So...how many of you just hate Qui-Gon now? 'Fess up!
Chapter 46. There is no Emotion
Mace Windu wasn't worried. A Jedi such as he didn't worry. But Obi-Wan was usually so prompt. He glanced at the cooling meal on the table once more.
No, this was not like Obi-Wan at all. When they'd discovered over breakfast that they both shared the same love of Alderaanian roast barak with escalloped tubers, topped with a delicate crust of nut-flavored spices, Mace determined to make the meal that very evening. Obi-Wan's face had lit up – he had looked forward to it as much as Mace had looked forward to sharing it.
It had been so good to see that open, warm smile once more. He hadn't seen it in far too long.
He had almost – even – chuckled. But Mace Windu did not chuckle. Not before masters and not before knights, let alone padawans - especially padawans who really should be knights, but were utterly too stubborn to agree. Because the corners of his mouth were intent on betraying him, trying to twitch just the merest bit upwards while he tried steadfastly to press them into a straight line, he had let his lips form words instead: he cleared his throat and gruffly barked something about being on time. For once.
As if Obi-Wan was habitually late…which both knew was not true.
And sure enough, Kenobi - why, the boy merely ducked his head to hide a grin, luckily missing the totally helpless and uncontrollable corresponding tug at the corner of Mace's mouth.
Yet here it was, and here Obi-Wan was not.
Late – and not just "running a few minutes late" late.
After awhile he had to admit he was getting – concerned. Worried, no, just – concerned. With a slight frown, Mace put the dishes into the cooler and headed off in search of the errant young man when there was no reply to his comm call.
He often visited the crèche after the initiate classes, but the crèche masters had not seen Obi-Wan. Not today.
Had he perhaps stayed in the training room, assisting a young initiate with a troublesome move? Surely that must be what had delayed him.
Ah, there he was, indeed, but - Mace's eyes widened. Something was clearly wrong. He was huddled in a corner of the classroom, face buried in his arms as inarticulate gasps shuddered through his body.
"Obi-Wan?" He pressed a hand against the young man's shoulder. There was no response.
Had he had another micro-seizure? Somewhat guiltily, Mace remembered that just because he personally had been unaware whether or not they still afflicted Obi-Wan, that didn't mean they did not.
"Look at me, Obi-Wan." When there was no reply, Mace stuck a finger under the young man's chin and forced his face upright, only to stare appalled. "What happened to you?"
He would never find out, not for sure. Obi-Wan was simply incapable of answering, his eyes blank as if he had disconnected from the world.
Psychic shock aligned with physical injury as on Naboo – or something more nefarious?
Mace dampened a cloth and carefully cleaned Obi-Wan's face and hands, the latter unmarked except by trails of red from palms that had cradled his face and a few scrapes across his knuckles. After a moment's reflection – wasn't there too much blood on his tunic to have just dripped from his bruised and cut cheek - he supported the young man's shoulders with one hand and gently lifted his tunic with the other.
"Dear Force." Mace's face tightened, for Obi-Wan's chest and abdomen looked as if they had been pummeled more than once, perhaps accounting for the harsh breathing which he had mistaken for sobs. Though known to favor all things purple, Mace most definitely did not like the look of the darkening bruises all over his torso.
With a muffled curse, the Jedi master carefully lifted the young man into his arms and hurried him to the Healers Ward, at the entrance passing Qui-Gon on his way out, his hand splinted and bandaged.
"Get a healer stat!' Mace barked at the reception desk as he swept by and deposited the limp young Jedi on the first vacant exam table he spied. An errant arm slipped over the edge and dangled in mid air. Mace tucked it against Obi-Wan's side as a healer arrived and unceremoniously barked at him to make himself useful somewhere else.
Scowling, Mace retreated to the waiting room and comm'd Yoda.
"Our young one?"
The inquiry preceded the ancient master's arrival into the somber-spirited waiting room where Mace Windu stood, grim-faced and tight-lipped even in profile. Taut with restrained tension, the Jedi barely acknowledged the diminutive master's presence as if to do so would interfere with the slow siphoning of an inexplicable fury and helpless concern into the Force.
Yoda's ears flattened against his head and a clawed hand perceptibly tightened on his gimer stick.
Related this call to the Healers had to be to the recent turbulence that had whipped through the usually placid currents of the Force.
Not long before, Yoda had felt an explosion of – for lack of a better term – emptiness in the Force, a void akin to a black hole that sucked in all matter and yet left little trace of itself, something cleverly hidden as nothingness. Yet the Force had wept of misuse and abuse.
Of darkness.
He had wondered: Was this what Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had encountered on Naboo? Sith?
So he had been delving deep into the Force, trying to find a trace of what, of who, of where, when Mace's terse message came. "Obi-Wan. Healers. Come." There had been an edge in Mace's voice that had cut his meditations short.
And now, the edge was honed to an impossible sharpness by the whetstone of the Force, here where Mace scowled at phantoms and the Force swirled in agitation.
"Master Windu?" Yoda prodded. "What has befallen young Obi-Wan?"
"Befallen; oh that's one word for it," the younger Jedi snorted. His expression gave nothing away, leaving Yoda to wonder if Obi-Wan had suffered a relapse, an illness or an injury.
"Another have you?" Yoda tilted his head quizzically.
"Hurt. Bruised. A mess." He shrugged. "Take your pick."
Not illness, then. An injury – related how to the storm in the Force? Curiosity momentarily overwhelmed his concern. "And what do the healers say?"
"He'll survive," he said bitterly.
Survive – an odd choice of words. Were they the healers, or Mace's own? Yoda pursed his lips together, waiting for hopefully more enlightening words to come.
"How could something like this happen here, practically under our noses?"
"An assault, you believe?" Yoda's ears perked up.
Mace finally looked at him and nodded. "Not self-inflicted, in my estimation. I know – it's possible, theoretically – that Obi-Wan's seeming near-normalcy lately only masks a deep depression. We've both been watching for just that at the healers' behest. His continuing nightmares show deep down he's still troubled, his occasional struggle with either over exuberance or insecurity are a sign his healing is yet incomplete, but – Yoda, I don't think he ran into the wrong end of his own fist. It's possible that he might have sustained a bruise or two, a bloody nose, a cut lip in a class mishap– but all that and more…you didn't see him, Yoda."
But Mace all too clearly had. A stain of red still traced the cuticles of his fingers; a smear on his tunic was equally mute evidence.
Yoda grunted and rested on his gimer stick as he again dipped into the Force, this time searching for one particular Jedi's Force presence and any clues it might hold. Each and every Jedi was more than just a colleague to him; each was family, linked not by blood but by dedication to a common cause, linked by the Force. A few were a bit more close to his heart, though it was something he didn't quite admit to himself. A Jedi's heart was big enough for all – and not supposed to be partial to any.
But some – the "mmms" of disapproval they earned were just a bit muted, the "mmms" of approval just a tad bit more enthusiastic.
It was the will of the Force, or the nature of a sentient, beating heart. Yoda did his best to ignore it or minimize it. To be impartial; to favor none.
But the Force, or the heart, would not be deterred by mere mental discipline. It knew who stood closer to its center, and Obi-Wan was one who had and would always. There was no why in it, it merely was: a strong bond of affection shared by both Jedi, one not nurtured by either, but there and unspoken.
Persuaded and comforted that he would do this for any Jedi here present and equally sure it would essentially be a fruitless endeavor since much of the Healers Ward was Force-dampened for the protection of other patients which would make it difficult to traverse the strands of the Force, the Jedi sought whatever information the Force might now choose to share.
What little he sensed chilled Yoda's blood.
Like a chill mist, envy, hate, and rage swirled around one man, one Jedi in the eye of a coming storm. It was much like the slow drip of water seeking and exploiting a hidden weakness in the strongest edifice of stone, eroding the seemingly invincible one grain at a time until the chaotic crash of collapse.
It was Darkness.
And it was around Obi-Wan. Clinging to him; surrounding him. Emanating from him, his former master had argued, there in Council. On only one thing could Yoda agree with Qui-Gon Jinn: there at the heart of darkness stood one Obi-Wan Kenobi.
But was the vulnerable Jedi a beacon to light the dark – or the wind to snuff the flame; was he predator or prey?
The healers kept Obi-Wan several days before releasing him to Mace's custody: several days of simmering worry and several days of surreptitious yet ultimately inconclusive investigations.
Mercifully, Obi-Wan had suffered no organ damage, though several ribs were cracked. It was a miracle, they said, a kidney hadn't been lacerated or the spleen ruptured. The healers could all but guarantee his injuries could not have been incurred by accident – and had taken place when he was unable to defend himself for his arms showed no sign of trying to fend off his attacker, no sign of trying to protect his torso.
It wouldn't be until much later – far too late – when it would be found that a padded stick had been exchanged with one from another room, one that showed deep indents in its padding and blotches of red. Wielded with malicious intent, such was capable of inflicting deep bruises and if aimed just right – at kidneys or liver – inflicting severe internal wounds.
Capable of stealing life.
Had that been the intent, and the assailant scared off? Such seemed likely; there had been more than one blow inflicted on the hapless Jedi which clearly indicated that his injuries were not the result of a mere mishap. A quiet investigation revealed that there had been Jedi who had passed by shortly after the class had ended and then there had been the beeping of Obi-Wan's communicator when Mace had tried to reach him. Fearing detection…had the assailant fled?
And if so, would he return?
And how did one roam without notice in the Temple?
Mace shook his head, upset and worried at the implications. Was it mere coincidence that Obi-Wan had briefly looked quite ill at the beginning of class, only to quickly recover according to Master Danner?
There were too many coincidences for his taste.
Mace rubbed his eyes and returned his attention to the healer.
"He needs care, the kind best provided by others," the healer continued, all four eyes resting on the caretaker firmly. Mace could not agree more; once more the young man lay unnaturally still before him, lost and forlorn. It had been hard enough to see the first time; this second time was nearly heartbreaking.
What was the Force thinking, not shrilling a warning? How much could one broken yet again take before the damage became irreparable?
And dwelling on such thoughts would not heal Kenobi – never could, yet Mace still could not help but think how once more it was getting difficult to remember the sparkling-eyed and lithe padawan who had been the most promising of his age group.
"Right now he doesn't need healing; his body has been tended to but his mind has retreated to a place of no stress, no demands. Of safety. He needs a reason to shed the shelter of oblivion." The healer unconsciously smoothed Obi-Wan's hair back from his brow in as tender a gesture as Mace had ever seen from this healer. Cladorians were talented healers, known for their lack of bedside manners, brusque and utterly reassuring at the same time. Compassion only oozed in their Force presences, not from their physical presences.
Of course, Obi-Wan couldn't feel that gentle reassurance. He tensed and twisted his head away, frowning, until reassured that this touch held no pain. Mace had seen similar reactions before, but rarely from Jedi.
"Once more harsh treatment has caused Kenobi to retreat to the one place no one can reach – the only place his still damaged mind feels is safe. It's an unconscious withdrawal from pain, a very human instinct to hide. He's not thinking like a Jedi, let alone a man; he's thinking like a hurt animal – that is to say, not at all. He's aware on some level of what goes on around him – enough to cringe at any sudden movements as you saw. He needs not healers' care, but the attentions of those who care about him and can persuade him he's safe, who have a chance to reach him and help him find his way back because this time – this time we're not sure he can come back on his own. He needs more than what we healers can offer."
Mace sighed. This was even worse than before. Then, at least, they all had thought Obi-Wan was merely confused in his pain; unwilling to trust his memory, unwilling to betray that confusion but at least cognizant of his surroundings. Now, even that was in doubt.
"So you're saying he's almost totally unresponsive – does that mean he won't respond or that he's unable to respond?"
In response, the healer called softly, "Obi-Wan?" There was not even a flicker of interest or a blink of the eyes. The healer reached out; Obi-Wan's arm tensed then relaxed.
"You must be thirsty, Padawan, please drink a little bit of water."
When a cup was offered Obi-Wan blinked but did not make eye contact with either Jedi, merely accepting the cup when it was put into his hand and drinking his fill, only to hold the cup when done.
The healer smiled a bit sadly and glanced at Mace.
"On some level he hears us, but on a very superficial level; he doesn't let the words penetrate too deep and hence he does not respond except to a direct request. He doesn't – communicate - except on a very basic level. As you've observed, he is more than capable of carrying out most normal physical routines such as eating and sleeping."
Ah, Mace began to understand why Obi-Wan was being released; he was capable of such necessities as using the fresher when his body made its needs known. Obviously, shaving was not a necessity; soft stubble lined the young man's jaw.
Still, wouldn't he be better off in the tender hands of the healers?
As if reading his mind, the Master Healer shook his head. "We caretake the body best and we have done what we can for him. His mind, not his body, needs tending now and he needs to be somewhere in which he feels safe. Here is not such a place."
The two Jedi exchanged gazes; the implication was clear, the obvious unspoken. Since when was the healers ward not considered a 'safe environment'?
Mace nearly snorted as the thought crossed his mind. Few Jedi were comfortable there.
Jedi faced nearly anything with equanimity, no matter how horrific – except healers. Even the most fearless had been known to quail and attempt to evade their precinct under the feeblest of pretenses. Qui-Gon Jinn, and later his padawan, had become legendary amongst the healers for both their aversion to the ward and their fierce devotion to the other when one was laid up.
Even Mace had had to yield control and suppress brutal anxiety the few times he'd been a patient. No, not withstanding injuries and illness, not to mention the usual rounds of inoculations
and such things all Jedi underwent periodically, the healers ward was hardly a haven of peace and security for a Jedi.
Obi-Wan would be more comfortable elsewhere. Any Jedi would.
He nodded in agreement and turned to the young man.
He remembered the last exchange with the healers before entering Obi-Wan's room. It had not improved his state of mind; that he could guarantee.
"How long do you think he'll be like this?"
"Until he feels safe enough to face what happened, rather than flee the memory."
"You're certain?"
Silence betrayed them. Of only one thing were they certain: Obi-Wan had slipped back into his inner world – one without pain.
Mace's worst fears had been realized.
Once more, Mace woke each night to a sense of distress crying through the Force and calmed the young man's nightmares. He wrapped more blankets around a chilled body and pressed more cups of hot liquid into quiet hands.
He ate, he blinked, he slept. He stared out the window, but not into another's eyes.
Obi-Wan - could only cry.
No official explanation was ever found to explain his injuries. Obi-Wan had lingered behind after the class left. He had looked a bit unwell at the beginning of the class but had recovered and participated as usual.
No, nothing unusual had happened.
Oh, Obi-Wan had given a well-received demonstration of defensive skills. With Padawan Skywalker.
Oh, yes, he had transferred into the class. The transfer had not been okayed by Master Jinn but that was because Padawan Skywalker had confused the class schedule and showed up at the wrong class.
Unofficially, the Council knew exactly what had happened, but accusations without proof would never be voiced. Qui-Gon Jinn's bandaged hand was insufficient by itself, for Qui-Gon refused to speak of how he had broken it or where.
In the end, Padawan Skywalker's schedule was straightened out, his master's hand healed, and Obi-Wan was silenced.
As Yoda put it to Mace one day: the Force again wept.