-Gon refused to leave his side. After seven hours in hyperspace, they were making their approach into the Coruscant atmosphere. An hour after that, the Healing Hall staff was running out to the landing dock to receive them. All in all, the situation was progressing well - better than could be expected, even.
It was perhaps only predictable, then, that as soon as he was in the safety of the temple and Vokara had finally breathed a sigh of relief Obi-Wan decided to leave the eye of the storm and plunge head first into the tumult. Just like she had known hours ago, it had happened in a split second, and there was little she could do about it until the monitors were blaring.
"Master!" Luna sensed the disturbance first, "He's going into shock!"
Vokara ran into the room. On the bed, Obi-Wan's back was seized up in a half-arc, his injured arms stretched in involuntary contractions, twitching and straining against his IV line.
"What's happening?" asked Qui-Gon, who'd been at his apprentice's bedside. Vokara elbowed her way past him to grab Obi-Wan's wrist and force it down on the bed so he would not tear the needles out of his arm. "Neurogenic," she told Luna.
The Nautolan looked out the door where a junior apprentice had come to answer the code blue. "Get me thirty ccs of cortisone," she ordered, and the younger padawan darted off. She dug through her crash cart to prep the hypospray gun.
Obi-Wan's well-toned muscles were proving difficult to control, and Vokara had to lean her full weight on him to keep his arm from shooting off the bed and ripping out his lines. She bumped into Qui-Gon. "Get out of here," she growled, and after a brief hesitation, Qui-Gon left; he could only be in the way if he stayed. Luna took the cortisone shot from her fellow apprentice and slammed it into Obi-Wan's neck. The effect was not immediate; the alarms still blared, his muscles continued to twitch. Vokara let go of his arm and began compressing his chest.
"Why is he seizing?" Qui-Gon could hear the words through the observation window.
"I don't know," Vokara said, easing away as his heart rate normalized. She raised a penlight to look at his eyes - or eye, rather, the one that wasn't covered in bandages. She stormed from the room.
"I need an encephalo and doppramag in ER 1, now!" she announced to the room, and returned to assist Luna with Obi-Wan. Healers and apprentices began buzzing around the anteroom, running to and fro collecting equipment and answering comm calls in the head healer's absence.
"Excuse me," one squeezed passed Qui-Gon on her way to an office.
"Sorry, master," said another as he wheeled a large piece of equipment toward Obi-Wan's hospital room. Qui-Gon quietly backed away, not sure what to do or where to be. He found a chair and fell into it.
He sat there for some time, completely unaware of his surroundings, eyes fixed on the door to Obi-Wan's room, where healers and equipment and scanners and medicine ferried in and out, always in a rush, never stopping to tell him anything.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when he heard,
"How is he?" It was a familiar voice, spoken with unfamiliar softness. Qui-Gon turned to look up at his visitor.
"Master? What are you doing here?"
Yan Dooku's eyes lingered on the door before he looked over at his former apprentice. "My investigation has led me back to the Core. I was reporting to Master Windu when he told me…" He glanced back up when Luna jogged quickly into the hospital room. "I came as soon as I could."
Qui-Gon sighed and leaned into his hands. "I don't know. I don't know if anyone knows."
Dooku watched Qui-Gon for a few moments before craning his neck to look at his bloodstained, scorched tunic. "You really ought to change, you know." No response. He examined the tilt of Qui-Gon's shoulders, the lines in the muscle of his jaw. "Has anyone seen to your injures?" Again, no response. Dooku sighed, and excused himself. He returned a short time later with a clean change of clothes. He gently pulled Qui-Gon up from his chair and found an empty room. He took a bottle of bacta from a supply shelf without asking and unscrewed it while Qui-Gon peeled off his shirt, revealing burns all over his back and his arm; the latter were already beginning to blister. Dooku did not look surprised. They said nothing to each other as Dooku carefully tended to the wounds and wrapped them in bandages. Qui-Gon's gaze was riveted to the door, as if he could see around the corner and through the wall to where his apprentice lay. Dooku sighed.
"The Force has him just as it ever did, Padawan," he said, softly. Qui-Gon looked down at the ground, unable to respond. "You did all you could."
Qui-Gon did not believe him, and they both knew it, but there was nothing else to do.
The following morning, before most of the temple was awake, Feemor and Aola burst into the Halls with Aola in front, tears still drying on her cheeks.
"She saw it in a vision," Feemor explained when Vokara had come to investigate. Shaken, feeling guilty for not having foreseen the disaster, Aola was glued to the window into Obi-Wan's room as the hours ticked on, occasionally reaching up to angrily wipe tears away. Eventually, when Obi-Wan's vitals had been stable for long enough, they'd allowed Qui-Gon to go back into the room. The master sat down in a chair by the edge of the bed and tried to pick around the bandages to brush the boy's cheek. He was still unconscious.
Feemor came to stand beside Aola at the window. "Do you think he'll be okay?" she asked, needing assurance. Feemor didn't know what to say. There were so many bandages, so many tubes and needles, so little response. He'd heard the healers muttering to each other about electric shock, optic neurosis, concussions, comas, and burns. He'd heard them planning a shift schedule for twenty-four hour watch. Inside the room, Luna wheeled in a large scanning machine and positioned it over the right side of Obi-Wan's face; it was the third time they'd run this particular test that day.
"I hope so," he said numbly. Aola sniffled and rubbed at her eyes.
Feemor stepped away and pulled out his commlink. It was bizarre to see Obi-Wan like this; just days ago, he'd been the talk of the temple after his performance in the dojo. And now…
"Kenobi."
"Ben, are you on Coruscant?"
Intensive care units had an incredibly distinctive, pungent smell. There were whole boulevards in Ben's memory paved with that scent, and even after they'd left Obi-Wan's bedside to congregate in Vokara's office, he found himself wandering down mental roads while Vokara tried to explain the severity of Obi-Wan's injuries.
"But the Sith is dead," Ben repeated for perhaps the third time. In his mind, this was paramount above even his own self's safety.
"Yes," Vokara nodded. "I saw the corpse myself. Struck through the heart, with this." She placed something on the desk in front of her.
It took a moment for Ben to recognize what it was.
"If he had cut the thing any more to the right or left, only one of the blades would've worked, and he would most likely be dead by now." Vokara nodded at the jagged edge of the saberstaff part. "The Force guided his hand, by my oath."
Ben tried to imagine the fight in his mind. He shook his head. "But… how did he have time after he was struck?"
Vokara turned around to pick up a small bin. Metal pieces rattled inside. She placed it on the desk for Ben's inspection. "The Sith stopped to gloat."
He picked at the pieces of his first lightsaber, the casing sliced neatly in two, the crystal in shards. His jaw dropped slightly. "Gloat?" he wondered aloud.
"Qui-Gon was locked on the other side of the door. He was watching."
Ben looked up at her, and she looked back. A memory of what-had-been passed between them; he had mentioned before that he'd watched Qui-Gon die. And now…
Ben let out a long, uncertain sigh. "He's alive," he said, as if to assure himself. "He'll recover."
"I hope so," said the healer, "but I highly doubt he'll make a full recovery."
Ben frowned at her. "How do you mean?"
"It's about time Ben brought you around to meet us," Feemor grinned, forcibly willing lightheartedness into the room. "He talks about you often, I'm glad to finally put a face to the sparkling reputation." Bail Organa shook his hand with a similarly forced smile.
"I did not realize Master Kenobi was in the habit of exaggeration," the senator said, "but I'm pleased to meet his Jedi family."
"Of course." Feemor glanced back behind them, where Obi-Wan lay in a strong healing trance with Qui-Gon sitting at his side, as he had been for hours already. "I would introduce you to Qui-Gon, but…" When Feemor turned back around, his face was somber. "I don't think now is a good time."
"No, I'd say not," Bail nodded, heart grieved to see someone so young in such a state. "I should have liked to have met them under better circumstances."
"Perhaps next you see them, you will," Ben said, coming up between the two men. "Thank you for escorting me, Bail."
"Of course."
"So how bad is it?" asked Feemor, who'd seen Vokara draw Ben aside into her office. Bail joined Feemor in looking to Ben for answers.
Ben looked straight ahead into Obi-Wan's room and sighed. "It's going to be a long road," he said, "but… she thinks he'll be alright."
The Second Sith. That's what they were calling it. The story of Kamino and Obi-Wan's heroics at the cloning facility spread like wildfire, and in its wake came horrible misinformation.
Garen Muln, Reeft, and Bant Eerin had burst into the Halls the day after the rescue operation, whipped up into a panic having heard that their friend Obi-Wan had been killed by a Sith. Upon seeing him alive - if unconscious - even Garen had cried.
Others, including Master Drallig, had been under the impression that it was Qui-Gon who was in critical condition, and were surprised to see him in the commissary - even if he did look like death warmed over.
For the time being, the Council was making no public pronouncement on the matter of the Sith. They debriefed Qui-Gon not once but twice about Kamino, the Clones, the Sith and the Sith's assumption of Dyas' identity. The third time they'd summoned him, it had been to a private meeting with Mace Windu and Master Yoda, who had only wanted to know how Obi-Wan was doing.
It was impossible to say, Qui-Gon had told them. He was still unconscious.
That had been two days ago. Now, it was around four in the morning, and Qui-Gon had fallen asleep in the chair at Obi-Wan's bedside. Over the course of a week he'd made this vigil into an art form, having learned which way to fold his legs without cutting circulation and where to lay his head so that his neck developed one crick instead of five. Obi-Wan's left arm was folded up in a sling while his collarbone healed, so Qui-Gon had reached across his waist to hold his right hand, careful not to disturb the needles protruding from his arm.
As the pre-dawn darkness wrapped its thickest fingers around the horizon, Obi-Wan's hand twitched weakly against Qui-Gon's. Being asleep, the master's grip gave way, gently sliding off onto the blankets.
An unbandaged eye slid open, delirious and confused. It swiveled around in an unrushed search. It passed over a light, and several ceiling tiles, and another light, and a cabinet, and finally landed on Qui-Gon's disheveled form; bent over, head turned away, hair untied and matted on the bedside. "Master?" Obi-Wan rasped, trying to frown. He couldn't remember having ever seen Qui-Gon's hair untied. He squinted slightly. He couldn't remember having ever seeing his hair look so grey, either. Did Qui-Gon know how silver his head was? Was he asleep? Obi-Wan reached out over their bond in a clumsy attempt to see if he was awake or not.
Qui-Gon stiffened. Fueled by adrenaline, he woke up, sat up, and stared. Awake for only seconds, he was still considerably groggy and looked as though he did not believe what his eyes were telling him. He looked at Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan looked back, and blinked, and then frowned.
"Weren't we off-planet?" the apprentice asked, voice quiet and raspy. His lip wrinkled in disgust. "This smells like Coruscant."
Qui-Gon stared for a moment longer, and then broke. He let out a sigh, or perhaps a sob - just one, very shaky and very out of character. He took up Obi-Wan's hand again, and very nearly hugged him before he remembered the injures. Instead, he gripped the hand harder and set his head face-down on Obi-Wan's stomach.
"You're alive," he said, voice cracking. "Force, I thought I'd lost you."
Obi-Wan was not sure what to say. The sheer vulnerability in Qui-Gon's voice made him feel uncomfortable and guilty. He tried to think back in time, back to some moment when he must have done something to end up here, to have turned Qui-Gon's hair grey and to have made him cry. A citadel of foggy, impenetrable walls stood around his memories. He wondered if he was on any strong medications. "What… did I do?" he asked aloud. Qui-Gon raised his head and if Obi-Wan's vision hadn't been swimming from days of slumber, he would've seen the red rims and the weary bags. As it was, he only squinted more determinedly at the man and asked, "I kriffed up, didn't I?"
Qui-Gon let out a laugh, tears notwithstanding. "No," he said around another laugh, brushing his padawan's cheek, "no, you did the exact opposite of kriffing up."
"Are you sure?"
"I was there."
"Oh." A pause. Obi-Wan tried to remember again, and failed. He gave up. "What did I do?"
"You killed a Sith."
Obi-Wan's uncovered eye went wide. "I what?"
Qui-Gon was unable to repress his laughter any longer, euphoric to hear his apprentice's voice again. "You defeated a Sith Lord on your own," he said with unabashed pride.
"Oh," Obi-Wan said, and looked away in thought. He tried to move his head, and winced. "Oh. Not before he got to me, I guess."
"I'm afraid not."
"Huh." The drugs and the drowsiness made the trauma easier to accept. Obi-Wan clenched and unclenched his hands. He looked down at the easier-to-see left arm, which was heavily bandaged and resting in a sling. He then attempted to look at his right arm, but his vision was obstructed. He frowned and very slowly reached up to touch his face, the right side of which was wrapped in a bandage. Qui-Gon could see his left eye moving back and forth, back and forth, testing. Obi-Wan put his hand down.
"There's something wrong with my eye, isn't there," he said.
Qui-Gon's smile faded and he set his jaw. He'd told Vokara he'd be the one to do it. "The Sith struck you with a lightsaber," he explained. "Your eye bore the brunt of the damage."
Obi-Wan blinked, and blinked again. Qui-Gon could not have said what the boy felt underneath the bandage. "Oh," the apprentice said at last. "Is it gone?"
"No."
"Is it functional?"
"Master Che does not think so."
"Will it recover?"
"...Master Che does not think so."
Pause.
"Oh."
Pause.
Obi-Wan smacked his lips, tongue thick in his mouth and tasting of idle breath. He binked slowly, looking about the room with his one functional eye in a drowsy haze. "Well, good job I've got two of them then, isn't it?" he pointed out, and let his head sink back further into his pillow.
Qui-Gon snorted, running a hand through his grey, grey hair and shaking his head. "Yes, padawan," he nodded, hiding the tears in his eyes by rubbing the bridge of his nose, "yes, I'd say it's a very good job indeed."
Master and apprentice shared a quiet half hour together before a healer peeked in and realized that the comatose patient had awoken. After that, it had been all tests and more tests, and please spit into this, follow this light with your eye, don't worry this won't hurt a bit (it did), tell me your name, your age, and the current Supreme Chancellor. Obi-Wan passed all of the cognitive tests with flying colors, dispelling Vokara's fears of possible brain damage. He did have unusual trouble counting backwards from one hundred, and could still not remember anything from Kamino - aside from the fact that flying through the tumultuous Kaminoan atmosphere had been, and this quote went on Vokara's official report, "the most uncivilized, awful experience of my life." Obi-Wan had said this straight faced while lying bedridden and wrapped in bandages; the irony did not seem to occur to him.
However, beyond mild confusion and what was probably a low-grade concussion, Obi-Wan's brain was just as functional as ever. In fact, it was too functional. The day after he'd woken up, Vokara had come into his room to find him trying to sit up under his own power. She should've stopped him, but he'd looked so determined she'd stood by and watched.
"I'd like speak with you about the conditions of my release," he said, Corebred accent prim and proper.
She lowered her datapad. "Is that so?" she asked, fascinated, as he rocked himself back and forth until he could appear as though he was sitting upright.
"Yes," he said, with dignity. "I understand I've been here for some time, and now that I'm awake, I think I am more than fit to go home."
She stared at him, attempting to find appropriate words. She knew from experience that Obi-Wan was an incredibly bright young man, a talented scholar and a strategist without peer in his generation. The fact that he could be so incredibly stupid when it came to his own health was one of the thirty-eight wonders of the galaxy. "Padawan Kenobi, you've been in a coma for eight days, you have burns across your entire body, you have a broken collarbone, a concussion, and one of your eyes has been blinded."
"Even so," said the Padawan, dead set on negotiating, "the point still stands. I believe the Yavin Code grants me the right to refuse treatment."
"The Yavin Code was written for prisoners."
"Yes, it was."
Vokara sighed and made a swift note on her datapad. "Very well," she said, and propped her 'pad moodily on her hip. Blank refusal would only goad him on and prove his point about prisoners. She would play his game. "If I let you go, you will of course revert to the custody of your master," she let that sink in. "The master who watched you almost die." Another calculated pause. "The one whom only I have the power to keep from hovering at your side twenty-four hours a day." An even longer pause. "Would you rather be my prisoner, or Qui-Gon's?"
Obi-Wan opened his mouth, and hesitated, and then let it close again. Betrayal flashed across his features.
Vokara grinned with smug glee. "That's what I thought."
Over the next few days, Obi-Wan received more visitors than he'd ever had as a healthy person. Mace Windu was one of the first. As soon as Vokara had given Obi-Wan's brain a clean bill of health, the Master of the Order had arrived to see what the boy remembered of Kamino. The memories were coming back in bits and pieces, but the most pertinent details remained shrouded.
Incidentally, while he did not remember the Sith or the fight, Obi-Wan did remember the clone, Cody. "Is he alright?" he'd asked in the middle of his conversation with Mace. "I hope I didn't get him into any trouble."
"I don't know," the Korun had said from the apprentice's bedside. Somehow, he was not surprised that Obi-Wan had managed to meet, learn the name of, and befriend a clone in the middle of a crisis. "But we'll be in close contact with Kamino until this mess is sorted out. I can ask."
"I would appreciate it."
Mace only nodded, and stood from his seat. "If you remember anything else about the Sith, I'd like to hear about it."
"Of course, Master Windu." Obi-Wan had tried to bow from his bed. Mace put out a hand.
"Easy, padawan," he'd chuckled, putting a hand on his shoulder to ease him back into bed. There was a look in his eye like he wanted to say something, but held back. Eventually, just before he left he turned and said, "It's good to see you in one piece. Get some rest."
Later on, Master Yoda and Master Dooku had visited as well. They'd both been interested to hear if his memory had returned, but more interested to see with their own eyes that he was, in fact, alright. He saw Feemor and Aola, who were both so elated to see him awake they'd nearly cried. Aola in particular could not contain herself. "It was bad, Obi," she'd repeated multiple times, "I was so scared for you." It was difficult comprehending how close to death you'd come when you couldn't remember most of it.
After four days, Vokara finally let Garen, Bant, and Reeft into the room so they could see their friend. They'd celebrated and laughed and all promised to hug Obi-Wan within an inch of his life as soon as he wasn't sporting any broken bones and burns.
"Yeah, of course Kenobi's got to show off for the ladies," Garen had patted Obi-Wan's bandages in teasing, lighthearted way. "Can't wait to see that scar!"
They all laughed, and so did Obi-Wan, but when they'd bid their goodbyes his smile faded fast. After the strongest medications and the delirium of sleep had worn off, the severity of Obi-Wan's injures was beginning to occur to him. The last time they'd redone the dressings over his eye, he'd been unconscious. He had not seen the damage, nor had he seen - or attempted to see - anything with his right eye. Master Che had told him already in plain language that he would likely not ever be able to see out of the eye again.
"As a whole, the eye is still intact," she'd said, in a clinical way. She had to work hard to look at him as she spoke. "But nearly every part of it has been damaged. The worst offender is the optic nerve. As far as I can tell, you absorbed a massive arc of electricity from the lightsaber, and it entered your body through your eye. The only reason it didn't kill you is because you instinctively absorbed the energy with the Force's aid." Which also explained the neurogenic shock and seizures. "Unfortunately, your eye did most of the absorbing."
"So you're saying…" he blinked, and could not help but wonder if blinking would always look so monocular. "...the nerve is sort of… fried?"
"Very fried, actually," the healer corrected. "I'm so sorry, padawan."
Obi-Wan tried to save face. He even tried to hope, though he was not normally one for optimism. He stood up, and began walking again, exercising his left arm to coax the muscles around his collarbone to hold it in place on their own. They removed the bandages from his arm and shoulder to reveal a nasty bruise around the break and a nastier line of scar tissue. But the bandages over his eye remained. The scans and the nerve tests and every healer who looked at him were all compelled to share Vokara's conclusions about his vision. He wasn't sure how to accept it.
"You can keep it on for a while longer if you like," Vokara offered, after she'd told him that his face was healed enough to remove the bandage. Qui-Gon was in the room with him too, but said nothing. Obi-Wan swallowed, toes curled in anxiety as he sat on the side of his bed in loose-fitting robes. He drew in a shaky breath and said,
"No, it's fine." But it wasn't, and they all knew it. He tried to be brave. "It'll have to come off sooner or later."
Vokara glanced at Qui-Gon, who nodded hesitantly. She took up a small pair of scissors and began cutting away the gauze and dressings. She made sure the bandages were completely disentangled from his hair and his neck before she pulled them away. They revealed a gnarled scar, still livid with bacta and healing scabs, that ran diagonally from his right temple to the left side of his chin. It ran directly across his right eye, which was half closed, bloodshot, and already glazed over with a milky film.
Obi-Wan blinked his eyes into the dull, half-fullness of his new life. Though the weight and heat of the bandages was gone, the right side of the room remained a colorless abyss. He sucked in a shaky breath and held it as tightly as he clung to the edge of his bed.
Qui-Gon turned to Vokara, eyes begging her for a moment of privacy. With an understanding nod, the healer retreated from the room and closed the door, leaving Master and apprentice alone.
Obi-Wan was trying to breathe normally, but the muscles in his chest had seized his lungs in despairing foresight. His mind whirled in lightning-fast circles. Forever. Twenty-two years old. Half-blind. Fighting. Living. Flying. Working. Missions. Half-blind. How? How? Forever.
"Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon, coming closer. He put his hand on his padawan's shoulder and gripped it hard. Obi-Wan's stiff body swayed under the pressure. The silence broke Qui-Gon's heart. He moved his free hand to brush Obi-Wan's padawan braid aside and grip his other shoulder. Obi-Wan tried to watch him, but could not see his right side. His chin began to quiver. Qui-Gon stepped closer still. The pity and sadness in his eyes was too much for Obi-Wan to bear, so he looked down. Qui-Gon gripped his shoulders more tightly. "Son," he whispered.
Obi-Wan's will broke. His chin wavered and he let out his breath in a crash. After struggling with his mouth, he whispered, "I wish Tahl were here."
Qui-Gon put a hand behind Obi-Wan's neck and pulled him into his chest, careful of his injuries. Obi-Wan clung to his tunic and sobbed. The master held him, one hand in his hair and the other wrapped around his shoulders. "I do too," Qui-Gon told his apprentice in a thick voice. They stayed in the embrace for a long time, Jedi reserve swallowed by circumstance. There were no spectators to cast judgement on their attachment.
Eventually, Qui-Gon pulled away and bent to look his apprentice in the eyes - eye, rather, for the right was mangled and blind. "She is with us in the Force. The same Force that guided her will guide you."
Obi-Wan made himself nod, even though there was no feeling in it. His scar burned; where it ran across his brow and his downturned mouth, all the way to his shoulder and his bicep. The pain made him want to cry, but saline made the sting worse. His chest shuddered with the effort of restraint.
"I'm so proud of you, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said. The apprentice tried to smile, but hearing his master's voice waver made it hard.
"I try," he shrugged.
Qui-Gon gave an absurd, bittersweet laugh. "Do or do not, there is no try."
Obi-Wan did not have the strength for a rebuttal. He leaned back toward Qui-Gon without really meaning to. Haunted by the memory of Obi-Wan covered in blood, lips blue, face mangled, Qui-Gon leaned down and kissed the top of his head.
"You did, and you will do perfectly. Rest well, padawan. It'll be alright."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes, letting the darkness comfort him, however misleading it was in its uniformity. "Yes, Master," he replied obediently.
Qui-Gon patted his neck. "Good man."
Over the next several days, Obi-Wan tried to think of his handicap as normal. It would take time, perhaps longer than he'd be here in the Halls. But even as he healed and grieved, life carried on.
Obi-Wan hadn't wondered why Ben hadn't visited him until he showed up apologizing for it. "They've been interrogating me over everything. You'd think I'd been elected to the Council again," he'd grumbled to the room. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan looked equally shocked.
"Again?" the apprentice asked, horror mixed with awe. "You were a Councilor?"
Ben looked between the two, nonplussed. It was very easy to forget what he had and hadn't told his closest friends. "Yes," he said, at length. "The youngest in centuries, I think. Didn't I tell you that?"
Qui-Gon's expression alone would have provided the answer. He turned an accusatory eye on his apprentice, who shrugged animatedly, whole body communicating a silent "don't look at me." The master looked back at his grown apprentice with a new sense of betrayal and, beneath it, pride. "You know, I don't know why I'm surprised." Ben chuckled. "They're wrapped up about Kamino, then?"
"Yes, it'll be an ongoing thing for some time. Dooku's been sent back out in search of Dyas' killers."
"Any leads?" Qui-Gon asked. Ben shook his head.
"None that he'll tell me about."
"I see." It was Yan Dooku's way.
"They actually want to talk to you again," Ben told his Master. "I told them I'd let you know."
"Of course."
"About the Sith?" Obi-Wan asked, standing up slowly from his bed and adjusting his sling. He'd started to remember details about the fight, and had begun keeping a journal to iron out the chronology. He'd promised to give a report to the Council, but had not yet had opportunity.
"No, actually," Ben glanced at his younger self, and back at Qui-Gon. "They just want to speak with Qui-Gon."
"Oh," said Obi-Wan, and sat back down in confusion. A silent conversation passed between Qui-Gon and Ben. Qui-Gon braced himself, gave Obi-Wan a lingering glance, nodded, and left.
"What was that about?" Obi-Wan asked as his master left.
"Who can say?" He shrugged.
"I should think you could, Master Councilor," he teased.
Ben chuckled and lowered himself into a seat. He glanced over Obi-Wan's injures - the scar, the arm, the eye. "How are you?" he asked.
"Oh, you know," Obi-Wan shrugged, and said in a forced casual tone, "half blind, my shoulder won't heal, still can't remember everything that happened, but… all in all, I guess I'm alright." He scratched absently at his arm. "Scar itches like the nine hels."
Ben tried to smile, but it came out pitifully. "I am so sorry," he said quietly, "about all of it." Obi-Wan shook his head.
"I don't need you to be sorry… I just need to…" He looked around, having to move his head a great deal more than he was used to. "Heal. And stop bumping into things. And get out of this Force-forsaken prison." He looked up at Ben in hopeful epiphany. "Councilors outrank healers, don't they?"
"I'm not a Councilor anymore. And no, they don't."
"Damn."
Ben smiled at his pluck. "Qui-Gon told me about the fight," he said. Obi-Wan looked up at him.
"Oh?" Even when Obi-Wan could not remember the event, his master had been unwilling to regale him with details. Now that he did remember, they hadn't talked about it.
"You're lucky to be alive."
"Yeah," Obi-Wan looked at his bare feet. "I know." He shuffled, kicking a small bit of gauze on the floor that had escaped the cleaning droids' clutches. "It was worse last time, wasn't it?" He asked. Ben looked up at him.
"What you mean?"
"Last time it was him. With that Sith you killed. Except he didn't make it. And I - you watched."
Ben stared at him, too surprised to say anything. He had told many people about Qui-Gon's death in his past life - Vokara, Qui-Gon himself, Mace, Dooku. But never his younger self. Obi-Wan sighed and explained, "When I fell, and he went to… gloat, or whatever he was doing, I saw it. I don't know how, maybe it was like a vision, a memory. Like what happened when you first arrived here, with your saber. I just… I saw what happened before. I knew I didn't want it to happen again, no matter what side of the door I was on." He mustered a laugh and brushed his dead eye. "All in all, I think it's a small price to pay."
It was true, but because he was not wearing the scars of that price, Ben could not agree. Instead, he said, "There is a saying… over the past several years I've found it to be entirely true. History does not repeat itself, but it does rhyme." He gave Obi-Wan a smile. "And bittersweet as it can be, I should like to think that this rhyme is better than the last."
Obi-Wan nodded, both eyes crinkling equally as he smiled. "Yeah," he said, scarred skin making his smile more crooked than it used to be, "I guess so."
His skin still itched terribly.
That night, Obi-Wan stayed up late reading, too-big hospital robes pooling around his waist. Vokara had promised to discharge him the following day, if he passed all of his tests and behaved well, so he was attempting to occupy his mind so that he didn't end up overstretching his shoulder or picking at his burns.
He was so occupied in his book that he did not notice Qui-Gon standing in the doorway, watching him. It'd been nearly three weeks since Obi-Wan's fight with the Sith. Looking back on the drama of those first hours of crisis, it was absurd in the best way to see Obi-Wan now: calm and collected once more, ever the scholar even when hospitalized. He tilted his head to the right in order to read, now, giving him a perpetually curious look. Qui-Gon watched as his padawan levitated the datapad and scrolled with his right hand, which was not in a sling.
Padawan.
That's what he'd come here about. Adjusting the package he carried, Qui-Gon knocked on the door. Obi-Wan looked up.
"Evening," the apprentice said.
"Good book?"
Obi-Wan shrugged and set it aside. "It'll put me to sleep and keep me from scratching, which apparently is a cardinal sin in these parts."
Qui-Gon chuckled. Obi-Wan peered at the thing he carried. "What's that?"
The master came to sit down on the bed, and Obi-Wan tucked his feet out of the way. "Master Windu gave me permission to return this to you," he said, setting the bin down between them. Obi-Wan saw what it was and let out a noise of despair.
"Oh," he whined, picking up the halves of his lightsaber gingerly, horrified at its demise. "I liked that saber," he moaned, remembering the day he'd made it as a young teen. "And the crystal? Did it…?"
Qui-Gon dug around in the bin of mechanical gore and produced several shards. Obi-Wan let out another, even sadder noise. "Nooo," he drew out, cradling it. Qui-Gon's chuckle was pitiful.
"I'm sorry, padawan."
Obi-Wan sighed. "Oh, it's alright." He set the lightsaber's corpse back into the bin, gazing down at the carnage with nostalgia. "We had a good run." Still, a lightsaber was a Jedi's life. He could not continue his training without it. "I don't suppose we could go to Ilum after Master Che lets me go?"
Qui-Gon chuckled. "That will be your decision," the master said, ignoring it when Obi-Wan gave him a puzzled frown. He began digging around in the bin.
"There's more?"
"Not exactly. Turn your head."
Conditioned by years of trust, Obi-Wan did so without question. Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan's padawan braid over his shoulder and let it fall through finger and thumb, measuring it with his eyes, seeing the years' markers and how much it'd grown. He came to the end and regarded the whole.
"I'm going to miss this," he said.
Obi-Wan was frowning, watching Qui-Gon very carefully. "Master?"
"The council asked to speak with me earlier," he said, sitting back slightly, eyes lingering on the braid before looking up to see Obi-Wan's furrowed brow. "They're making me do what I should have done months ago." He gave Obi-Wan a moment to figure it out, but the apprentice only stared, and eventually shook his head, begging the question. Qui-Gon smiled. "They want to knight you."
Obi-Wan leaned back slowly, face trying to go red and white at the same time. "What?" he said. Qui-Gon's smile became a laugh.
"You're surprised?"
"I… You're recommending me for the Trials?"
Qui-Gon frowned. "Obi-Wan, you've just faced and defeated a Sith Lord. The Council is recognizing that as your Trials. They want to knight you."
This was against every single one of the many life scenarios that Obi-Wan had planned for himself. His face wrinkled in baffled disgust. "But… no," he said, catching Qui-Gon by surprise. "They can't just… they can't just do that!" He was indignant. It wasn't right. "It's not traditional!"
Qui-Gon guffawed, leaning back to look at the ceiling and sighing. "Force keep you, Padawan, only you would be upset by such an honor." He looked back down at the man, smug. "Like it or not, you're breaking traditions left and right."
Obi-Wan huffed. He stared, miffed, into a corner as he processed the news. At length, he ran a hand over his hair, and Qui-Gon could see that it was shaking. It had been a long few weeks.
The master reached out to his braid again. "But before we get to that, if you'd let me, one last time?" Last time. The reality of what was happening hit Obi-Wan in the gut. He couldn't speak. He nodded instead.
"Alright," Qui-Gon said, and unbound the padawan braid one last time. He took off the markers and combed it out, split the section into three and recited the familiar analogy that he'd recited to this man so many, many times. The master, the student, the Force, woven together as one. Markers for the years, the trials, the victories and defeats. At last, they came to the end, and Qui-Gon braided the hair until there was no more left. "I could not decide what color was most suited to these past few weeks. But because your master is as much a rule breaker as you now are," he said, digging around in the bin he'd brought, "I found a new color that I think suits the occasion."
It was a small, thin copper wire taken from the wreckage of Obi-Wan's lightsaber. It was scorched black in places from the Sith's blade, but shone bright in the light. Qui-Gon finished binding the hair and let it fall to the apprentice's chest. The metallic wire added an unfamiliar weight. Obi-Wan looked down at it, and then up at his master. Qui-Gon smiled, full of pride.
Not needing to exchange any words, Obi-Wan leaned forward and hugged the taller man, his arm and sling sandwiched between them. When they pulled away, Obi-Wan was smiling. "I suppose you're glad to be rid of me, ready to find the next pathetic life form unlucky enough to suffer your heresies."
Qui-Gon laughed, but shook his head. "No," he said, smile fading to a content, quiet thing. "No, I've known for some time, you'll be my last apprentice."
Obi-Wan was genuinely surprised by this, and almost sad. He mustered a wry grin. "Stop when you're ahead?"
"Stop before all my hairs are grey," Qui-Gon corrected. Obi-Wan laughed.
"Of course, Master, whatever you say."
Qui-Gon stood from the bed, collecting his things. "You know," he said, "you really ought to get used to calling me Qui-Gon."
Obi-Wan's face wrinkled up in revulsion. Calling Qui-Gon Qui-Gon? To his face? "I'm not sure I'm ready for that," he said, a statement which opened the mental floodgates to all the things in life that he was not ready for. Qui-Gon laughed.
"Get some rest, Obi-Wan. The day after tomorrow - they expect you to be there at dawn."
Once his master was gone, Obi-Wan couldn't contain his smile. He did not get much sleep that night.
The day after tomorrow, it was still dark on Coruscant. They must've collaborated with Vokara for the scheduling. Almost as soon as he'd been discharged, Obi-Wan began preparing for the the traditional day-long pilgrimage to the Hall of Knighthood.
"You could at least rest first, you're not yet healed," Qui-Gon had tried to convinced him. Obi-Wan had refused.
"This is one tradition I am not going to break."
Qui-Gon had shrugged and let him go on his way. He would, after all, be making his own decisions from now on - and his own mistakes.
Obi-Wan abandoned his sling for a less restrictive brace, worn under his clothes, and assumed the traditional outfit. Barefoot, no tabards, only breeches, a pale tunic and a simple cloth belt. He ascended the Tranquility Spire alone, braid weighing heavily on his chest.
He spent the day meditating in solitude, as he was meant to. He thought of the Sith, but only as they fit into the greater picture of balance. He thought of his master, and Dooku, Yoda, Aola and Feemor, his friends, all the people who had helped him along this path. He thought of Ben. He thought of the man he could have become, in another life, and the man that this life had made him.
He found himself standing on the ledge of a mountaintop. The path beneath him was just wide enough to support his two feet. It looked familiar. The breeze brushed his shoulder, and he was surprised to feel no braid on it. He turned and looked behind him. Far away, standing on a darker, lower path was a fifteen year old boy, lost in harsh winds and holding onto everything he thought he knew in the naivety of youth. He was staring so hard at where his feet were, he did not look up and see his future self. Obi-Wan turned back and looked ahead. His blind eye did not bother him here in the mental plane, and he could see clearly for miles.
The path at his feet wound up and down and around, over more mountains and paths than he'd ever imagined he'd cross. Far ahead, there were dark clouds and unfamiliar territories. He looked back down at his fifteen-year old self far below. While he watched, the boy took a single step. One foot in front of the other. Obi-Wan looked at his own feet and, with a practiced ease and assurance he did not remember possessing when he was that boy years ago, he took a step. The path was firm beneath him.
He opened his eyes. It was not quite dawn.
He rose and ascended the rest of the way to the Hall of Knighthood, a chamber he'd never seen before. He walked to the center as he knew was customary and stood, head bowed, hands folded in front of him. The masters gathered around. Mace, Yoda, the Councilors, Feemor, Cin Drallig, even Vokara Che was here. He repressed slight disappointment that Yan Dooku could not be present, but the feeling left him when he saw Qui-Gon, going to stand between Yoda and Mace.
One by one, the masters ignited their sabers. The glow cast light and shadows over the prospective graduate, illuminating the fresh scars of his trials for all to see.
Mace Windu let the rites. "We are all Jedi," he said, words that everyone here had heard before except the apprentice before them. "The Force speaks through us. Through our actions, the Force proclaims itself and what is real. Today we are here to acknowledge what the Force has proclaimed." A pause, and then, the oath: "Who seeks the title of Knight of this Order?"
"I do," said Obi-Wan. He'd studied the responses obsessively the day before.
"By what name do you call yourself?"
"I am only called as a child of the Force."
"Well said," replied Mace, per tradition. Then it was Qui-Gon's turn to step forward, face set with appropriate formality, eyes shining with pride. He held his saber out in front of him.
"Do you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, swear to follow the Force's guidance within this Order, and to follow a Knight's mandate and mission?"
"I do."
"And do you swear to protect the life, the good, and the innocent of this galaxy so long as the Force gives you strength?"
"I do."
"And do you swear," Qui-Gon's voice slowed, heavy with intention, "to uphold the light and resist the dark, at all costs to your person and reputation?"
'Reputation' was Qui-Gon's own addition, Obi-Wan knew. He barely resisted the urge to smile. "I do," he said.
"Then I will ask you to take a knee."
Obi-Wan knelt, heard pounding with adrenaline. Qui-Gon lowered his saber to his left shoulder. "Then by the right of the Council," he moved the saber to his right shoulder, and Obi-Wan breathed a little harder as the blade disappeared from his field of vision. "And the will of the Force,"
Hisss
Without being able to see it, Obi-Wan caught the braid in his hand as it fell.
"Rise, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight."
Obi-Wan rose. If it were not for his dimples, he would have succeeded in keeping a straight face. He bowed to his master - former master - and in a motion that surprised the new knight, Qui-Gon bowed back, chest dipping lower than Obi-Wan's had.
Obi-Wan then bowed again to the assembly, and turned to walk toward the spiral stairwell at the back of the hall. According to tradition, he would continue on and retrace his steps down the spire. The weight of his own padawan brain swung in his fist.
He stopped in the middle of the hall; in the middle of tradition itself. You're breaking traditions left and right.
Quietly, with dignity and poise, Obi-Wan turned and walked back up into the circle. Even Qui-Gon looked surprised. He produced the braid, the singed end still smoldering, and wound it into a coil. This, he pressed into his master's palm.
You taught me everything I know, Qui-Gon, he said. Including how and when to break the rules.
Qui-Gon laughed out loud, startling several of the members there, and bowed again, smile in place. Thank you, Obi-Wan.
As Obi-Wan turned away to leave - properly, this time - he saw Yoda grinning.
Aola, Garen, Bant, and Reeft had arranged a massive reception for him when he emerged from the spire. Now infamous throughout the temple for his heroics as well as his remarkable recovery, there were apprentices, and knights, and masters, and healers, and even some younglings there to congratulate him.
"You know this means I outrank you now," Obi-Wan teased Garen, flicking his braid patronizingly.
"Just because you're a stuffy overachiever doesn't mean I have to listen to you. I've known you since you were in diapers, remember that."
"And I changed those diapers, remember that," said a booming voice. Obi-Wan's old creche master, Lor Garoon, came elbowing his way through the masses. He laughed upon seeing Obi-Wan turn bright red. "Well done, lad," he said, "you've done your clanmaster proud."
"Over here," said a young voice. Obi-Wan looked up to see Ben Kenobi being led by the hand by someone significantly shorter than himself.
Anakin Skywalker emerged from the crowd, pulling his older friend along behind him. "Hi Obi-Wan!" he waved, and Obi-Wan smiled, walking toward him. "Woah, that's an awesome scar!" he said, shameless. Obi-Wan laughed.
"Uh, thank you, I suppose."
"Congratulations, Obi-Wan," smiled Ben. He looked around at the laughing faces, at Feemor, at Aola, at Qui-Gon. He nodded, eyes glinting in memory. "A better rhyme indeed," he said.
"Aww," interrupted Anakin disappointedly, looking up at Obi-Wan's hair.
"What?"
"They really did get rid of your braid." The boy pouted. "Now you only look sort of ridiculous."
"Alas, you'll have to take my place," Obi-Wan said, choosing to ignore the implication that he broadcasted an inherent baseline of ridiculous. He bent down slightly and flicked Anakin's unadorned initiate braid. "You've got a long way to go."
"And you, Knight Kenobi," said Qui-Gon, coming up behind the man and yanking the padawan-style nerftail that still bound his hair, "have an even longer way to go." Ben and Qui-Gon shared a laugh.
"Are those chocolime twists?" Anakin's eyes grew wide as trays of food passed overhead. He tugged on Ben's hand. "Can I have one, Master Ben?" Ben chuckled, sharing a last fond look with his younger self and his master before he allowed Skywalker to drag him off on another adventure.
Standing now as equals - or something like it, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon spoke quietly amid the noise.
"So," Qui-Gon wanted to know, "What will you do first?"
Obi-Wan thought about it. He realized that he hurt all over, and was exhausted. "Sleep?" He said. Qui-Gon laughed.
"Not Ilum?" Obi-Wan shrugged. His skin itched, and his shoulder ached. Qui-Gon seemed to sense it. "Don't worry, you can request your own assignments now. It's a knight's prerogative, after all."
It was a world of possibilities. But it was a lot to take in. "Yeah…" Obi-Wan's voice trailed off. His vision hurt his head, too flat and and limited for him to see well across the hall. He had to remember to turn his head. He would get used to it. But until then, "Would you come with me?" he asked his former master. "I mean, you don't have to, obviously, but-"
"I'd be honored, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said. "But first," he gestured to the crowd of Obi-Wan's friends. "Remember to keep your mind on the present moment."
"Of course, Mast-" he stopped himself, wrestled with his mouth, and said, "Qui-Gon." It sounded so, so wrong. The master cackled.
"All in time, Padawan."
A/N: ...you didn't actually think I was going to kill him, did you?
