Do not be afraid to let go of all that you know - or think you know! The truth is far more complicated than it seems and it starts - here.

Chapter 47. The Force Again Weeps

Malicious glee and soul deep horror were lost amongst the varied emotions of the Jedi currently in residence at the Temple. The fact that it was an assault upon the young Jedi was held quiet, for while evil was on the prowl amongst the Order, its prey was clearly one, just one.

On that, Yoda was certain – but on little else. Mace's suspicions clearly fell in another direction.

With no proof and little clues, theories ran rampant as to why the padawan had again disappeared into the depths of the Healer's Ward, carried there by none other than the redoubtable Mace Windu.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had suffered a relapse, another seizure that would keep him from circulation for a while; such was the most common story making the rounds.

Few were privy to the truth. Not even the full Council knew, for wise decision or foolish, Yoda – with Mace's reluctant agreement – had chosen to keep silent.

One who knew was Anakin Skywalker. The Chosen One.

How could he not?

Had not his master been filled with righteous anger on his behalf once a small, battered and bruised body had been presented for consolation? Had not that same master rushed to confront the man who would dare inflict such injury on an untrained boy, a boy much smaller in size than the grown man? Had not that same master refused to speak of how he had injured, if not broken, his hand?

Strength shall have dominion over the weak. Oh, how the weak had now fallen. Anakin hadn't felt so satisfied, so satiated since his return to the Temple as Qui-Gon's padawan.

Power.

And he would do anything for power, for life had taught him that only power mattered: only power assured freedom, that elusive state he so desired more than anything – freedom for himself, and through himself, for those others he wished to save.

However attained. Truth, lies or manipulation, the means did not matter.

Deception ran in equal measure with youthful exuberance within his veins.

He had been merely a spirited and rambunctious boy when safely sheltered in his mother's presence, cushioned from the harsh realities of a slave's life by her gentle and unconditional love.

But when he was supposedly with Watto, he had instead been a slave to more invidious disciplines. He who inspired fear and hewho inspired dedication was teacher, guide and father – and he had had his own agenda.

His target was Qui-Gon Jinn and through him, the Jedi Order; his tool, the Jedi master's own apprentice. Destruction, from within.

"The apprentice is the weak one," he had been promised. "He shall die when the confrontation comes. The master – he is easily manipulated through the 'Living Force' he puts all his faith in. He is strong, 'little young'," the fingers had gripped his chin painfully hard, the lesson pressed into flesh, "do not underestimate him, but tears and helplessness overrule his better judgment."

Practice your tears, practice your lip quiver, practice your vulnerability, he had been commanded. Qui-Gon Jinn shall be vulnerable, and thus all the Jedi.

But even he who knew everything, planned for every contingency, had not foreseen that the apprentice would live and the master it would be who would nearly die. Nor had he foreseen Anakin's need for affection or the lengths his need might override his training. The need was all consuming and selfish.
And Anakin had gained the Jedi master's love, but it had not been assured, not yet: the despised brat apprentice came close to thwarting him, not just once, but more.

He had carved a niche in another's heart that was not easily emptied; forged a bond of affection that was as strong as the Force itself. The padawan had made it possible for the master's heart to expand and accept another.

Thataffection was real, not just manipulation. That affection was genuine – and spread over two, not just one.

That infuriated Anakin.

How dare one who had the open affection Anakin desired almost more than he wanted the glory and the power. In a life sparse of love, save for his mother, a Jedi had appeared, wise, compassionate and gentle, accompanied by an angel.

Within the weaving strands of the Living Force he had found what should have been his father, and found that man still bound to another. He had been taught how to insinuate himself into that place – but the heart that welcomed him refused to give itself to him alone.

Anakin knew the knife that would sever that connection.

Of what other use was power – but to crush what opposed him? Should the stars stand in his way, someday he would rule them; crush them to rubble if he must. So, too, the apprentice.

For the boy who wanted a father's approval and a father's love knew only his father's power and his father's hate. His father's presence in his life was unknown to his mother, as was his father's existence had he believed her. She would not speak of his father; in fact, denied he even had one.

But he knew better.

As dark as Anakin was fair, the blood and the heritage pulsed within them both.

Part of him hated the man that claimed to have fathered him, for his mother had never wanted his father's touch – not then, not ever. He had thrust himself upon her – not in love, but rage, not for love, but for lust. He had taken her womb and sired a son upon the Mother of the Chosen One; taken what he wanted and punished her with love she didn't want.

Hate was what his father wanted to nurture in him.

Compassion and love his mother had nurtured within the child born of an unwanted union.

In the end, hate had bound him to his father. To spare his mother, he had accepted his father's training, and in time, his father as he learned to hate his mother for the choice he was forced into.

Love made his mother weak enough to do anything she was asked to spare her son and hate made his father strong enough to take anything he wanted without regard to others.

In time, Anakin became more his father's son than his mother's except for one tiny, hidden piece deep within his heart that would not be torn from the woman who loved him and raised him. Then Qui-Gon Jinn had touched that same place. The Jedi master's affection could not be denied. But his devotion was divided and hence less than absolute.

So he had created a choice, a test for Qui-Gon – which padawan would he protect? Which padawan would he love?

He had chosen Anakin.

For the Jedi master had just now proven he would do anything for his padawan. Anything. And he had done it all without asking anything in return. Not demanding, not expecting, not asking – only wanting to do it for him.

"You will find it easy to wiggle your way into his affections."

Anakin's breath caught as the whisper - that promise - re-surfaced. Was it a lie? An illusion? Had he really chosen Anakin?

No! He shook his head desperately. Qui-Gon's love was not coerced, because if it was, if it was…

In a life now all but devoid of affection he desperately needed to believe. Yet what if Beebe was right: if Qui-Gon turned on one padawan, what's to say he would not turn on another?

"… shopping for an improved padawan …why, your Master would never do such a thing. He would never discard one padawan for another, especially when he promised to guide that one to knighthood – well, certainly not twice, anyway. He's far too honorable a Jedi to go back on his word, right?"

What he really hated was that a part of him began to understand just how devastated the one he had replaced must have felt.

He was so still….boneless, almost….

Not for the first time, a part of Qui-Gon wished to go back weeks in time, a time before doubts and a time before disharmony.

Pale and bloodied…limp within Mace's arms….

Qui-Gon reached his quarters and sank into his favorite seat, its well-worn contours a balm to his body in a way his meditations had not been to his spirit, and passed his un-splinted weary, shaking hand over his temple.

The scowl on Mace's face, the fierce tenderness that should have been – once had been – his own.

Images danced before his eyes…the quick flash of an impudent gaze, the impish grin of satisfaction when a new kata had been mastered, the firm hand that had clasped onto his and refused to let go, thus saving the master from a fatal drop, not so many missions ago…and eyes locked behind closed lids, arms dangling from within the grasp of another.

What have I done! Dear Force, what I done?

Even after several hours of meditation in the gardens, something that had never before failed him, he was haunted by the memory of his former padawan in Mace's arm as he had been carried into the Healers Ward. The senior Jedi had been so concerned that he hadn't even registered Qui-Gon's presence.

The usually gentle currents of the Force had raged and thundered as it rarely did. Bruised and bleeding by its perversion into a weapon of unleashed fury, it had only gentled around Mace and his burden – sang and cajoled and coaxed the young man to rejoin the world he had fled, but even the Force no longer had that power.

Obi-Wan was not letting anyone in, even Qui-Gon could sense that. Instead of fighting back, he had withdrawn to a place where there was no pain.

Never had he wanted – retribution. Not ever. Not - this. He stared at his hand and saw instead the injured boy he'd once called padawan. He just wished he had a sob he could swallow, a tear he could not shed.

Oh, Obi-Wan, what have I done?

He leaned forward and groaned. He had given up – much – for Anakin. The Force had so commanded him and so he would do it again, had he a second chance. But the price – oh, the price he'd paid.

"Master, what happened to your hand?" Anakin's shrill concern startled him, the sound so unlike Obi-Wan's dulcet tones. Bright blue eyes were affixed on the splint, a glint of moisture turning them into limpid pools as the eyes rose to meet his in deep gratitude.

"Do you – care so much – for me?"

The boy settled in his master's lap, leaning his head against Qui-Gon's shoulder in utter trust and love, only just managing to hide a wince as his bruised shoulder was encircled by Qui-Gon's own arms.
"Padawan, do you doubt?" I have given up everything for you – does that not prove how much you mean to me?

He laid a gentle kiss on the boy's smooth cheek as he held him, basking in his warmth and affection. Never had a Jedi been so truly blessed by the Force as he had been, blessed with this loving and compassionate boy. Not just the savior of the Jedi, of the galaxy, but a gentle, innocent soul as well.

"M-master, he – he hates me."

He had been blind to the pain Obi-Wan so casually, so easily inflicted on those who could not fight back.

"Not my master any longer – you have forfeited that right."

Obi-Wan had never wounded him until then, not like that. He hadn't known the young man was capable of inflicting such deliberate pain upon one so familiar to him.

"M-master…he knew he was stronger…he knew just how to hurt me and hide it from the others."

The heartbreak in Anakin's eyes as he'd raised his tunic with trembling hands. It had been confirmation of just how cruel Obi-Wan could be – a cruelty he had never suspected until one too many "pathetic life forms" – until Anakin – had ripped the illusion of humor from the words to reveal the ugly thoughts lurking beneath.

Anakin wiggled in his lap and gazed at the splintered hand.

After a moment's reflection, Qui-Gon answered the unasked question with the simple, unadorned truth. "I hit something."

Something.

Something within Anakin's eyes flickered. Surprise? Pleasure? Relief?

Some thing. He didn't want to admit to his padawan how he had broken it; see his padawan's hero toppled from the pedestal he'd been put on.

"Something," he repeated firmly.

He would never admit to this boy, to Mace or the Council, how for just one minute he had been so tempted – so infuriated - as to lose control – to punch his former padawan senseless for what he'd done, all that emotional damage he'd inflicted on the current padawan.

He'd been incensed when Anakin told him of Obi-Wan's taunts, of his hard strikes against the s

mall, vulnerable body. Anger had bubbled over into inchoate rage when he'd seen the bruises on Anakin's tender skin and heard of his utter humiliation.

And so he'd sought Obi-Wan out.

He'd found him still in the training room, hunched over with his face in his hands. The quick glance up at the last minute – the wide-eyed shock – the stillness in his posture – all that had betrayed him.

All that had confirmed his guilt.

He remembered it still: the silent swallow, the wide-eyed acceptance of his fate. Acceptance: for what he'd done; what he deserved.

Even now the bones in his hand, the memories in his mind, ached with the impact, the pain mirrored in changeable eyes, eyes that had once looked at him with affection and trust. Those eyes had held only forgiveness and sorrow; his hand had held forth as if to bestow forgiveness and to soothe the anguish that tore through Qui-Gon's soul.

"No. Don't!" He'd snapped, backpedaling away before the tear of forgiveness profaned him with its warm splash. Obi-Wan's eyes fell, his expression chastened like a kitling. The tear instead was blinked back, its offer rejected and the tear retracted.

The Force had indeed keened with sorrow and anguish this day, as it had another.

My child, he almost heard it crooning. He'd heard the same on Tatooine – mine – the tender way the Force had wrapped itself around one there – the joy and the pride.

It had led the Jedi master to Anakin – and away from Obi-Wan. But the Force had not abandoned Obi-Wan – it had only asked that Qui-Gon did. He was not left to wonder at this revelation long.

A small head nestled against his shoulder and adoring eyes stared at him – into him – connected them. "Live in the moment, Master."

That soft whisper eased the pain within his heart. Yes, live in the here and now. Rejoice in one's blessings, not those long gone.

"My padawan," he whispered, leaning his head against Anakin's as the boy's arms wrapped once more around him. Anakin would take the pain away; he always did.

The other one brought only sorrow.

His reach had exceeded his grasp.

Again.

He had reached for his future and been denied. When his broken dreams had fled into the Force, the Force had taken pity on him and softened Qui-Gon's heart. He had become a padawan.

He had reached for his destiny and captured instead ignominy. Qui-Gon's heart had asserted itself and demanded its true heart's desire and this time – this time the Force had granted Qui-Gon's dreams.

And taken away his.

He had reached for the healing power of the Force out of love for another and in another's salvation he had nearly found his own destruction.

A gift from his heart: apparently repugnant to one to whom it had been gifted.

Already burning from internal fire, from his presumption in seeking the power no man, no Jedi, should request, Qui-Gon had torn free from their bond and left his mind in tatters.

And the worst cruelty of all had been the utter silence of the Force; its absence screaming its tacit acceptance of the deed.

This time his reach - grasped only emptiness. His reach had exceeded his bounds, his desire granted but with a penalty. His life, one he would have willingly sacrificed to assure Qui-Gon's, had not been deemed worthy of even such a noble end as death by the Force he had called upon. He was cast loose from the Force as he had been cast loose from his master.

Into the void where once the Force held dominion came others: Mace, Yoda, Bant, and Garen. Others, as well. With their help he slowly rebuilt his life one painful step at a time, never quite certain if his steps were on firm mental ground or treacherous.

Now he knew. A Jedi he would not be.

He had not been found unworthy; he had proved himself unworthy. A Jedi's acceptance had eluded him as he allowed jealousy and hurt to fill his being when his master had only allowed the Force's Will to direct his actions – as he had allowed anger and fear to erupt within his soul when he saw that master struck down – as he had rebelled against the Force's Will in a selfish attempt to keep alive that man the Force wished to bring home.

And now - now he had tempted a peaceful man to near violence.

Never had he seen Qui-Gon Jinn lift a hand to anything, to anyone. Such a possibility had been, until now, impossible. Now, the impossible had happened, and even though the blow had not landed, it had taken flight.

What was left of his heart broke under the shame and the sorrow – and the overwhelming guilt and grief.

To a mind already fractured and disoriented, there was only one escape besides eternal slumber. So there he fled, into forgetfulness, away from those who would hurt him – and those who would help him.

The bars of his self-made prison closed him into the dark abyss of sweet oblivion.