Chapter 42. On a Pedestal, Not

His master had cautioned him to leave "the matter" to his elders. But Anakin balled his fists under the table as excited words drifted over to where he sat, alone in a corner of the vast dining hall.

"I actually knocked Barad down in class today!"

So what, even a weakling got lucky once in a while.

"Obi-Wan showed me…."

D'arian Delgada and Kieran Donato were many things, all of which irritated Anakin. Both were soft spoken and well behaved, open-hearted and generous, and excelled in their studies due to hard work rather than innate cleverness. Both were also the least advanced in Force skills and physical training.

And each had received some extra personal attention from Obi-Wan. As a result each was competing on more equal terms in class.

This in turn had elevated both in the regard of their age mates along with a certain amount of envy. Worse yet, Obi-Wan was elevated in the eyes of the initiates.

And why! For doing nothing but assisting weaklings, helping them to identify their strengths and minimize their weaknesses and showing them how to best use them against an opponent.

Obi-Wan this – Obi-Wan that.

Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan…he was so sick of hearing about Obi-Wan Kenobi from delusional and duped initiates, so caught up in the "Sith Killer's" mystique that they failed to see the real man behind the label.

Sure, he had killed the Sith – but only after Master Qui-Gon had been forced to carry the weight of the battle. In the most decisive fight of his life, Obi-Wan Kenobi had faltered and fallen behind – and was feted for his achievements! The entire Temple knew of his feats.

It really was beyond time they knew the truth. They admired a man who had been unable to keep pace with Qui-Gon, leaving the Jedi master to face his opponent alone, only to take the glory and acclaim. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sith Killer, in truth was nothing more than a man driven by fear and anger; a murderer not a warrior.

He was no hero and it was about time to expose him.

"Anyone could have killed that Zabrak after Master Qui-Gon wore him down," he snapped, overriding Jasayla, one of his age mates. "Master Qui-Gon would've killed him except for that worthless apprentice he had – Master told me all about Obi-Wan's losing focus at a crucial part of the battle."

"So did Master Jinn!" Geseth retorted.

"Did he tell you that?" His voice squeaked with his outrage. Obi-Wan was spreading lies about Master Qui-Gon - oh, this could not be allowed! Master Qui-Gon didn't make mistakes, not about anything and in any way. He had never met anyone like him in his young life and he'd met lots of people. He was always kind and helpful, always patient and always a bit sad. Like his mother. Both brightened up and their eyes sparkled at just his presence.

They both loved him – and he loved them back.

Love makes you weak, boy!

That's what everyone told him. On Tatooine and here in the Jedi Temple. Love killed and love weakened. Love for Iago had killed Iago. He had been taught to be strong since he was old enough to toddle.

Only when he wasn't there, was he allowed to be just a boy, just Anakin Skywalker, the son of Shmi. He'd learned the hard way to hide his training from his mother, to explain the scars and bruises as those of a growing boy. His mother had suspected anyway, but had suspected Watto of mistreating him.

If she had only known.

The knowledge would just have hurt her. Watto or another man, in the end, what difference did it make? Watto only berated and scolded; scared of this other hidden beneath a cloak who took his boy away for hours at a time while paying for the privilege. The cloaked man promised to make him strong and he had so eagerly agreed, not knowing the price.

The blood price: Iego. The threatened price: his beloved mother.

He had gotten a glimpse, just once. One defiant refusal to obey – come home, boy, in a little while. See the price of "no."

He'd stood, tears streaming down his face. "Mom!" And he'd raced home, suddenly knowing the threat was all too real; his throat too tight to even scream her name.

All he could remember now was an open door – a man, the man – and his mother's fingernails, drawing blood.

Crimson drops against pale skin…and soft grunts and little cries.

And it was all his fault!

He had backed out – silent and scared, tears streaming down his face – and run back to Watto's shop. One look at his face, and the normally scolding Toydarian merely muttered, "poor Shmi," sadly shook his head, and rummaged amidst the broken parts before plopping a complex part on the counter before him.

"Here, you fix'a this, Ani." And for a while, he almost had been able to forget.

He had raced home as soon as Watto gave him leave to find his mother fixing dinner, joyful as always to see him, not a sign of pain visible upon her body or within her eyes. But he knew what she held silent within.

And he'd hugged her fiercely, as she'd laughed and tousled his hair.

Suddenly furious with both the recall of that memory and the lies spoken about Qui-Gon, Anakin balled his fists once more. How dare Kenobi sully Master Qui-Gon's actions in battle with false accusations?

That Sith-spawn of a devil – now that he was no longer hiding his crying face (Anakin had hacked into the medical files and knew all his inability to control his emotions, knew of his despair and his bouts of tears) he was bragging about his so-called "deed of valor" and bad-mouthing both Qui-Gon and Anakin in the process. Just the thought of that made the boy scowl harder.

He should have killed him on Naboo, rather than Force-punching the ailing Jedi backwards. Had he hit a bit harder or Obi-Wan lain undiscovered a bit longer, he would be long dead by now.

He didn't care. He could have killed Kenobi without punishment. He'd had his instructions – they'd been rather well beaten into him. Oh, Kenobi's death wasn't the goal, at least not for some time as he understood it, but he would have been forgiven.

But his mother– she would be horrified if she ever found out. She would forgive him even as she scolded him for indulging his temper, but not if he deliberately took the life of another.

He deflated suddenly, torn between making his mother proud – and defending Qui-Gon's honor.

Honor was the only thing he had worth fighting for. Nothing was freely given to him; he'd had to fight and bite and scratch for everything.

Even when doing what he loved most – racing. Racing was freedom, racing was to be unshackled from the weight that tied his soul to soil, those chains of slavery –free to soar and free to dream.

And those like the Dug who dared to sully with that joy, to interfere with his flight, earned his enmity. He would steal from them what they would steal from him. He would have his retribution and take his destiny into his own hands. Taken in memory back to his win on Tatooine, one small hand shot triumphantly upwards to punch the air in jubilation.

"You're going down this time, Sebulba!"

A young initiate passing by squawked and tumbled to the floor, a tray of food cascading over the hapless youngster.

"Padawan Skywalker!" Half-holding a hand over her mouth as if to hold in laughter or a reprimand, a Jedi Anakin didn't recognize hurried over and squatted by the young girl, glancing up at Anakin at the same time. "Might I ask what you were doing?"

Anakin's eyes slowly cleared. He glanced down at the child he had almost punched with his wild throw and true contrition flared within his eyes. Even stupid hero-worshipping initiates didn't deserve such humiliation – and she wasn't even one of the stupid ones. He didn't even know her name.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. Helping the girl to her feet and grabbing a napkin, he dabbed and wiped her face and hands as other younglings around them giggled and pointed. Anakin's ears burned almost as much as the young initiate's face, but he set aside the humiliation to comfort her. "Would you – uh, let me, I'll fetch you another tray of food, okay? Same thing?" They both looked at the mess on the floor and he let out a nervous giggle. "Minus the dirt, of course. Hi, I'm Anakin."

She stared at him and Anakin wondered if he had some of her food on his head or something. Finally, she said, rather slowly, "I know. You're the new padawan, Master Jinn's padawan." After another hesitation she added, "I'm Trish – Trishana Knothlis. Why are you being nice?"

Anakin hadn't expected that. He was nice to those who were nice to him and so far she hadn't made fun of him or ignored him. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You haven't been nice to anyone except Master Jinn."

Refusing his offer to get her a new tray of food, she turned on her heel and returned to the food line, leaving Anakin staring after her in shock. He half rose from his seat and shouted after her, "I tried but no one wanted to be nice to me!"

With a mature dignity seldom seen in younglings of her age – at least outside the Temple – she turned to face him and uttered truth.

"You didn't give anyone a chance, Anakin Skywalker. Did you?"

They didn't give him a chance. No one did.

Yet still, his eyes fell.

Dust motes floated in the air, disturbed by his passing as BB came to a stop and settled down on his stomach to peer through a vent. A broad-shouldered man, he was not comfortable physically in a space that was little bigger than him, but discomfort was no stranger to him. He grinned; perhaps "discomfort" was something he could "pass on" to the hated one.

To Kenobi.

After all, sticks could easily break bones in the right hands.

But alas: no. He sighed, constrained by his assignment. He would watch and listen, and hope an errant blow at least bruised the man below him, so blind and deaf to the watcher above. Of course young Skywalker hated the Jedi nearly as much as he, though for much different reasons. Perhaps he could be persuaded into some "physical therapy" for Kenobi.

BB giggled at the thought. Technically, that would not be violating his orders, not if he was not the means, only the instigator.

Or Jinn himself – could he stir him up by spreading rumors that Kenobi was abusing Skywalker?

That would be rather problematic, even he had to admit. Kenobi's form of abuse to others was subtle – he polluted the Force with his very presence. He did not lay violent hands on any life form, oh, no, but his caustic wit and sharp tongue and most inconvenient limbs had not earned him many friends in his young life.

But for some reason these younglings adored him. Master Obi-Wan. BB's lips curled in derision; younglings had no sense at all. Yes, indeed, they actually liked Kenobi, and worse, respected him.

That would change. Oh, it would change.

"Master Obi-Wan, are you going to take the trials soon?" It was some fresh faced kid who asked, very solemn.

He quickly smothered a snort. Kenobi – facing the trials? Kenobi, the Force-blind, Kenobi the weak? Kenobi looked surprised, then pained, and finally composed, a look BB knew to be his containment of "inappropriate emotion," his shell and his protection. It only protected his public face. The churning emotions of his younger days might no longer spill over into action and words, but to those who knew, knew to look in his eyes and past the stillness, it was quite visible.

Inside.

Anger, frustration, bitterness…oh those emotions so churned within. Even if Kenobi had managed to master their expression, he could not forever contain them within until release to the Force – he no longer had that outlet.

Jinn had done that, all on his own.

"I - no." His voice was grave with a hint of curiosity. Ah, that was the voice of a senior padawan half-friends with and half-instructor to the younger, neither a master nor a knight, not an age mate or confidante – in family terms, an "older brother" some years older and more experienced than his far younger "siblings."

"But you – you killed a Sith!"

"Ah." His voice was quiet and self-contained. "And what does killing have to do with qualifying one for the trials, for knighthood?"

"Oh." The young speaker's head turned sideways, glancing at his classmates. "Not the killing, Master Obi-Wan. That you fought the Sith."

A slight smile made its way onto his face. "Ohhh. That I did not turn tail and run off in my fright?"

Sarcasm? Amusement? BB wasn't sure what laced the words. The younglings stirred and a few quietly giggled.

"You weren't scared. Jedi aren't scared."

"Indeed they are and indeed I was." Beebe saw the eyebrow lift. "Fear unrestrained can lead a Jedi to act badly; fear acknowledged and released restrains recklessness and infuses one's actions with caution. Being a Jedi is moving past the fear, is it not?"

Still the sniveling coward! But even BB had to admit, a bit courageous to admit the truth of his cowardice, even if to a class full of younglings.

That admission galled him no end.

Kenobi teaching younglings?

If what Qui-Gon swore was truth was indeed so – the Council was making a dreadful mistake. The Council never made dreadful mistakes. They only made the normal mistakes that any committee or council consisting of sentient life would from time to time – or perhaps far more frequently, if one believed Qui-Gon Jinn. Yes, there were the occasional lapses in judgment, times when the Council was too timid when boldness was required or bold times reticence would serve better.

But if Kenobi had not been purified or certified free of any potential taint, he had no business being around the younger Jedi. Ni'sha de Nichoise hesitated, and gazed after the chattering initiates who had passed her in the corridor.

She turned back only to see Kenobi emerging from a classroom, rubbing a shoulder. He immediately bowed and meant to pass by, but she blocked his path and studied him. He shifted uncomfortably then held still for her scrutiny.

"You're instructing, Kenobi."

"Yes, Master –I'm assisting Master Danner. I am on restricted duty. Medical restriction."

"Qui-Gon did not mention that." And she found that interesting. Just as interesting as the suddenly shuttered expression in his eyes at the mention of his former master's name and neither thought as interesting as the hint, the merest sense, of pain quickly suppressed. She must have imagined that last, for his voice was quite devoid of inflection when he finally responded.

"I'm sure he did not; he has taken no interest in my welfare for some weeks now."

"You are no longer his padawan."

Blue-gray eyes met hers steadily. "Yes, Master, however I was at the time of my injury."

So. She had felt compelled to point out the ending of that flawed master/padawan relationship and he in turn felt compelled to dispute her point.

"You sound bitter, Padawan."

One eyebrow nearly lifted as if in confusion, then he dropped his gaze and in his soft voice offered, "My apologies, Master. I meant no slur against Master Jinn, nor the Force which commanded him to set me aside." His eyes sought hers once more, yet holding no real apology for his earlier words. A tiny crack, there, in his otherwise commendable composure. No, all was not serene beneath; something simmered there. Resentment? Jealousy?

"If I have transgressed against the Force, its punishment is fitting – I am a Jedi in name only and my status uncertain. Master Windu has been kind enough to take charge of me in a temporary capacity while things are sorted out."

That intrigued Ni'sha. Things – to be sorted out. Did that mean Kenobi was on probation once again?

He chose not to explain his words further. She chose not to pursue it. She would prefer the full truth, not his version of it.

He rubbed his shoulder once more.

"You are yet unhealed from your last mission?" She nodded to the shoulder. She wasn't sure why she asked other than it seemed the polite thing to do. She still didn't like Kenobi. He was too self-contained, too impersonal. He had let his former master down too many times to be forgiven, even if his failures were human and not dark side.

A tiny smile and shake of his head was her response. "A somewhat energetic class and I did not correctly anticipate an errant blow. It is nothing serious."

"A youngling got the better of you, Padawan?" She was surprised. She had thought Kenobi was more skilled than that – he should be more skilled. No senior padawan should ever be caught out by this particular age group. Ever.

"The initiate herself was surprised by how readily the Force came to her grasp and accelerated her swing, one that I was unable to counter adequately." At her raised eyebrow, he somewhat elaborated. "My grasp is entirely absent, Master."

Absent – as in blocked, gone, or removed?

"I should find it distressing and I am sure I would were I healthy, but my strength and stamina is below par, my…," he hesitated, "my mental and physical equilibrium has been – somewhat compromised and so it is just one thing amidst others to contend with."

Other than that his clothing hung a little more loosely on him than normal, he appeared to be in relatively good health. True, there were shadows so deeply hidden as to be almost invisible behind his remarkable eyes, but were they of pain or secrets? Ni'sha knew she would get no answers from Kenobi even were she to ask. In fact, perhaps the answers were known only to the Force.

"I wish you a speedy recovery to full health, then, Padawan."

Kenobi looked a bit surprised. "Thank you, Master," he said gravely and bowed.

All perfectly polite; all perfectly normal yet something was off and far from perfectly right. There was something hidden within Kenobi, waiting to make itself known. She wasn't as strong in the Living Force as Qui-Gon, but she was far stronger than the rest of the Order.

Strong enough to sense whatever sent prickles along her Force sense.

Where else could it be emanating from, except Kenobi?