Chapter 39. Sweet Are the Dreams of Slumber

With Ni'sha's comforting hand on his arm, Qui-Gon allowed himself to mourn the passing of his illusions about his once promising padawan. It was true; he had loved Obi-Wan, he now acknowledged, or at least the man he had thought he had known, perhaps the man he had even been at times.

There had been a sparkle in his eyes that could not have been faked, a smile that rivaled the suns and a laugh that was like a ray of sunshine breaking through a storm – oh, if there had only not been the anger, the recklessness or the impatience as well.

"So that's what happened," one Jedi remarked softly to another as they left the sallé.

"Not necessarily."

"I meant from Jinn's point of view – I wonder what the full truth is?"

"Perhaps that is what the Council is trying to ascertain: Kenobi was secluded for quite a while, you know, and Master Windu has been keeping him under close watch."

"You hear that, Qui?" Ni'sha nudged her friend. "Maybe the Council isn't as unaware as you think they are. They wouldn't bandy around they were investigating Kenobi while they were doing so – it'd be just like them to keep it low key."

Before the Jedi master could respond that he rather doubted that based on a few prior heated exchanges with Mace, his new padawan walked in.

"Hey, Master," he chirped, glancing curiously at the female Jedi.

"Hi, there. You must be Anakin Skywalker and I'm Master Lilebeth de Nichoise; you can call me Master Ni'sha."

"Pleased to meet you." He grinned and then remembered to bow.

Ni'sha threw an amused glance at Qui-Gon. "How refreshing – he's as uninhibited as you and like you, bound to throw the Council into hissy fits, too, I imagine." She smiled and laid a hand on the youngster's shoulder. "So Anakin, tell me what you like about being a young Jedi in training?"

Qui-Gon watched, amused, as the two hit it off. He shouldn't have been surprised, Anakin was a very likeable child and as Ni'sha had said, Anakin was not like the others – he was very open-hearted and not at all reticent about sharing his feelings.

Few dared to call BB "insane" to his face. Those few who had had found it the last thing they would ever do. BB was obsessed, even he knew, but his obsession was honed and specific, centered on old injustices and former rivals. It predated the boss's saving him from an ignominious life, a life he had given everything he had to avoid and one he had been consigned to anyway. If his obsession verged on insanity, it was a limited insanity and one that might soon be partially satiated. He was cunning and capable of subtlety should it be required – especially if he could avenge old injustices.

Notwithstanding the boss's orders, he could also deviate from plans and be bold and incautious if it furthered his personal goals. Humiliating Kenobi was too good an opportunity to pass up, so he would be bold.

If he was ignored, no harm done. If not – nothing like going from lauded to vilified in quick order.

Hiding within Jedi robes, the cowl shading his face, he contacted the Chancellor's office. He had filched several sets of clothing from the laundry in his prowls and had no trouble looking the part. He could and had already mingled amongst the Jedi, all without notice.

If they could not sense him, Kenobi was as good as his.

The current and only Sith, Sidious, was intrigued.

A holographic transmission had been sent to the Chancellor's office from the Jedi Temple – an anonymous one, and what the Chancellor knew, the Sith lord knew. Of course, Mas Amadda had seen it first then had dutifully passed it on. Anonymous! How droll. Someone thought one of the "heroes of Naboo" so recently praised by the Chancellor was instead a scoundrel of the worst sort.

Kenobi – a fallen Jedi. How he wished.

He shook his head, a smile playing around his lips. If this were even partially true, Kenobi was closer to his grasp than he believed. He submerged himself into the Force, examined all that he knew and all that he could surmise. What he found pleased him. Kenobi had not fallen, but he had heard the siren call of the dark and it had marked him. He was vulnerable.

If only the blasted boy would reach out once more to the Force.

That vast power swirled around the boy; caressing him like a lover and Kenobi reacted like a eunuch to a seductress, that is to say, reacted not at all. He might have to find access to the young man's medical records. Was the Jedi merely psychologically unable to tap into it or was there a physical interference?

Could this anonymous Jedi help? He sincerely doubted it; with his command of the Force he knew more about all the players in the game than anyone could tell him. But it was interesting – most interesting, that a Jedi would rat another one out like this.

The warren of his enemies was infested. How delightful!

The weight of responsibility stiffened the young man's spine, though the burden was light. He could count himself again amongst the useful with duties.

His first class – and not as anyone's assistant. At least for a few days, this was his class.

A smile graced Obi-Wan's face as he walked into the classroom ahead of the chattering initiates soon to arrive. Over last meal the previous night, Master Windu had quietly informed him he would be taking over Master Danner's class while she was on a short sabbatical, a verdict delivered with a slight pursing of the lips.

"She specifically requested you step in while she attends a seminar-slash-class of her own, Obi-Wan. Have you done something to earn someone's wrath?

It was well known that young initiates and Master Windu held each other at dismayed arms length. Hiding his amusement, Obi-Wan said gravely, "I consider this an honor, Master Windu."

"You do?" The senior Jedi folded his arms and peered doubtfully at the younger. "Perhaps you should be given a checkup."

The repressed smile was replaced by a grimace. "I've got one scheduled in a few days. That, I do not consider an honor."

He stood and took the instructor's spot in the front when the first initiates filed in.

"Where's Master Danner?" Roryan, a surprisingly good fighter and usually the quietest, asked.

"In class," he answered her and nodded, amused, as the students groaned in sympathy. "I'll be teaching this class in her absence."

Kieran and D'arian glanced at each and grinned.

"Now, now," Obi-Wan admonished gently, nonetheless touched. Something stirred in him nowadays, emotions that were not always those a Jedi should embrace, but he was not embracing them. He did, however, feel them and he now acknowledged them, at least to himself rather than hiding them behind a façade he could no longer maintain. "Wipe those smiles off your faces, grab a stick and line up."

"Yes, Master Obi-Wan," the class echoed and lined up in neat rows, ready to practice the moves they would later use in their "sparring sessions."

Master Obi-Wan – they had already gifted him with the respect of learners to a teacher. His own lips were twitching now. It would not do to drop to his knees and hug them all – but he certainly wished to.

"We're going to start learning a new move, today." He demonstrated in slow motion, then a bit faster. "Now try and remember not to drop your shoulder – and before one of you brings up Master Yoda, at your age you are allowed to 'try;' I said so."

"Can we tell him you said that?" The inevitable wit in the class cracked.

"Only if you want me too hobbled to teach," he shot back, pretending to rub his ankle.

Qui-Gon would not have admitted it to anyone even had he been aware of what he was feeling. Relief. If truth be told, he had moments of doubt…brief and fleeting though they were, tied always to a stray and inconvenient memory.

But Ni'sha had listened with an open mind and in the end had thought him justified.

Justified. He almost snorted. He didn't need justification; he only needed the Force and its will to guide him.

Ni'sha had taken Anakin off somewhere to allow him a chance to meditate, something he sorely needed.

So here he was, on his knees and sinking into the Force – here there were never any questions, only answers, even if as muddled as Yoda's syntax. The answers were clear when a Jedi cleared his mind and gave his all over to the Force.

He sank further into its warm flow.

The blade came down with a hiss – and a head hit the floor with a soft thud. It rolled onto one cheek and came to rest, horrified brown eyes still staring but no longer seeing. The small body, that of a Zabrak child with horns just beginning to sprout, lay crumpled a few feet away, building blocks scattered in random array around the open hands.

"NO!"

Another child fell, then another, then still more.

"Not the younglings!"

The blade paused; its bearer, too. The figure slowly turned but only shadows could be seen beneath the cowl. The voice, however, was undeniably human and compassionate in its tone, albeit a bit surprised to be addressed.

"But I do them a kindness: I spare them experiencing the deaths of their elders by sending them to eternal sleep first." The voice, strangely, was full of compassion. "So shall they all die. It is my honor and my duty to summon them and send them on their way. Why would you wish to interfere?"

"You commit murder; that is why. Only a monster kills children; lay down your weapon in the name of the Force or I shall be forced to take your life to spare these few who remain."

"Ah, you don't understand," the figure chuckled and took a step nearer. "I am no monster. I do no evil deed here. I am the instrument and the messenger. I do only as the Force commands of me: bring my children peace, send them home. No more, no less. I am its servant."

"A servant of the dark," he hissed, pulling his lightsaber to his hand and readying his stance.

"Name calling, are you?" The voice chided him; then grew hard. "Who are you to question the Force, to lay your judgments on it? The Force merely is."

"How dare you defile the Force by claiming to act on its behalf, to slay innocence and steal lives! I demand your name and your true allegiance. What and who are you?" His voice was hoarse with loathing and righteous anger. "I do not wish to raise my blade to you but I shall if I must. I will not permit this slaughter to continue."

"You don't recognize me?" The voice was amused, now. "Why, I am the one who hears the Force when none else dare. My mind and my heart are attuned only to the Force. I am one who was raised to follow the Force without question. As you taught me, I ask only what it will have me do, not why, and then follow the path it sets before me. It has now asked that I send all the Jedi home and now, dear Master, it is your time. Rejoice for the gift I am to bestow on you: remember there is no death, only the Force."

"What is your name?"

"Betrayer, a name given me by your own lips, Master dear." The sapphire blade sizzled through the air, knocking the emerald blade aside without hesitation. "Now don't forget to tell the Force who sent you to eternal peace within it."

A name, a curse, slipped from his lips. "Is not one betrayal enough?"

"I am not he."

"Then who?" He spoke a name.

A laugh only greeted that, followed by a name: too late for a dead man to hear.

Qui-Gon pulled out of his meditation more unsettled than ever. The Force had chosen to give him a puzzle, a waking nightmare instead of the serenity he sought. Whose name had been on the stranger's lips?

Xanatos? Obi-Wan? Somehow it had been both, first one than the other – then neither. Both had been his padawans. It had to have been one or the other.

Somehow, he knew, it was not.

"I don't understand; I'm sorry." But the Force was not clear; its message only a painful dig.

Far away, another man's eyes snapped open and he almost waved on the lights in his bedchamber before remembering it was not his own and the weight upon his chest was the woman he had seduced.

Her full body pressed most delightfully against newly stirring regions; there was no doubt how he'd be waking her up in a moment or two, dipping into her pleasures before her eyes were even open.

Mereinda, so loath, so shy, had been so carefully coaxed to this night. It was not the wine nor the dinner nor even his wandering hands, but his "I love you" in between the kisses that had trailed down her neck that had overcome her objections.

A lie, of course, he only loved one woman in the way she thought he had meant; the truth, as well, for he loved many, for few were the nights he spent outside a bed warmed by a willing body.

Three simple words were the key to a woman's heart, and with her heart, her all and so it had been she who had taken his hand so trustingly and led him to her bed.

And like with them all, once he'd had Mereinda out of her clothes and had introduced her to that most ancient of dances, she had been a willing and eager partner with a voracious appetite he had been more than willing to satisfy. It had been a while since he had so used his body and he felt the ache in his muscles, but it was a good ache. Even with the strength of the Force as his unseen partner, he had succumbed to the need for sleep after twice satiating them both.

And instead of love his dreams were of death and betrayal.

"How inconvenient," he murmured. Lovemaking should not be so tainted, not with the deaths of younglings, toys scattered in disarray amidst the sprawled limbs and severed heads and the bright gleaming blade. Two out of the many caught his eye: both human and both male. He knew both: one was himself and one was another he knew, if not well.

Both dead, both staring into eternity, both clutching each other's hands – enemies in life but companions in death.

Standing over them both was a laughing, blond boy while another he knew applauded from behind: Qui-Gon Jinn.

He swore under his breath and Mereinda stirred, only to shudder fully awake to his "Time to wake, love," whisper as he buried that dream within her.

Staring eyes.

Blank eyes.

Dead eyes.

He shuddered as the images flashed across his mind's eye: younglings, in the undignified sprawls of violent death. It was not the first time he had seen death, not even that of children, but he knew these faces. D'arian, Geseth, Roryan and Kieran…his students, all, and not just them, but all the younglings in the Temple.

Slaughtered.

Obi-Wan.

For some reason his name echoed from some invisible person's lips, an accusation; he felt it in his bones. A despairing cry – an outraged cry – a condemning cry.

He turned to see his former master kneeling amidst the dead, cradling a blond boy whose head lolled back against the broad shoulder.

"Why?"

He opened his mouth to echo the cry but the voice of another spoke through him.

"Recompense." That same other then twisted his lips into a sneer, yet it was his own hand, guided by no other, that reached to gently close the boy's sightless eyes. His hand, smeared red.

He stared at it in horror, holding it out in front of him in shock and dismay. No! The cry was torn from his throat; echoed in his heart. No!

He stood and slowly backed away as Qui-Gon's hand came up to point at him. "You!"