Chapter 19. Drifting in the Vast Sea Without a Care in the World

It was somewhat pleasant here amidst the clouds, or waves, he wasn't sure which – painless, aimless drifting... comforting. Nothing really intruded and he rather liked it that way, yet it was a bit lonely with only his skittish thoughts to keep him company.

Somehow that seemed all wrong, though, for he should have something besides his thoughts; something he relied on was missing.

He was alone.

Even at the edge of thought, ever at the edge of awareness, he knew. Something or someone was not there, where that something or someone should be.

And that meant he was alone.

He preferred to dream, of whatever that was rather than whatever it was not.

But one could not dream forever. Dreams passed in time…and he didn't want to pass with them. So he lingered, watching his dreams from afar.

He was a child – biting his lower lip as he concentrated on adding one more block to the tower before him – giggling when the tower didn't collapse – chest heaving in small sobs when Bruck "accidentally" tripped over it –

Finding himself – now a young boy of perhaps five – facing Master Yoda with wide eyes and mashed tubers stuck in his hair, the victorious winner of a crèche food fight and unwitting source of the same dab dribbling down the old Jedi's face.

"You coulda ducked," was all he could think to squeak. "Master."

All the ancient master had said, eyes twinkling, was "Coulda, shoulda, didn't. Enjoy a good food fight I do," and waded in. The battle was again on. This time, Master Yoda won, the crèche master was quietly horrified, and the younglings giggled even through the clean up.

"Having a pleasant dream, Obi?" A voice intruded, receded as a whisper or a hand brushed his face.

Despair weighed him down as he trudged to the transport, Bandomeer his destination. His journey to knighthood had dead-ended in a burst of justified anger at Bruck; anger he could not afford to indulge, justified or not. His fault, in the end, for he had had the ability, if not the self-control, to avoid the fateful actions that had doomed him.

"Is he in pain? Another seizure?"

"A nightmare, I think, perhaps reliving a bad memory. Don't cry, Obi, don't cry –"

Fingering his braid, still not quite believing. Qui-Gon had rescued his heart from despair and his body from exile in the Agri-Corps. Obi-Wan Kenobi would be a Jedi. Qui-Gon Jinn had sworn to that.

Delight and pain, joy and sorrow. No experience was solely one or the other.

Siri – pain-in-the-posterior fellow padawan; Siri – the rival that had become a friend. Siri – whom he had come to love.

Friendship was irretrievably transformed by three little words. Words that shattered both their hearts just as their hearts made themselves known.

Siri…and he had levered himself away from her arms and left because what had started as mere pleasure had become a coming together in love.

Other arms had comforted and consoled him: those of his master.

He remembered Qui-Gon's arms around him, silent, for a young man's heartache needed no words of sympathy, lending his strength until Obi-Wan could find his own.

"Shh, it's okay, I'm holding you; I'm right here."

Sacrifices and rewards, such was a Jedi's life. Laughter and tears…but here, an observer, he neither laughed nor wept. He merely…existed.

Occasionally a muffled sound – a voice, he thought - would wash over him and he would know he wasn't really quite alone; occasionally something brushed his forehead or his hand and he would know someone watched over him, but such moments were fleeting and rare – and insufficient to fully bring him back to that other world.

Like driftwood upon a vast sea, borne hither and yon by the currents, the waves were inexorably bringing him closer to shore, to be deposited unceremoniously amongst the flotsam and debris, discarded remnants of something once with a name and a meaning.

All in all, he preferred to be adrift, aloof from that world, but that world kept reaching for him. Words started to make sense, if he just listened hard enough.

"Obi…it's Bant, do you hear me?" He wrinkled his forehead: he knew a Bant, was Bant with him? Why Bant? Was he this "Obi"?

It was all rather muddled…but he'd be this "Obi" if it made this "Bant" happy. "Uhh…" and there was a feeling of gentleness on his face, a sound like a soft breath.

"Do you think you'll wake soon?"

"Uhnn…" He might have nodded; he might not have. It was all a dream so it didn't really matter if he did or did not.

"Sleepy Obi…the drugs are wearing off…I'll be close, Obi, always close."

"'gooo'."

And in time he did waken, though it all still seemed a dream.

Without knowing why, exactly, he however truly knew now that things were far different – he felt different. A shell of himself concealing only emptiness. Even at his most insecure, he had always known who he was, even if he thought no one else knew. Now he wasn't sure if anyone knew, least of all himself.

He had no clear memory why he was here at the Temple, and the past few days were hazy, full of half-remembered images and sounds.

"M-master…?" His first words, even before his eyes were fully open.

Yoda's ears drooping in response: the first thing he remembered seeing once they had fluttered open.

"Qui-Gon…here you will not find him." The first words he remembered hearing. The tears running down his cheeks when he remembered – and the gentle touch of Yoda's hand – not brushing the tears away, no, simply resting on his arm.

And the silence…so loud it thundered in his ears. No soft rumble of his name in his master's deep voice… no soft caress of the Force…until –

"Here I am for you…here I will remain."

He covered his eyes with one hand and wept, though he did not know quite why. He had again forgotten.

Stubborn determination alone could not hurry healing, nor eager anticipation. Yet how else to explain Qui-Gon's remarkable recovery from a wound that should have killed him? The healers still could not satisfactorily explain the how of his survival. However he had managed it, the padawan had not as such healed the wound; Obi-Wan had only channeled enough life force to keep the Jedi master alive until his own body was able to start the healing process after true medical intervention.

The padawan did not fare so well. Consciousness was fleeting and uncertain, his awareness of his surroundings in doubt.

He responded to stimuli but seemed unable to interact with anyone – or unwilling. As he was still on strong pain medicine, no one could say if his senses were dulled by drugs or his injury.

When he was awake, his eyes seemed to be searching, always searching, and when he seemed to recognize that whatever he searched for was not present, he would close his eyes and drift back to sleep.

Silent, he was always silent. Only an occasional tear spoke for him. "Not of pain," the healers said. Not the kind of pain they could heal, at least. They could do little as yet, only wipe the tears away or squeeze a limp hand. It was too early for cognitive tests, no way yet to know if a depletion of oxygen had so damaged Obi-Wan's brain that this all but comatose state of being was temporary – or permanent.

Master Healer al'Kim Hitori gazed thoughtfully at Yoda and Mace. Both Jedi masters came often, sometimes together and sometimes not, to check on one patient. About the other they merely inquired as if politeness alone required it. It was not difficult to discern where their concern lay – and he still lay withdrawn and silent, barely communicative.

Barely, for he had whispered one word before sleep had again claimed him. One word, but indicative of little as yet. Had young Kenobi tried to communicate or had a whisper – a hope – just slipped his lips?

That was the question they were discussing: just how aware of his surroundings he was.

"Spoke a word to me he did. Recovering, is he?" Yoda looked hopeful, if one went by the curl of his ears or the soft light in his eyes. Some had speculated years ago that Yoda would take Kenobi as his padawan: there had been a connection between the two for the entirety of Kenobi's life that many believed was a sign of the Force's favoring their pairing.

That early of a connection between a master and future padawan was not unknown and thus accepted; the only surprise was that the Force chose the grand master of the Order years after he had knighted his last padawan – and that in time Master Jinn, not Yoda, became Kenobi's master. That pairing had been an outstanding success after a few rough patches in the early years - until just recently.

The healer leaned back in his seat, choosing his words carefully. "He spoke one word, 'master.' It was a question was it not, perhaps a reflex more than a conscious utterance?"

"Wept he did once I spoke to him." The ears curled forwarded and drooped; Yoda sounded sad as he leaned on his gimer stick. "Knew he did, then if not before, enough to weep."

Weeping alone meant little, al'Kim already knew.

A patient with damage to the cerebral cortex might show complex brain stem reflexes such as swallowing, guttural vocalizations, and spontaneous roving eye movements, easily misinterpreted by a layperson as evidence of awareness. Kenobi had no such identifiable damage, yet there was little doubt he had suffered some degree of diffuse cerebral hypoxia when he had ceased breathing on Naboo.

How much damage he sustained would determine how quickly – or completely – he recovered.

"Such a response could be either a response or a reflex to the trauma. He's shown no periods of true lucidity so far. The truth is," he hesitated before bluntly stating, "we don't know yet how well or how soon he will recover – and to what degree."

"Strong young Obi-Wan is, soon he will reconnect to those around him."

The healer wished he felt the same certainty that suffused Yoda's voice. The ancient Jedi was not prone to bouts of wishful thinking, but by no means was he always right.

"With all due respect, Master Yoda, he is not responding well at all and it has nothing to do with internal strength," al'Kim began cautiously. "Should he be awake and communicative by now? Probably, if we were just to look at his last injury, or the trauma of the bond severance. But we cannot look at each event in isolation. I expect confusion and lethargy when he wakes, interspersed with bouts of depression or anger."

"Hope I shall continue to hold. Young and resilient this one is; rests in the Hands of the Force he does."

As a healer and a Jedi, al'Kim knew non-healers were all too apt to be overly optimistic regarding the Force's actions regarding the injured or sick. Master Yoda was no exception.

"They all do," he said, pointing a long finger at the ancient Jedi. "Do you want hope – or plain speaking?"

"Speak both you can," Yoda said placidly. "Opposites they are not."

Despite himself, al'Kim's lips twitched.

"We hope his brain is not permanently impaired, from either lack of oxygen or the Force surge. We won't know until he really wakes." As Mace was about to speak, the healer interjected, "Tests and scans do not reveal everything, Master Windu, though they are better when looking at the brain than the mind."

Both Jedi nodded in understanding.

"In the Force's hands we then leave him – and yours," Yoda pronounced, getting stiffly to his feet.