Crouched on the floor, his wounded padawan cradled in his arms and smiling faces surrounding him, Qui-Gon felt only unutterably weary and terribly sad. There is sorrow in many missions.
"Why?" he whispered to the smiling faces, his eyes fixed on the closed eyes of his padawan.
"Why?" The faces exchanged wide-eyed looks. Wasn't it obvious? "To seal peace for all time. The young god brought us peace. Now he returns home."
What would they say, think, if they knew Obi-Wan was not yet one with the Force? Would they finish the job, or was the blood he had shed enough?
Qui-Gon found he couldn't be angry. There was no malicious intent in those faces. Instead there was pain, so much pain within him.
"I will take him home," he whispered, and slowly rose to his feet, with Obi-Wan's head limp against his shoulder. They made no move to stop him. He left the room, his steps growing faster and faster, until he fairly flew on his feet. It was not far to the medical center.
He burst through the door. Startled healers took Obi-Wan from his arms and rushed him out of sight. Qui-Gon just stood, breathing heavily, to blindly find a seat and sit with his head in his hands.
He didn't know how long he sat like that. Time had ceased to exist. He finally became aware that his comlink was beeping. He didn't want to talk to the Temple. He wasn't sure he could. Habit brought his comlink to his hand, a thumb to the switch, it to his lips.
"Yes," he heard himself answer numbly.
"Jocasta told me interrupted your conversation was," Yoda said calmly. Nothing ever flustered the master. The world could end, and Yoda would be unperturbed. "Worried I am. Wish to speak with you, see that all is okay, I do."
"Okay? No, no, I'm not okay…Obi-Wan is hurt, it's bad, it's…," he didn't know what else to say. His eyes had focused on the comlink and at the hand holding it. It was covered in blood – Obi-Wan's blood.
A tiny drop formed, swelled. It hung, trembling on one finger as if seeking forgiveness, slowly lengthening until, stretched too far, it slowly fell in an infinity of time before splashing wetly onto one sand-colored knee. First one, then another: drops of red. All Qui-Gon could do was watch: each drip a reminder of all that he had lost.
"Sorry I am, to hear this," Yoda's voice was quiet. He was silent, waiting for Qui-Gon to resume speaking.
"I can't…I don't know," Qui-Gon said tiredly. He turned off the comlink and tucked it back in his belt. There was nothing for him to do, nothing he could do. He could only stare at his hand, smeared with Obi-Wan's life and perhaps, his death.
Large hands, callused and powerful, gently clasped one limp hand between his as the Jedi Master stared at the still face on the bed beside which he sat. Lids closed over once laughing eyes and mouth quiet in repose, his padawan seemed merely asleep. It was over a month since their return to the Temple, and nothing had changed. Obi-Wan was resident in a quiet room in the Healers Ward, well tended, and well looked after, but otherwise ignored. He was a Padawan who would never become a Knight, a boy who would grow into a man, but otherwise immune to life's milestones.
Qui-Gon visited him every day, spoke of everyday life, of his solitary missions. He didn't say that the Council wanted him to sever his bond and take on another apprentice. He couldn't, not as long as Obi-Wan lived.
The Council told him, gently, that the boy he knew was dead. It was not Obi-Wan who lay so silently; it was a body without a mind. It was something that had once been Obi-Wan, and was no longer. Qui-Gon couldn't accept that.
This day, as so many times before, Qui-Gon entered silently. After his soft 'hello, Obi-Wan," – it was how he started each visit - he walked over to the small plant he had brought in some weeks ago, plucked out the dead blossoms and added some water. He stood, frowning down at the plant. All it took was water and fertilizer to keep it healthy. Would it be that it was so simple with humans.
He drew back the curtains and let in the winter sun. Its cool light slid across the bed to touch the pale face, trace the planes of his face, and reflect off his eyes. Qui-Gon stood at the window looking out, his hands clasped behind his back.
He missed the comfort of standing shoulder to shoulder with Obi-Wan on one of the Temple balconies, watching the sun set and color wash across the skies. He had introduced his padawan to this reflective meditation early in their relationship, and had been gratified at his apprentice's ready acceptance of it. He had shared no such quiet moments with his own master.
That first time, Obi-Wan had just looked, radiating such peace and happiness that Qui-Gon could only look at his face, smiling, until their eyes met in mutual understanding. They had needed no words, then or ever after. As easily as that, it had become a ritual.
It was one of the first routines they had established, it was one they had continued until Obi-Wan's injury. Now Qui-Gon couldn't bear to watch the sunset. Not alone. It held too many memories; too much pain.
The golden light in the sky reminded him of the bright light that was Obi-Wan, taken away from him. The reds screamed of shed blood, crimson splashes that sealed peace for others while stealing it from him. The darkness after all colors faded away was the emptiness that was his heart.
He always left before sunset.
With a sigh, he turned back to the bed, sat down and took the lid off a bottle of lotion, squeezing a small amount into his hand. He briskly rubbed the lotion into Obi-Wan's hand, up his arm. His skin was so dry, Qui-Gon had noticed, the IVs dripping nutrients into his blood stream weren't enough to keep his skin hydrated.
He reached across and brought Obi-Wan's other arm over his body and repeated the process, imagining that he was rubbing fertilizer into the body. He was careful to avoid the needle taped to his vein. When he finished, he lowered the arm back to Obi-Wan's side.
He reached for a pair of clippers and trimmed Obi-Wan's nails, gently smoothing any rough edges that remained. He turned the hands over, rubbing his thumbs over the soft palms. Calluses from holding his lightsaber in so many training sessions had long softened and disappeared, only small scars marred the hand, but even they had faded as the color faded from Obi-Wan's skin. Only the bleached hair still wound in his padawan's braid showed he had once spent much time in the sun.
Qui-Gon reached for some balm and lifted his hand to smear the soothing paste onto Obi-Wan's lips.
"How are you today, Obi-Wan?" he asked. Habit made him look into Obi-Wan's closed eyes. A tingle ran up his spine; the eyes were open. He licked his lips, now they were the ones dry. "Obi-Wan?"
He leaned over, laid his hands gently on both sides of Obi-Wan's face and stared hopefully into the blue-gray eyes. "Obi-Wan! Do you hear me, Obi-Wan? Please, Obi-Wan, blink if you hear me."
But there was no response, nothing to indicate Obi-Wan heard him. There was nothing in his eyes, nothing but a bottomless depth, devoid of life.
Qui-Gon continued to visit Obi-Wan, but his visits to the Temple had become less and less frequent. The Council kept pressuring him to take a new padawan; it was easier to stay away. But he was always drawn back. He needed to see Obi-Wan.
Life in the Temple went on. Qui-Gon often thought, when he was with Obi-Wan, that time stopped and left them isolated in a bubble where just the other minute Obi-Wan had grinned at some joke of his own making, and where in the next he would find something to tease Qui-Gon about. How he missed Obi-Wan's dry wit, his sparkling eyes, and his crease lines of worry. However, they were unable to go back, and unable to go forward. Time itself was frozen, here in this silent room.
Finally, even Qui-Gon had to admit that Obi-Wan was never going to recover. He needed to let go. He would still visit Obi-Wan; he owed him that. His heart demanded it of him. But he had to let him go, let go the bond that had connected them; it was long silent and there would be no pain in severing it. No pain, except an empty, aching void in his heart, where there had once been something vibrant and alive.
"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan," he whispered, holding back tears as the deed was done. He turned away, so he didn't see Obi-Wan's face. Or the single tear that slid from one eye.