Chapter 26. Plots and Schemes Galore

"Worry do not."

Mace snorted at the memory. Fine for the little troll to say. No matter how necessary, his words had shattered an already fragile Obi-Wan and Mace had been left to wonder if he should wring Yoda's neck along with Qui-Gon's. Even, perhaps, his own.

"Torn down the foundation of his beliefs we have succeeded in, but still the rubble to clear out before a new foundation can be laid."

Yoda may have been correct; no, Mace had to admit, Yoda had been correct: the troubled young man had needed to stop clinging to the lie that had sustained him. Let go of all you know had been Yoda's challenge, but what it had left in its place was doubt.

Obi-Wan did not know what to believe any longer.

So he had all but withdrawn into himself, a weary figure tucked into the corner of Mace's couch, wrapped in exhaustion and a comforter.

Hiding.

"Not hiding, healing." Yoda pronounced. He had sounded so confident. Mace was less sure, glancing at the listless Jedi on his couch. He'd trust Yoda – for now.

"Here, Obi-Wan," he said, nudging a shoulder. When the young man looked up, he offered a cup of hot caf. He was rewarded with a wan smile of thanks.

And that, at least, was something.

Obi-Wan leaned his head against the back of the couch, fingers slack at the edge of the ever present blanket. There was nothing left in him, no warmth, only numbness, since he'd poured out all the bottled up pain. His fingers slipped, the downward movement drawing his attention. He studied his hands, lying limp in his lap, moving his gaze from the tips of his fingers to the smooth palms. They were not the hands of a Jedi, callused and able to be both strong and gentle.

Once they had been, he mused, remembering all too often wielding a lightsaber when words failed – then those same hands comforting an innocent when the sword had done its duty – sometimes his hands, sometimes those of – no, he let his mind drift away, back to the quiet contemplation of his hands.

A Jedi had strong yet gentle hands – his were only gentle, now.

What, then, or who was he?

Was he hibernating; an animal resting through a long dreary spell waiting for spring? Was he hiding, a wounded animal, easy prey? Was he even real, this shell of who and what he had once been, lost and unable to find his way?

A ghost; that was sometimes what he thought he was. An illusion. Existence was just as ephemeral as his life; a life without substance as he had once known it, even if not too dissimilar to those who had never touched the Force. Even so, he might have more than drifted through these days, had he been otherwise whole. He could not, for he knew he was not.

And so he had been haunting Mace's rooms like that ghost, seeking redemption perhaps, solitude certainly.

He had not had to seek answers that did not exist, not when there had been no one to ask the questions. Yoda, Mace, Bant – all had been content to let him be content, offering their presence and no more than he was willing to accept.

He was now beginning to realize how much they had given; had much he had taken without giving anything back.

Wasn't that why Yoda had challenged him that day to face his losses? The awful realization of his losses had been truly devastating, a crescendo of escalating pain and shock that had disrupted his mental equilibrium, far worse than Qui-Gon's words and the implications that lay behind them.

Yet of one thing he was certain: Yoda had not meant to hurt him. He was being challenged – to rise above circumstances, above injury, above sorrow – to face down the past and look forward to the future.

To live and not just to exist.

There was no room for self-pity in a life lived well. He didn't wish the faded ghost to become one in reality, either.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He had to demand his life if he wished to live it and not let anyone else dictate the terms, though his shoulders slumped at what a task lay before him.

"You are strong, Obi-Wan; you will find your strength in time."

Was he strong enough to believe in himself when he wasn't all that sure what beliefs were real or not? Had he strength enough to face the accusations in his former master's eyes should he encounter him again? He doubted himself; his strength.

"You are strong, Obi-Wan; you will find your strength in time."

Yoda and Mace believed in him. They lent him their strength when his own was faltering.

But he knew he couldn't be the Obi-Wan Kenobi they hoped he would be again. Not anymore. He vaguely remembered that man, but that man was not he.

Not any longer.

But he would try to find as much of that man as he could, for all those who stood beside him.

It was what a Jedi would do.

A voice startled him out of his thoughts; a hand settled a cup of tea in his hand and then moved to his shoulder, gripping it in a reassuring squeeze.

Mace.

"You will remember how to live, Obi-Wan. I want to help you remember and you will get through this. You owe me nothing – you owe yourself."

The hand squeezed again; in it, strength. Finally, Obi-Wan began to feel it steal through him as well.

"Master Qui-Gon, sir," Anakin called out. As hoped, the Jedi master slowed his step and looked over his shoulder and down at his padawan with an apologetic smile that said I'm sorry. Anakin couldn't quite bring himself to smile back, even though the man slowed his steps. Master Qui-Gon still kept forgetting the padawan at his side was Anakin, just a boy, much smaller and with shorter legs. He couldn't keep up with the Jedi without skipping or running, all of which was frowned on. He knew, because he'd been frowned on, when he'd been oh-so-gently and oh-so condescendingly reminded of "the rules."

A stupid rule, too. What if one was simply in a hurry and needed to run, or keep up with one's master?

Master Qui-Gon still strode the halls as if the oh-so-proper Kenobi, the prior padawan, was the requisite step behind. Anakin hated the expectation that he do the same. It indicated inferior status and he resented it as he resented so much, but at least Master Qui-Gon tolerated him skipping along at his side when there weren't many other Jedi around.

He dug his fingers into his palms and let out a frustrated huff.

He didn't want to be merely tolerated, even if that was better than being ignored or being used. He didn't want to be known just as "the slave boy" just as he didn't want to be known just as "the Chosen One" – he wanted to be known as Anakin Skywalker as well, wanted not to be just a tool used by others. Everyone had expectations of him: he was used and commanded and told what to do and often how to do it. He should be the one commanding others what to do and how to do it.

Someday he'd do just that as he grew into his power as the Chosen One, the mighty one, the one who could move the stars and save a galaxy. He'd issue the orders and others would have to jump to his wishes.

But not yet.

In the meantime, he held an uncanny control over Qui-Gon's past apprentice and he savored every moment of it. Weakness was to be exploited, for only the strong triumphed.

So he did as he was bid and added his own flourishes to it. He had been asked – nay, commanded - to drive a wedge between Master and Padawan, but he had done more than that! He had driven them apart beyond any hope of reconciliation. Now he was merely tormenting further the tormented and it felt good, oh so good, to hold the upper hand and to be feared – only that Council's pet Obi-Wan Kenobi didn't fear him yet.

Not yet.

Mom wouldn't approve.

But Mom he almost whined back to that mental voice, that unwelcome reminder that his mother would not understand. She had never, ever understood that to be compliant meant to accept not being in control of one's one destiny. For now, he was riding on another's destiny, but the destiny was his – ultimately his…and Kenobi was just the first to fall so that he might himself rise.

And he'd gotten to Kenobi. He'd seen fear flash across that face when he'd turned and found Anakin mere feet away from him. He'd wanted to run even if he had held his ground. He knew Anakin held the upper hand and he had cowered in his boots, the poor pitiful Jedi whose spirit as well as mind was half broken, who hid away from everyone, and who needed someone else to fight his battles – but he wasn't fully broken yet. That day was coming.

He was silently congratulating himself when Qui-Gon's voice broke into his thoughts.

"You initiated that contact with him, didn't you?"

Anakin had thought it had been forgotten; neither had alluded to that day. Until now. The question, soft-voiced and without inflection, now came without warning.

His head jerked upright. Qui-Gon was not looking at him, but inward. Was he – did he –?

"I – uh…."

"Don't lie to me, Anakin, don't lie." He turned then and gazed at the boy. "I've heard too many lies from -" his hand made a quick, sharp gesture, "I only want the truth and an explanation. I won't be angry at you; I'm angry at him."

When the truth won't do, tell as little as possible, and your words will be accepted as truth.

His breath quickened. "You – you won't punish me?"

He saw it then, his "out": the sharp anguish of horror and revulsion that knifed through the Jedi master's eyes. One could hide deceit in truth, it seemed, as well. Qui-Gon did care for him - loved him more every time he was reminded of Anakin's past. He'd always been taught that love was intricately entwined with pain. Pain, lies and deceit now bonded them, as with him – but Qui-Gon wanted to take his pain away, not inflict it.

Just like the mother he'd left behind.

For a moment Anakin wanted to tell him everything, let out a great gush of words and be enveloped entirely in that love. But love came with a condition, he knew all too well, for all but his mother. She alone loved him unconditionally.

Qui-Gon loved him for being the Chosen One. He would never be just Anakin to him.

But that would have to be enough, to be loved enough to be wished he could be spared pain. That love was enough to cling to.

He wasn't going to allow anyone to come between them and him.

No one, little one?

He froze at the warning sharp in his mind. It was a gentle caress like the lick of a vibroblade across his shoulder blades, a promise that if he didn't behave, the next "caress" would be a mental slap. Anakin was not strong enough to keep his thoughts from him. And he feared him.

Someday he wouldn't. Someday he would kill him, when he had the power.

He was amused, by the threat that was a thought.

By that time, child, you will not wish to kill me, but will thank me for giving you this power.

"Oh, Ani." The big Jedi kneeled before him and cleared his throat. "I promise you any punishment you may earn will never be physical – well, perhaps scrubbing floors or some such may qualify as physical, but I will never lay a hand on you. Never. No Jedi will."

Eyes wide and solemn, Anakin bit his lip and then nodded.

Qui-Gon sighed. "Now that that is settled - didn't I tell you I wanted you to keep your distance? Not for his sake, Anakin, but for yours. Whatever prompted you to talk to him?"

Anakin cast about wildly for a thought, an idea, a reason and found a plausible one in Jedi teachings. "Doesn't a Jedi – forgive? I thought…."

"You thought you'd forgive him?" Qui-Gon settled on his heels, taken aback. "You could do that, Ani, as harsh as he was to you, you would forgive him?"

Pride. There was pride in that voice; Anakin basked in it. He yearned for it. He nodded. "I – I wanted to. For your sake, Master Qui-Gon. He was your padawan a long time; I know how he hurt you. So I thought I'd ask him if he…was sorry, and then maybe I could forgive him and maybe, maybe you wouldn't be so sad."

"Sad? I'm not sad, Anakin. I'm bitterly disappointed, but not sad. Obi-Wan – meant a lot to me, once, when I thought I knew him. I never knew him as well as I thought. I thought I'd trained him…like another – to never question the Force, to follow its lead no matter the path. I thought he – but he wasn't."

Like that, the pride was gone, replaced by pain. It tainted the undercurrents of the flow that tied them all together. Obi-Wan had taken that away. Qui-Gon didn't belong to him, yet. Obi-Wan just wouldn't let him go. And somewhere deep inside, Qui-Gon didn't want him to go, either.

Qui-Gon was so hurt and so sad deep down where he was all but unaware of it because he –

he …

…he loved Obi-Wan. And as long as he loved Obi-Wan, even if he was unaware of it, he could never fully belong to Anakin.

Jealousy surged through his small body wild and unchecked. He was allowed nothing of his own. Nothing!

Obi-Wan had no right – none – to make Qui-Gon feel bad, no right to be loved by him. He was right to hate Obi-Wan – because Qui-Gon did like him even if he didn't think he did, and Padmé liked him, and that meant that they had less room in their hearts for him. But he had been taught how to turn hate to strength, he could make Qui-Gon hate Obi-Wan; it wouldn't be all that hard.

Any insincerity in his words would be masked by naked emotion.

"I asked him if he was sorry for – for spreading lies about me. He's made everyone hate me," and the tremble in his voice was real, one of pure anger. He was the Chosen One, but everyone chose to dislike him. No one liked him. Everyone liked Obi-Wan, they blamed him for Obi-Wan, and even if they suspected what he'd done to him on Naboo, they had no right to blame Anakin. He did everything to protect his mother. Besides, he hadn't meant to kill Obi-Wan, not really; he'd just been so angry that he had Force-shoved Obi-Wan that time when Master Windu had caught him and he'd Force-swept Obi-Wan's legs out from under him to send him crashing headfirst into the bed to punish him for trying to steal Padmé.

Because no one stole anything that was his if he could help it. No one ever gave him a thing, all that he had was what he had fought for.

The words spilled from him, then, his breath hitching from rage and humiliation. "They hate me. Everyone blames me for taking you away from him. What if they take me away from you and make you take him back? Master Qui-Gon, I'd be alone; I wouldn't have any family if it weren't for you."

The tear that trickled from one eye was very real. His mom was far away and he couldn't protect her. Not that he ever could, but he tried. He had really tried. His only hope was to do as he said.

Who was protecting her now?

He just hoped she could survive until he had gained all the power he had been promised would be his. Then he could save his mother – from him. From Watto. From the threat of being sold, of being bargained, of being used.

He always knew, just how she felt. Felt the pain and humiliation deep within his own skin, safely locked within his alcove.

He knew, too, even if he didn't understand, just how he felt. Felt the heated blood within his own veins when he trembled at the edge of adolescence himself, sick, betrayed, and trembling, because he knew how she so bravely endured what she dared not say no to.

He knew too well the cruel delight of taking one's pleasure upon one helpless to fight back.

Because a slave was not protected from life. Because a slave, even a boy, knew self-interest and self-preservation had to rein in compassion. Because he knew the world was cruel and would steal away everything if he did not grasp onto it with both hands and hold on, hold on so tight that he might inadvertently kill that which he sought to protect.

He still stared at the night skies, seeking angels amidst the stars – one angel in particular.

He'd been three, perhaps four or five, old enough to be torn from his mother's side and put to work, taught to obey, taught to hate. He'd been too young to fully understand and old enough to be punished for that lack, newly enslaved to a new and as yet unknown owner. Bedraggled and forlorn, crying in a corner, a warm wet nose and a whimper announced the arrival of an equally bedraggled and mistreated gehk-pup with a sore paw. Such a forlorn little thing, like him, that had crept into the perceived safety of Watto's shop away from its tormenters to nuzzle his ankle, offering love and devotion in return for the same.

He'd shared his meager rations and warmed the tiny body inside his tunic. "Iego;" named after the places he planned to escape to one day, taking his mom and his gehk-pup with him, the three of them, all together, safe together. But tomorrow was far off and the stars too big a wish away…but at least they were all together, Mom, Iego and he.

The dreams that exceeded his grasp only became within his grasp once he showed up – and the boy who dreamed of freedom learned the price of his dreams.

It was the day he killed Iego.

He'd learned hate and anger that day, enough to kill but not enough to protect that which he loved. Anger might have freed him and saved Iego had he been older and wiser and stronger.

He would always remember that lesson: that was the day that he had come and discovered Iego. He'd been giggling under the rough licks of the "victor" after their playful tussle, flat on his back and Iego pinning him down with four dirty paws.

It had been a rare carefree moment where he had been just a boy with his pet, not the slave boy with duties morning to night. Then a shadow had fallen over them – he had again come, once more to instruct Anakin in the ways of power. It was his birthright, he had been told from the first time he had met this man. He had eagerly sought it until it was too late, and backing out was not possible.

He had his mother to protect. And now Iego.

Anakin slowly rose, gehk-pup held tight in his arms and all joy fled.

He'd scowled and said the "Chosen One" is to be feared, not loved. Love is for the weak, child, give me that wretched thing so we may get on with your lessons. Anakin merely clutched Iego tighter and refused, backing up a step when he'd tried to wrench the shivering body away. He'd held on, tighter and tighter, not hearing the whimpers until they ceased, only understanding when he looked down to see that which he held onto was crushed against his chest in a protective embrace.

Dead.

Hate and anger flared, brighter than a bonfire on Boonta Eve. He'd dared to lift his eyes and scream, "I hate you! You killed her."

And he'd chuckled and nodded in satisfaction. "Hate makes you powerful, boy, but you have to learn to properly focus it." Then he'd grabbed Anakin by the chin and twisted his face upwards. "But you don't hate me, do you? You hate yourself. You killed that pathetic creature, my boy."

Then after his "lessons" he'd followed Anakin home and locked him in his alcove with the remains of his beloved Iego, and his mom – his mom – he hadn't truly wept since that night.

Mercifully his mother remembered nothing of that long, brutal night, her memory wiped for the lesson had been for Anakin: to remember the consequences of defiance.

He'd learned that lesson well: he would do anything, say anything to save his mother. Even – and his lips trembled – sacrifice Qui-Gon for his mother.

It would never come to that, he vowed.

All he had to do was remember how he hated the apprentice who had such a hold on Qui-Gon. He would steal him back, given a chance. Qui-Gon would go back, if he knew, if he was given that chance. He told him, through that bond that connected him – all of them. He fed his hate and fed his fear. Both were very real. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that the Jedi master – his master - ached whenever his former apprentice was nearby or when he was not, when his name was mentioned or not.

That tie was not easily severed. It stirred beneath the surface, it fought, beneath consciousness. The ache was for what was and a wish for it to be once more.

So he would fan that fear within the master just as he wished, for both of them. Because Qui-Gon was meant to be his savior, the one who would make him powerful enough to save those he loved – and destroy those whom he did not.

And he intended it to first be that apprentice, no matter what exactly he wanted. Because Qui-Gon was his and always would be.

His, just as his mother was. He who dared make a claim on them would regret it for the rest of his life.

"Family," the Jedi master echoed before turning to look down at the boy at his side. Anakin felt the sharp spike of a dull pain deep inside – and resented it even more; Qui-Gon for feeling it and himself for having to share it. He hated Obi-Wan for making Qui-Gon sad and he hated Obi-Wan for leaving a tiny piece of himself behind, a tiny place he was not allowed entrance, no matter how deeply buried.

Just as he hated that part of Qui-Gon that was held separate from him.

"The Jedi are your family, now – squabbling, jealous family at the moment, I suppose, but still family." He squatted and made sure he had Anakin's full attention. "Padawan, you belong to this family. Someday they will realize the same. Once – once everything settles down."

He clutched at the wave of warmth and reassurance washing over him. He could bask in that forever. He could stir Qui-Gon into loving just him, if he just made Qui-Gon mad enough at Obi-Wan.

"You promise? Because – because he said I took you away from him and someday he'd make me regret it."

Strong fingers suddenly clutched his arms as narrowed eyes gazed into his. "Regret – did he use that word – did he threaten you? That son of a – I told the Council I didn't want him near you. I told them. I knew it – oh, what a façade he put on for years – learning to hide his anger, his bitterness. Oh, I fell for it all right. Thought we'd put the past behind us, learned from it – grew from it –"

"Oh, Master Qui-Gon." The little boy that lived deep within him, joyous and unsullied, surfaced for a brief moment. Qui-Gon now hated Obi-Wan, he must, he must because he did love Anakin, he did, he did. He threw his arms around the man. "You've got me – you've got me. Don't be sad, don't be sad. Forget him. You've got me."

That moment proved that good had not totally been erased within a young child's heart; that cruelty and avarice had not yet fully triumphed.

And the Force rejoiced for that little miracle.