Chapter 27. Finding Obi-Wan

Though he would never admit it, Mace Windu tended to enjoy a certain – albeit restrained – glee when Yoda was, well, mistaken. It didn't happen often, granted, making Mace wonder if Yoda was actually as wise as he appeared or just so in tune with the Force that he gleaned truths not others could not.

Yet, truth be told, there was a certain comfort in knowing Yoda was rarely wrong.

And so it was that when the little troll had been proven right – again – it was something Mace found both frustrating and reassuring, since this time he was right about Obi-Wan. The silent boy, staring out a frost-edged window, lost in fathomless thoughts, had begun to stir and renew himself much like a flower awakening from a dreary winter's rest to the promise of spring – and sought to establish his roots before unfurling to the sun.

How else to explain these new and tentative questions about who he had been other than as a search for those aspects of himself he thought misplaced or altered, perhaps a need to recapture the best of who he had been before he refashioned himself into the best he could now hope to be?

"Master Windu?" He hesitated and looked at his hands, then bit his lip and looked over at the Jedi master. "Tell me what I was like – before?"

Oh. Mace's mouth went dry. Phrased as a question, it was really a request, but not for information or reassurances, but this time, for truth. Truth was complicated, however, composed of more than mere facts.

Did he tell the boy – strange, he had been thinking of him more and more as a man before all this, and now, since all this, as a boy – did he tell him he rarely thought of himself, asking only how to help others? Did he tell him that as an initiate nearing choosing, at that time of fear and uncertainty, his self-absorbed concern for his future was one of the rare periods when he thought only of himself? Did he tell him that, recognizing his potential, he had been pushed and prodded, molded and guided into the fine young man he had become?

He would not tell him he had been a gifted padawan expected to be a gifted knight, for as yet no one knew if those gifts were scattered debris in the wake of injury. He would not tell him that his generous spirit had helped to heal a bitter, betrayed Jedi trapped in his past, and he most certainly would not tell him that it was that very healing that had made it possible for Qui-Gon to turn Obi-Wan into what he himself been rescued from - no, he sharply reminded himself, Obi-Wan was not bitter even if betrayed.

But what he could tell Obi-Wan was not what kind of a Jedi he had been or was expected to be – but what kind of man he had been - and still was.

"You were and are a gentle and forgiving soul, who has tempered and grown beyond a sometimes impatient and reckless boy into a thoughtful and intelligent young man who was – and is – a credit to the Order," he said simply. The flaws – and of course there were some – did not need to be spoken

Obi-Wan blinked and gazed uncertainly at Mace, slowly flushing as if the honest assessment had been little more than a solicited compliment. Pure Obi-Wan Kenobi, just as blunt honesty was pure Mace Windu. He had never been all that graceful at accepting praise, Mace belatedly remembered, always a bit uncertain such had been earned in the early years of his apprenticeship. With time, growing confidence and maturity, reception of praise had gone from a shy duck of the head to a soft "thank you" or grateful smile.

Now that uncertainty was back. Perhaps he really was unsure of who he had been. The healers had warned the Council this might well happen, and hadn't the young man already admitted he no longer knew which of his memories was real and which was not?

He might as well address that right away.

"Are you the Obi-Wan you were before this? No," he admitted; then interrupted himself, "but then you would not have been anyway, even had events unfolded otherwise. You are the same Obi-Wan, because you will take this experience and grow from it as you have always done. The healers have not given up on you, young man. Yoda and I have not given up on you – the Force will not give up on you, either. And I'm fully confident you won't give up on yourself either, it's not in your nature. You just have no idea where you're heading yet, so you're doing what Obi-Wan Kenobi always does when the path is not clear."

A wry twist of the lips preceded his, "Sit in a corner and drink coca and tea all day long?"

Ah, good, there was a hint of a smile accompanying the words, a sign his humor was reasserting itself. "Analyze before action. Consider the consequences. Consult the Force then jump forward without fear."

A tentative smile was followed by a sigh. "I don't think I ever cried – before all this."

"No, not outwardly," Mace agreed.

"I'm getting better, I think, though the tears seem to come regardless of my wishes. Jedi don't…."

"Ordinarily, they don't, and yes, you have. There's no shame in that – you have no control yet over that part of your brain." He leaned over and tapped Obi-Wan on the forehead. "You're damaged, here, though you're getting better. Never be ashamed for something you can't control. Up here, right now, emotionally you are like a two-year-old crèchling, Obi-Wan, only minus the childish tantrums. Every tear, and every snort of laughter –"

"I don't 'snort'!" The indignation in the tone brought a bark of laughter from Mace.

"You don't – wait, you're right – I've confused you with the green troll. You know: short Jedi, big stick."

The irreverence had the desired effect. "Master Yoda," Obi-Wan corrected, half-scandalized. He looked around as if the Jedi master would suddenly materialize and whack the nearest ankle. "He doesn't snort!"

"Oh, no – what do you call this?" A passable imitation of the old master's laughter had the desired effect: Obi-Wan laughed. It was a pure and joyous peal of laughter and guilty agreement.

Not for the first time, Qui-Gon Jinn, arguably the Jedi most attuned to the Living Force currently in the Order, slumped against his seat back, unutterably weary and for once, uncertain.

Not of his padawan, but of himself.

Anakin Skywalker was, without doubt, a natural talent with an innate and someday phenomenal connection to the Force. He would hold the fate of the Order, the Republic, and the galaxy in his hands - someday, but today – today, he had been an exhausting and rambunctious boy, not the "Chosen One" upon whom all hopes were pinned.

His frustration at yet another day not fitting in with his age mates had been transformed into restless energy and movement interspersed with a thousand and one questions that only a child could dream up. After two padawans, Qui-Gon had mastered the art of providing answers to the unanswerable, but even he had not the answers to why Anakin was treated like such an outcast in the Temple.

Such behavior was just not tolerated in the Order. Even with Qui-Gon's history of legendary run-ins with the Council, there had always been mutual respect despite the vocal difference of opinions being aired.

Well, he reflected bitterly, at least until recently when he had apparently done the unforgiveable – defied the Order on behalf of the Force in deed and not just words. Even now that rankled, the frustration bubbling within his blood at the Council's callous refusal – oh, blast! – he could feel the headache building again, the one that had been plaguing him on and off since - he rubbed his head and pondered a moment - since Tatooine.

Though everything had really started on Naboo, Tatooine was at the crux of so many decisions and choices. It was where his disappointment in Obi-Wan had first surfaced, where his elation at finding the prophecy fulfilled flowered.

Obi-Wan had never believed in the prophecy, not like Xan had. But Obi-Wan had always believed in his master, his loyalty impervious to the disapproval of the Council or the pitying glances of others. Obi-Wan would do anything short of selling his soul for either the Force or for Qui-Gon – except -

Obi-Wan had sold his soul.

A groan tore from his throat, of denied pain, of denied grief. Why, Obi-Wan, why?

Had it been for jealousy?

Obi-Wan would not have sold it so cheaply – for what, then?

So that Qui-Gon could live?

Qui-Gon buried his face in his hands. The horror of that thought was beyond imagination…that he could be the reason for his beloved padawan's fall – no, no, it had been Obi-Wan's choice. His alone, as Xan's had been. Obi-Wan was an adult, a padawan on the edge of knighthood. Naboo could have served as his trials. He had stood at the brink of the abyss – and chosen not to step back, but step forward.

And down.

The weight of that decision lay heavy on more than one pair of shoulders. Qui-Gon would rather have died, there at the Sith's hands, than live with the knowledge of yet another's padawan's fall.

No, he scolded himself, shaking himself as if from a dream, a nightmare.

Forget about Obi-Wan, he made his choice as you made yours! Focus on the positive; focus on one given into your care!

Focus on one still innocent of betrayal and deceit, of a boy incapable of such, chosen as he was by the Force itself to carry its banner. Focus on –

Yet instead of Anakin, he still saw in his mind's eye another boy, whose jeweled eyes were as bright as any crystal to be found on Ilum and equally as captivating.

No!

Why was the Force punishing him? Why was the Force filling his mind with these images but to torment him?

No matter how he tried to banish the face, it was Obi-Wan's face he saw, hurt and shocked before the Council, it was Obi-Wan's face, shocked and grief-stricken, bent over his pain-wrecked body on Naboo, and it was Obi-Wan's face, eyes forever open to eternity as his body lay cradled within Qui-Gon's arms only to be resuscitated and given life once more.

Obi-Wan, who could not accept the Will of the Force, not on Coruscant nor on Tatooine or Naboo.

Well, even if his mind's eye was determined to defy his mind's will, he would just have to replace that image with one of reality, only a few feet away. Qui-Gon rose to his feet – and decided the next place he rested would be his own bed – after both feasting his eyes on and making sure Anakin was in his.

He was, sprawled on his back, arms dangling over the sides of the bed and the skin lightly dimpled with chill.

"Ani," Qui-Gon shook his head in quiet amusement, drawing the covers up to his chest after first tucking the wayward limbs beneath. "Sleep well, little one."

He paused at the door and turned back; smiled a fond smile as he turned the lights off. The sight of a peacefully sleeping child cured all ills.

This night his dreams were pleasant ones.

Two steps forward, one back.

At least it wasn't one step forward, two back.

Mace had pushed too hard, he feared. He'd suggested Obi-Wan get together with his friends, have some fun, share a few laughs. Obi-Wan had hesitated; then shook his head no.

"Why not? It would be good for you."

Obi-Wan had only said softly, "I'm not good company right now."

No amount of gentle pressure, of reassurance that their company might be good for him, would change Obi-Wan's mind. As it was, Obi-Wan had risen with lips pressed together and headed to his bedroom, avoiding further argument by evading any discussion at all. It had been on the tip of Mace's tongue to call him back and press the issue, but in the end he did not.

Surely the young man needed his friends' support and companionship – but, Mace quickly realized, the latest rounds of medical work ups were no doubt causing this emotional instability by reopening only partially healed wounds. Obi-Wan abhorred showing weakness, barely even admitting such even to himself. No matter how well-meaning, how concealed, his friends' sympathy could only distress him further.

He dared not presume he knew what was best for Obi-Wan.

Sometimes a man just needed time and space to come to terms with changes in his life without the well meaning efforts of others interfering. Obi-Wan was an adult and entitled to make such decisions on his own.

At least for a time.

So Mace held his tongue and quietly informed Obi-Wan's friends that the young man was feeling unsettled and it might be best to give him some privacy; he would let them know when Obi-Wan was feeling up to visitors. The dismay on their faces seemed a bit extreme until he realized it wasn't his words, but who had delivered them.

I'm not an ogre he grumbled to himself afterwards.

Intimidating – yes. He'd cultivated that reputation on purpose. He sighed. Maybe he'd cultivated it just a little too convincingly.