Head bent over, shoulders slumped; it was the untidy braid that first caught my eye. Longer now, almost to his waist, it had lost its beads and decorations, symbols of his achievements - until I looked closer. One remained: the first one I'd given him, the one that symbolized our bonding. I remembered weaving it into his braid, that little stub of hair as it was at that time, my hands shaking and uncertain as Obi-Wan sat quietly, outwardly calm but inwardly quivering with excitement and anticipation.

The shiny red-brown silk of his hair was dull and matted now, the slim hands browner from constant exposure to Tatooine's twin suns. Dust caked his clothing, which showed signs of careful mending. My padawan had always been neat, so the mending didn't surprise me, but the shape and position of the rips did – they were largely on the back, not on the sleeves where I might have expected them. They looked more like slashes than rips, actually, but I didn't really focus on them. I didn't focus on much of anything, once I realized it was him.

My heart was thumping away and my hands shaking, wanting nothing more than to clutch him by his shoulders and pull him close, but I didn't know what to expect – or even whom.

It was his eyes I was most worried about seeing. Were those beautiful blue-gray eyes, which changed with his emotions, so wise for his years, so full of mirth that I could drown in his laughter – were they sad now? Angry? Worst of all - vacant and withdrawn?

I shuddered at the thought, and I almost walked away. I couldn't face myself, if once I faced Obi-Wan I found only a broken, angry stranger.

"O...Obi," I whispered, but my words could not escape my throat. I cleared my throat, tried again, "Obi-Wan?"

The young man stiffened and I could see tension in every line of his body. He was shaking, oh Force, he was trembling. "What did you say, sir?" he breathed, not daring to move.

"Obi-Wan. My Obi-Wan," my voice cracked and I moved in front of him. He seemed to be struggling to remember something, pulling a long-buried memory out from somewhere it had been buried for safekeeping. There was half-recognition, half-knowledge in his face, as if the memory wipe had been partially successful, and partially blocked. I could see the memories flood back and this half-stranger became only the adult version of the young man I had once known. The one whose loss I had so mourned.

His head was bowed, only a solitary tear sparkled on the lashes of one eye. He was alive, he knew me, and he had a tear in his eye. I didn't know which of our hearts hurt the most.

I reached out a finger and touched his chin, raised his head and gently put my hands on either side of his head, anchoring my long lost padawan to his master, my eyes searching the depths of his for anger, betrayal, or reproach. I saw none of these, but I didn't know what it was I did see.

"Qui-Gon. Master," he breathed, and suddenly he wrapped his arms around me and buried his head in my shoulder even as my arms dropped to wrap him within my own embrace.

It had been shocked recognition I saw in them. Joy. I bowed my head over his as I held him close, one hand softly stroking the back of his head, feeling the sandpaper grit encrusting his hair, the other hand pressing him close to my heart. When he leaned back as if pulling away from me, I must have protested, but he reached a finger to my face and wiped one of my tears away.

Tears -I who had not shed tears for years – I had cried them, when I knew I had lost him. I couldn't stand the pain, and then I had buried the tears deep inside me. All my tears, since then, had been silent tears in my heart. They were finding my eyes, again, escaping from my wounded heart. Only these were tears of joy.

"You're crying, Master," he said in wonder. "I've never seen you cry." And a smile broke over his worn and tired face. Despite the thinness in that face, the scratches and bruises marking it, when he smiled it was the most beautiful face I'd ever seen, for it contained all the joy and love in the universe. I loved that smile, so rarely revealed, for it was a potent weapon and could drive away the gloom of an endless night. This particular night had lasted five long, lonely, hurting years.

"I haven't seen that smile in years," I marveled. "Now, it's healing my heart. Oh, Obi-Wan, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, sorry – I missed you, worried about you, wondered about you. My padawan, forgive me?"

He looked puzzled. "For what? It was my fault I was captured, not yours." I wasn't going to argue with him, not here and not now, but it was my fault, for he was my responsibility. My padawan. Even though it had been sheer bad luck and bad timing. Obi-Wan had let himself be captured, to save an innocent bystander, in a situation I should never have let him been in while I was busy elsewhere.

My hands trembled as I stroked his face. Wonder of wonders, he wasn't crying, he was not reproaching me for not rescuing him; he was smiling at me as if all the treasures of the universe had been laid in his hands. Instead, the treasure was within my hands, real, tangible, and smiling at me.

He closed his eyes and his lashes lay soft against his cheek. I wondered what pain he was sheltering within them.

"I thought of you…in the silent hours of the night...and I would imagine the winds battering at the doors were you battling to get me, when, when…" his voice shook, "when the sunset light touched me, I imagined it was your eyes smiling at me, and, and – every time they beat me I thought of you teaching me that I was strong enough to face anything. I wasn't sure who you were, exactly, but I knew you and that I would know you if I saw you again." His voice held a tone of awe, of certainty in the midst of doubt, knowledge without understanding.

"I didn't know how weak I would be when I saw you again." His voice broke, there at the end, but he wasn't crying. I was the one crying, each word of his stabbing deeper into my heart, each word of his another tear in my eyes.

Indeed, I could see he was about to collapse, and I pulled him against me again, kissed his cheek. "I'm going to take you away from here, I'll bring you home," I promised. Before we could say anything more, he pulled away and I could see a mask drop over his face as footsteps approached us. He looked at me without recognition and turned away, back to his work.

"You, there, watcha doing talking to my slave? You wanta talk, you pay me. You wanta talk more, you buys him from me. You wanta him for other things…for that you pay each time." He leered at me, if that face was capable of a leer.

It was some kind of being I didn't recognize, not a Hutt, not a Toydarian. He was small, with hard, calculating eyes, dressed in loose robes as all beings dressed in this hot environment. He carried a strap in one hand. His skin was leathery and wrinkled and he had a tuft of bright red hair sticking straight up from an otherwise bald head. He looked tough, and a distant relative to a human crossed with a Neomoidian. It was a rather strange combination of features.

Now I understood, all too well. Obi-Wan was a slave, one without shackles, but a slave nonetheless and probably with some kind of Force inhibitor since I still could not sense him through the Force. This being was his owner, and it probably had seen me embracing him and thought I wanted him for – I would have flushed, but I have more control over myself than that. I fervently hoped that had never happened to Obi-Wan.

"He's awfully thin, probably not much of a worker or worth even one night," I said disdainfully, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Obi-Wan hide a sudden movement, and the back of his neck flushed red. His head was turned away from me, and he appeared to be hard at work, but I sensed he was listening to every word. "Probably not worth anyone's time or credits. I'll pass."

"Nah, he's a good worker, don't give me much problems, don't hafta beat him too often. I'll sell 'im to you, iffen the price is right."

"If the price is free, I'd consider it," I snapped, and pretended to hesitate. "Unless you'd consider Republic credits," I said, lifting an eyebrow, but he merely stared at me and crossed his arms. I waved my hand, and like with the Toydarian, was unsuccessful. None of these beings had weak enough minds for a Force suggestion to work.

I wasn't having much luck today, either with influencing minds or spending credits, and I was by now totally frustrated and angry. I was surprised that Republic credits weren't accepted here. A place like this usually took anything and everything. For a price.

I turned away, for I had nothing to bargain with. Not yet. I had to pass Obi-Wan and I threw a sideways look at him, my heart heavy with sorrow. His eyes swung to meet mine, and I sighed in relief, for his eyes were dancing with mirth. He winked at me. He understood. I wish I did.

"I'll find a way to free you, I'll find a way," I whispered, and I saw he heard.

Don't hafta beat him too often, that slimy little toadstool of a Bantha crossed with a Jawa had said. How dare they beat their slaves, how dare they beat a Jedi, and especially, how dare they beat my Obi-Wan. I had to find a way to rescue him, and there was no way the Jedi Council would deny me the funds once they knew - if I could find no other way to free him.

Behind me, I heard that despicable excuse for a being berate Obi-Wan, and I felt the lash of his strap as if it had been swung across my own shoulders. I ignored it, though my hands were clenching in rage and I wanted nothing more than to turn back and spit that creature on my lightsaber. I had no other choice. I knew, from Anakin, of the transmitter in each slave's shoulder. I couldn't rescue Obi-Wan, not unless I was able to deactivate that transmitter, or purchase him.

The Pod race was the next day. I tried to make a side bet with Watto, this one for the boy's freedom, along with his mother's. Watto refused to bet both of them, but he was willing to bet one of them. I saw his cubes of chance were weighted, so I had no compunction against using the Force to nudge them as I wanted. I wanted both but if I could only have one, it would be Anakin. His future was before him. It was his destiny, to be free.

Now I had to figure out how to free Obi-Wan.

I casually asked Watto if he knew a slave, a human male, with red-brown hair and a long braid. He frowned, and said no, but offered to find him. For a price. I refused.

That evening I asked Anakin and Shmi. They looked at each and nodded slowly.

"He's the one that was always looking out for the others, Ani, remember," Shmi reminded him in her soft voice. "He was always shouldering the blame when something went wrong, so that the other slaves wouldn't get punished. Said he could handle it better than they could. Old Hannibal, the Hutt, got tired of punishing him and sold him. He thought the boy – I never knew his name – wasn't worth his trouble and he wanted to get some money for him before he lost his temper and beat him to death. "

"Yeah, Qui-Gon, I remember. He kept healing, awfully fast, like he had some ability to heal himself," Anakin piped up. "He never complained, either. Made 'ol Hannibal so mad that last time that he couldn't get him to yell like the others, that he beat him something terrible, he did. He didn't have enough sense to scream; he had to make it hard on himself. He was awfully sick afterwards and Hannibal was afraid his injuries would kill him, so he just up and sold him."

I hid my dismay. Obi-Wan apparently hadn't totally lost control of the Force, and was able to access it to turn it on himself. Jedi can accelerate healing, and Obi-Wan had known how. I had seen him do it, those few times he had been hurt on a mission; times I hadn't been able to protect him. He could have stumbled on that use just by being in pain and trying to minimize it. What and how much else did he remember?

"When did this Hannibal sell him?" I asked numbly, for I was afraid it might have just happened, and maybe Obi-Wan was sick and terribly injured, though he had looked healthy enough when I had seen him.

"Oh, going on a year ago, I think," Shmi said, her worn eyes studying me as if she recognized in my interest my need for him. "Do you know him?"

"Yes. I did. Many years ago, when he was a bright and eager young man, quick to learn, quick to laugh. Yes, I knew him,' I whispered. Shmi laid a hand over mine and squeezed it in sympathy. I saw the unspoken question in her eyes and I nodded, looked around. The others were out of earshot. For some reason, I couldn't say anything in front of them. But this quiet, sad-eyed woman, with all the strength of the universe within her…I could tell her.

"He is a Jedi. He was my padawan learner. I lost him years ago – he was captured and his mind wiped. I didn't even know he was alive…," I couldn't continue.

"You'll find him, and you'll free him,' Shmi said with quiet certainty. I looked at her, and drew strength from her. I nodded. There was nothing more to be said.

The day of the race, my attention was all focused on Anakin. He had to win. So much depended on this. The fate of the Naboo, his own fate – too much for those small shoulders. Anakin had come to mean a lot to me in just these few short days. I saw all the promise in him, the goodness within him. The universe needed him, and I would do anything to ensure his freedom. Anything.

When I made that vow, I didn't know at what cost. I would know shortly.