I am sorry to confess I haven't read any reviews (I do so on the other site), but I've been informed by a mutual friend the Qui and Ani hate is incandescent, just as it was on the other site this is posted. I honestly never thought to arouse such passion...it's a bit scary.

I understand someone was curious how long this is going to be - well, on the other site where I'm ahead, it's Chapter 62 and, yes, nearing the end. However, NOW that I have a good feed-back person, I hope in future to be shorter-winded - she's under orders to keep me grounded in future.

Chapter 49. The Shape of Things to Come

Your grand padawan, broken once more he is. An assault, it was."

That, as well as the deep worry in Master Yoda's eyes, had Jedi Master Janusz Dooku on the next ship to Coruscant although he had not yet wrapped up his stay on Serrano with a formal renunciation of his inheritance. He had, he admitted, come close to leaving the Order. Disillusioned with political kowtowing and rigid determinism he had come close to forging his own path, urged to do so by the current Chancellor.

He would have left had circumstances been different.

But the Force refused him leave.

Tend that which is broken, do not abandon it. Much was broken, far too much, he had wished to retort. Easier to start over, better to start afresh. Sweep out incompetence and inertia, implement strong, decisive leadership. Force things to be done well and done once.

Then the Force showed him, through Yoda's terse words, the consequences of that path, of abandoning the broken and abused. His heart was touched with the knowledge of the folly, the impertinence, the inhumanity of abandoning the weak and the injured to the strong.

His padawan, of whom he was fond, would be dead now were it not for his own padawan who refused the easy way out, who chose not to mourn but to fight.

That self same padawan whom he had recognized long ago as one important to the Force was now the maimed and the weak.

He would not – could not – abandon them for an elusive and transitory absolute. A strong hand could overreach as a weak hand would not reach far enough. All it took for good to triumph was a will and a desire to see it so, not a sweep of the hand to empty the board.

And he had been so close to doing so, blind to other paths, so certain of the answer. So – so arrogant.

Humbled, chastened, no, but Janusz Dooku was less certain now that he had the power to ascertain the path before him, more certain than ever that that path would be revealed to him by the Force.

He had almost strayed. To what end, he could not say.

But Jinn - and Kenobi as well - had done what the Force alone could not; reminded him that he was Jedi. Reminded him that he was to serve, not lead; to heal, not rebuild.

To come home.

Darth Sidious was in a huff. The Force had all but howled, but it refused to reveal the source of its disturbance. But he could glean enough to make an educated guess.

He would find out. The disenchanted spoke freely, the young as well.

Both could be found where the storm had broken in all its fury. The Jedi Temple. It had not abated, not yet. It raged like a parent deprived of its child, helpless to protect one it loved from one who stalked it.

Yet the one who stalked was the one which was stalked, for that one was the Force. Just as life demanded death for life to exist, the light needed dark and the dark light – one to illuminate and one to shadow.

Two sides of one coin, opposites or so many thought. Two sides in eternal opposition.

The light feared the dark, shrank from it and even tried to deny its existence.

But the dark…the dark abhorred the light. It sought to conquer it, but it did not ignore it. The Sith dared stare its enemy in the face; the Jedi – looked away. Damnable fools, all of them, putting their faith and trust in the Light, a light which had been dimming for years as he diluted it with the dark, like a still pond clouding with the slow trickle of contaminants into its once clear and pure waters.

Clarity into murkiness as was the way of the Sith.

Such passive fools the Jedi, their world bisected into the beloved and the despised – turning only an ear to the Force for its guidance when they should be grasping for all it had to offer, seeking only its guidance when they should be active, demanding of the Force its power, their birthright. The Force was not a god, but a tool, not a living intelligent sentience but a force field there to be manipulated.

Will of the Force, such a foolish concept. The will of one who wielded its power was in truth the Will of the Force.

As such, the Will of the Force was the Wish of the Sith.

A Sith who demanded the Force obey his wishes and would not stand for less. And it succumbed, slowly and inevitably, to his will. And in the end, the Force would be powerless against him, once he weakened those who opposed him and drew their power to his hands alone.

But he had a potential ally within the ranks of his enemies. A useful fool, he, and powerful but not the one he sought. But then a tool did not need to know to what use he might be put. Ignorance and blind ambition were twin paths to destruction.

No, that one was too easy, too needy, too weak. He knew who he wanted, and he wanted Kenobi. Weak he was now, but there was power underneath, if he could harness it. It was blindingly obvious, for to be so nearly destroyed, he had to be a threat. Sidious was determined it would not be to him, but to his enemies – to Kenobi's friends and colleagues.

It would be a heady challenge, considering what he suspected – both easier and far harder. But a challenge that consisted of breaking one clinging to the Light in the midst of doubt was nearly as much fun as tormenting the lesser, their fingers already grasping for themselves. So even if Kenobi was nearly dead, he was alive – and more vulnerable than ever to the onslaught of darkness.

The dark would feast on his wounded spirit and spit its venom into his weakened body.

He would recover, stronger than ever. Strong in the dark side. Strong in his hate. Strong enough to be a worthy Sith.

How now to get his hands on the boy…

Anakin stood unnoticed, peering through an open doorway in the Healers Ward, his eyes wide and his teeth worrying his lips. Dim light spilled over a pale face, highlighting bruised cheekbones. This was the man he so hated. He had crept here to gloat, but the triumph raging in his mind fled at the sight before him. Tatooine, and all its ghosts, clutched him in a deep vise of dread and unbeknownst to him - pity. This was familiar, all too familiar a sight. His heart remembered, if not his mind.

Not their names, though, those who could not fight back, the men, the women, and the children. They had no names, those: they who had disobeyed or displeased their owners, stripped of name and stripped to the waist, stripped of dignity and stripped of hope. The whips rose above them and the whips connected, cleansing them of their crimes and their sins with their blood. The pitiable and the petrified: all cried and they all whimpered, but they never fought back, for fighting only incurred worse punishment. Nor did anyone interfere. They would not dare. The free averted their eyes and hurried past; the cruel, gathered to jeer and joke. None cared, not for these poor souls whose bodies belonged to others.

Rage tingled in Anakin's nerves, shook his small frame. Rage – and it wasn't at the man lying so passively in the bed. He didn't see Kenobi – he didn't see the man he so hated. He saw those nameless few…ribs smashed and bodies bloody.

A hand upraised – a blow struck. A swing of a foot, the lash of a whip. Strips of flesh hanging like macabre decorations from bare backs, men and women and children, all stripped bare to the waist, tied in place to be disciplined for an incautious word, a raised eye or too slow a response. The imprint of boots or toes or claws against a bruising stomach, the grunts and the groans, the shrieks and the screams. The hoarse chuckles of onlookers, the calculation of odds and the clinking of bets exchanged: how long, how long until unconsciousness, how long until death if the offense was deemed severe enough.

Snick…a whimpered scream…snick, a drop of blood. Snick…hoarse laughs; snick, a rivulet of red.

Life draining away, one drip at a time. Drip – drip – drip: puddles of red on the harsh dry sands.

Public punishments not often seen, not in the streets of town, but far too often even if only once in a lifetime.

A tear formed in one eye; in that moment Anakin was again a boy who could weep for the pain of others. His mother's son stood in the deep dark of the night, not far from dawn – and the Force heaved a great sigh, for the boy was not lost. Not yet. Hope was not lost. Not yet.

But the battle was not won, not yet, for rage battled tears and the victor was not yet declared.

One tear alone could not quell an inferno, but one tear could become a flood to drown the flames.

One tear was a beginning. One tear – was hope for the future of the Chosen One. One tear washed away hate, but one tear was not enough to undo the past or assure the future.

It was only one tear, only one step on a long journey with an uncertain end.

But it was a step forward to the Light – and away from the Dark. For that, the Force was grateful.

~~a night or so later~

Demons or doubts, Qui-Gon wasn't sure which, had resurfaced to plague him, asleep and occasionally awake. It was fitting, perhaps, that he sat brooding in the dark, trying not to think and trying not to feel – awake and flirting with the demons he could not banish. He could not accept that it was doubts, for to doubt was to doubt the Force.

And Qui-Gon Jinn could never doubt the Force – never second guess nor question why.

But he did not understand…and thereon lay the paradox, of accepting all that had come to pass – and yet not.

He had done nothing wrong, he not just knew but was told – he had followed the Force in all that he had done and in all that he had not – yet the Force did not allow him full peace of mind; it did not allow him to forget.

Always he would see his hand raised – in motion – swinging – connecting.

Always he would see the upturned face – the resignation – the acceptance – the bowed head.

Something had stayed his hand that day; seen to it that he broke his hand on a wall not upon another. He did not regret that, no matter the provocation, for it had never been his way to strike another. Justice was best served by the Force, best served by the conscience of the guilty.

Justice had seen to it that Obi-Wan Kenobi was punished and mercy had seen to it that he was forgiven. Neither was Qui-Gon Jinn's to dispense; it had never been.

Yet a nameless dread dragged at his soul – a sense that the Force did not – could not – have meant for any of – this – to happen; that this was a horror from which he would awaken and be soothed by the gentle hand of one he had wronged, even if only in nightmares.

All would again be right and the paradox resolved in the clarity of wakening.

But then he would awake and find the nightmare to be all too true…and the one once dear to his heart to be the cast-aside and the scorned.

So, restless and weary both, tonight he left the bed that offered no comfort and let his steps lead him here, to the doorway where he now stood - here gazing upon Anakin, and knew again that this was where exactly the Force now wished him to be.

Here, where he was allowed to banish those demons by focusing on the cherubic countenance of his padawan, this last and greatest of three. Here, where on this night as on so many others, he could find his peace of mind and where, as always, the sight of Anakin lying with his head under his pillow, legs akimbo, could bring a fond smile to his face and forgetfulness to his restless spirit. A natural growth spurt, perhaps spurred by plentiful food for probably the first time in his young life, made the boy seem all arms and legs.

The boy had demonstrated a voracious appetite from the very beginning, devouring all that was set before him. It hurt the Jedi to think what all this boy had gone through in his short life – meager rations, unending toil and the psychological stress of never knowing if or when he might be sold – or his mother.

This boy's plight aligned with his potential had called to Qui-Gon in a way few ever had. This boy would redeem the other who had touched him the same way – and betrayed him.

Was it his generous spirit? His smile? The way he glowed in the Force? Did it even matter why?

All he knew was that his heart had been drawn to the boy from the moment he'd laid eyes on him. He never could stand untouched by the needy or the pitiable. That was his gift of the Force. Recognizing this, the Force had given him Anakin in return.

Which was why it sometimes troubled Qui-Gon that the bond with Anakin was not as deep and communicative as it had been with the prior apprentice, for despite that immediate connection, something was – well, deficient, as if something clotted the bond.

Obi-Wan, it had to be remnants of Obi-Wan sullying what should have been a bright and vibrant bond.

Wasn't it?

The only other possibility was that the dark blotches were remnants of the damage incurred by the severance of the prior bond with he-whom-had-come-before.

He had certainly tried to rid himself of the last vestige of the tie to his former padawan, to start afresh, but it seemed a part of him would remain forever tied to him, just as to the one prior. There was much to blame Obi-Wan for, but he had had to admit – finally – that he had to take responsibility for some part of it. He had reacted, not acted, there on the cold floor in Theed and taken steps to sever his connection with his then-current padawan without sufficient regard for the consequences.

To either of them.

Or to Anakin, the gifted child the Force had given into his care; the one so brutally mistreated by one he had once called "beloved padawan."

But no more. Never again. Some things – he stepped forward and brushed the child's soft cheek with a tender finger – some things just could never be forgiven.

Anakin's eyes fluttered as a finger brushed his cheek and straightened the covers. He stirred, reaching through foggy awareness. Affection and a fierce protectiveness bathed him. He sighed, and snuggled deeper. Mom…he breathed softly.

The finger stilled.

Come child…wake. Duty calls. You don't want your mother to be lonely, do you?

A barely discernible mental picture of his mother, wrists trapped in the hands of his father, forced down onto the bed flickered too fast for conscious awareness, quietly wending its way through the sleepy byways.

A shrieked "No!" brought him to panicked uprightness, gasping. A tear slipped down Anakin's cheek as he was gathered into warm arms.

"Bad dream, little one?"

Your tears or hers…

The threat was implicit. But the action it spurred was no different, what the voice wanted him to do was what he was already doing from instinct.

Anakin clung to the embrace. "I miss – I miss Mom." And he did. It was the truth, half the truth.

"Oh, child, I know, I know." The arms rocked him as the baritone voice murmured in his ear. "It's in the nighttime silences that our hearts speak to us; it's in the daytime that our hearts are more likely to be silenced by our minds."

He loves you…but the other one as well. You know what you are to do. Push him away, push him out – and pull your master in.

It should have stirred jealousy and possessiveness, for it was a reminder that Qui-Gon refused to relinquish, deep within his heart of hearts, the predecessor and allow Anakin sole access. But this time the command failed to ignite the tiny spark so carefully nurtured within the boy - never caught nor roared into flame - for Anakin's hate had melted into something akin to, if not yet, pity. Try as he might, the man in the Healers Ward had turned into one of them – the downtrodden and abused.

To what he had himself once been.

And that frightened him, for he needed that hate – otherwise, he was nothing more than a pawn in a game he did not yet truly understand – a game he was already trapped into playing, if he wished to protect his mother.

More than just his carefully coached training created his sobs; his sobs were a byproduct of finding a haven of warmth and security in the big Jedi's arms. And even if affection was shared, halved, and divided, this affection was freely gifted to him, Anakin, the boy who now followed his heart as well as his instructions.

He curled deeper into Qui-Gon's arms, cushioning himself against the cruel world he could not escape. And for a moment, it didn't matter that he had, at least in part, manipulated the Jedi and would again, for the caring was genuine and it was his.

Right now, Qui-Gon was all he had.

Hidden in the darkness, curled in his self-made prison, he wondered how it went so wrong when it had so nearly gone so right. He wasn't beaten, not yet, but he'd had a narrow escape. He had so nearly quenched the aching need within him. But others had interfered, taken away the peace he had been on the edge of creating for himself.

They would come after him now, but – they had to find him first.

Too bad they had no idea where to look. He was safe here in the dark, all alone, where no one would think to look for him. Safe, until it was time to come out.

"Hiding in the dark does not hide one from one who can see in the dark even better than in the light."

Someone had intruded without his knowledge! He would not acknowledge the soft whisper, even as he tensed.

"Open your mind to me, my would-be apprentice. I mean you no harm; none at all."

Somehow this didn't strike him as a good idea. A low chuckle resounded in his head.

"You have called to me, my young one, and I am calling back. I can grant you all that you wish. You have been deceived and betrayed; you have been hurt. I can feel your pain – and I can take it away."

Oh, the deceit and betrayal was all too true. He deserved better than to be cast aside, useful for a time and then discarded for something better.

"Yes, my young Jedi friend, you have been mistreated and abused while those who mistreat and abuse you walk with head high and dignity intact. Learn from me…learn with me. Do not be trod on any longer."

Was this not what he wanted? They would regret what they had done to him. The bitterness in his soul shivered through him.

"Name your price and I shall grant it."

Visions assaulted him then, all that he wanted and more. All it would take was his acceptance.

He succumbed, unable to resist the lure, his defenses less than adequate.

But a part of him understood: he had just made a deal with the devil.