I just returned from 12 days in Alaska - go there if you get the chance! Part cruise, part land tour - and don't forget to experience dog sledding! It was fantastic (and the small plane flight around Denali spectacular)!
Chapter 51. By Force and By Folly
He supposed it didn't matter. Didn't know why, didn't seem to care.
"Yes, Obi-Wan." The words, that name, had slipped so easily from the Jedi master's lips. An albatross tied to Anakin's neck, a match to the flame, a hindrance to his place, and Anakin only rubbed his eyes and let an apologetic-eyed Qui-Gon lift him into his lap.
"Yes, Obi-Wan."
Anakin wanted to be angry. He deserved to be angry. He had a right to be angry at being called by his name.
"Obi-Wan."
But he couldn't, he found.
Something stronger had touched him and, well, sorta, paralyzed that part of him.
Something soothing and comforting had filled him. He didn't have a word for it, only a feeling. It would profane and corrupt that feeling, his anger, if he let it. And Master Qui-Gon's voice had been so soft, so gentle, like he'd felt it, too, deep inside where special things resided.
It had felt like, well – Anakin pondered – like a window had opened and on the other side stood his mom, arms outstretched and a smile on her face. He had felt her, then. It was sunlight and warmth and love. And he couldn't hate – even him – when feeling so loved.
Had Qui-Gon felt loved, too?
Was this something miraculous, an outpouring from the Force to restore harmony or something commonplace, a burp from being fed too much at once? He'd always giggled after burping, while his mother would cover her mouth as she whispered, "Oh, Ani," but her eyes were always mirthful no matter how mournful her words.
He was so tired of hating…so tired of hurting. He wanted what he had been given a glimpse of – moments like this, tucked against a chest and held in comforting arms, while the wind howled and scraped dust-enshrouded claws at closed doors like an ill-tempered Tusken – safe, where nothing bad could intrude, where he felt so - so flooded with love and warmth.
And they'd felt it, too – all of them. Qui-Gon, and Obi-Wan, and – even him, too. Each and every one of them. Because echoes bounced and burped all up and down their connection, that intricate network of hidden ties that bound them together.
It was love and it was hate, love disguised as hate and hate disguised as disgust and just – well, so much of everything.
But then it had all been silenced once more. And he missed it.
He snuggled deeper into the encircling arms, seeking and finding just a fraction of that peace, if just for now. And maybe – just maybe – for yet a longer.
Darth Sidious practically cackled with delight and anticipation.
He had a new plaything, something to twist into something pathetic. The young man posing as a Jedi – oh, but the Jedi were blind to miss the viper in their midst; one who was as well up to his own nefarious dealings – was cruel and amoral without doubt. But not Sith material. A true Sith commanded the dark. This would-be acolyte was commanded only by his own passions.
A master of the dark he would never be, only a pawn.
The blood of many stained his hands, yet not one drop stained his conscience – perhaps the only thing in his favor.
And he hated young Kenobi with a passion. It was personal, this hate. Betrayal was scorched deep in his scarred soul. What had young Kenobi done to earn this enmity?
As for himself, he both loathed and admired said Jedi – hated him for rendering him short an apprentice; coveted him for what the potential he had once shown and might yet again. A magnificent Sith, once purged of light.
A detestable Jedi, if he could not be.
This dark-poseur who dared approach him and had even dared to offer Kenobi in sacrifice to the altar of his personal ambition was a weakling; one who sacrificed not out of strength, but of fear. Weaklings succumbed all too soon – poof – dissolved in an acid of their own making.
Yet Kenobi, this scion of light, by all that Sidious could discern, was weak by misadventure, not character. Yoda and Windu both championed the boy. No true Jedi would elevate one person's well being over the good of their Order without cause – did they fear the boy's vulnerability to the dark if dismissed from their oversight? So they should, so they should. When Sidious finally had Kenobi within his claws, he would rebuild the broken young man into a fearsome creature of dark.
If the boy could be rebuilt, that is. That was yet to be seen.
However, his ability to read the stirrings in the Force told the Sith otherwise. Logical analysis told him that the recent strange dampening in the Force was a pathetic attempt to mask something – and one simply did not protect the impotent.
But who did Kenobi threaten? Did the Jedi suspect it was their pathetic little Order?
They would find out in short order for he knew the instinct to survive must – and would - awaken that potential.
He would pit the false Jedi against the desired one. One would fall and one would rise. He had no doubt of the outcome. There would be a sacrifice all right – a preening, overconfident, arrogant young Sith-wannabee to a man who could draw on the power of the Force to wrest another from death. In defending himself, young Kenobi would find his strength – and the strength to hate the one who had forsaken him. Once the desire for revenge was awoken, once the stench of retaliation scorched his mind, then the Jedi would fall, only to rise a Sith.
And then, it would be as he had foreseen. The two of them together, side by side. At their feet – the once glorious Jedi Order, dead and obliterated. Against them, allied, not even the Chosen One would stand – not if he stood in the light as foretold by the prophecy.
He almost rubbed his hands in glee.
Instead, he swiveled in his seat, wiping a pleasant smile upon his kindly face.
"Welcome, Master Jinn and Padawan Skywalker; I am so terribly pleased you accepted my invitation. And just how is our dear Padawan Kenobi, the third hero of Naboo?"
That vibroshiv had been buried some time ago – by Qui-Gon Jinn, no less- and left to fester in the wound. The shiver in the Force proved his words were the blade twisting even deeper.
Only Sidious knew the true source of the smile that graced his lips.
"Careful now, careful, Tadeo. We don't want to kill him if by any chance he's still alive."
"Might be the best thing for him if we did," was the candid answer from the second, older man who was carefully nudging the sand-blasted bundle sprawled before them both. A man.
The first speaker, a young man barely into his adulthood, kneeled and gingerly laid a hand on the injured man, feeling for a pulse. It was there, thready and erratic. The man lived; how was the question neither man bothered to voice. Clothed in tattered brown cloth, this wanderer and near victim of something undetermined had had the fortune – good fortune or misfortune yet to be determined – to lie right in the path of the two passing men.
His hands were blackened and blistered, a cheekbone was clearly broken, and bruises littered the visible landscape of his flesh.
It was a miracle, both settlers agreed; the man was alive, but badly injured. How he had come to be there or why was something they might never know. But in the wastelands, one didn't waste precious time asking questions without answers.
You cured what ailed them. You gave them life if you could; a quick, merciful death if you couldn't. Bones bleached white littered the sands and eroded under wind, sun and grit to merciless bits and pieces that flayed the skin off the living when the dust storms smothered the landscape.
The weak didn't last long. Life was lived on a fragile edge here: on one side life, on the other oblivion.
"Watch that arm, will you, I think the shoulder's dislocated. Gently now, Tadeo. Lucky for this one, town's a few klicks away. He might have a chance."
The older man, who knew all too well the fragile tether of life all walked here, only shook his head. "Eustace Moonshadow, we be doing a foolish thing here. Merciful, you think we are, but," he shook his head and spat tobac into the sand, "merciless I say it is. We should cut his throat. Look at them burns. You heard his bones grate. Thank us for interrupting his dying, he won't – or wouldn't, if he could speak. He's still goin' to die. Just going to take longer this way."
"Let him curse us to hell, then, when he's dead. Can't be any worse than here, now can it?"
The older man guffawed and scratched an ear. "Might even be a pleasant oasis compared to here," Tadeo agreed grudgingly.
No word, no word as yet. Had "the problem" been dealt with – not that BB always reported back on how he "took care of the problem" but he always made sure to report his successes. To boast.
And this was no ordinary "problem." This had to do with Shmi's son, and therefore incidentally with him.
Schmi's son. Anakin.
"Mis'tah," a high voice piped as a grubby hand pulled at his trouser leg. "Play with me?"
The man known by many and sundry names – The Boss, Mr. "O", that "*%*$*," and oh, so many other names, both flattering and not – looked down and was struck silent. The small boy at his feet could have been Shmi's son at that age – same tow head, same bright, curious eyes – about the age when Anakin had begun his training as a weapon. The eyes of a child, innocent and – nothing like the eyes that same Anakin now wore. Eyes he had put on that child, not slavery. This orphan child, this one of many surrounding him in the orphanage on one of his rare visits, should have known nothing of innocence.
He, too, had been robbed of it, did he not know?
What was this child's name? He didn't know; he didn't care. Did he? He was an orphan, made so by his own orders. He was one who wished only that "Mister" would play with him.
"Mister," because to this child, as to the rest, there was no "father, dad, or daddy." Nor mother, either. Just the company of each other and the caretakers, and the occasional visitor, or hopeful "family unit" – usually couplets or triplets - seeking a child they could not themselves have – or had lost.
Within the heart that did not exist, a pang made itself known, only to vanish before it could be banished.
"Of course, I'll play with you," he said indulgently, surprising himself. He rarely visited the orphanages he funded, but had he a heart, here it could be found – assuming, of course that he wished to find and claim one. He had no need of a heart; he had lived most of his years minus one, after all, and survived. Nor had he need or wish of a heart in the pleasure houses, places he visited far more frequently. Only a fool sought solace for a heart in such places. Commodities were exchanged there only – a few credits, a few caresses, a few moments pleasure expressed in naked flesh.
Idly he wondered if any of these orphans might be his. How many unsatisfactory companions had he shunted to cheap brothels, some perhaps quickening with child, unwanted byproducts of a fruitful and unsatisfying union? He bought bodies with wine and sweet words and what came after was not his concern, whether or not it was of his making. So he had always told himself.
"Mis'tah." The child took his hand and led him to a table, with flimsies and coloring sticks. "Let's draw." The child beamed and threw him a smile.
A smile, trusting and oh so innocent. That inconvenient and oh so non-existent heart that existed in name only, an organ to pump blood and maintain life, thumped.
The child had thrown a smile at him!
He threw much at others – largesse at those he would benefit, hardship at those he despised. He threw things and he threw still more away – and a pang of regret touched him at the realization. He had everything he wanted, but he never had enough. All he had was gone – thrown away and replaced in turn.
Except her.
And he would never have her – because he would have only thrown her away, too. As he had before, and so he had left her instead, before the pain of loss grew too deep. Against his heart, he left her, because she didn't fit his definition of what belonged within it. Only by her absence, did he know.
Know, that his heart must still exist, even if shrunk and decayed, atrophied by disuse.
"Mis'tah, for you."
The beaming child handed him his crude artwork, smudged and dirty and unexplainably beautiful.
A heart, for him.
Without a word, he took the artwork in shaking hands – and fled, clutching the flimsy within hands that would not - could not – let go.
Awakening he is, the Force whispered to Mace a few hours later, prompting him to gather a cup of hot caf. Just "how back" was Obi-Wan and what explanations would he provide? Did he remember the attack, or more importantly, the attacker?
A slight rustle of blankets marked the young man's slow return to consciousness; a half-covered yawn was so open and unguarded that Mace actually smiled.
A blink or two and a puzzled visual sweep of the room came next.
"Good morning, how do you feel?" Mace advanced into the room and sat on the side of the bed. Obi-Wan seemed a bit disoriented to his mind, but he cleared his throat and managed a soft reply, more an "oomph" than actual words as he turned onto his back. A hand flashed to his head and he winced.
His look of befuddlement might have been funny at another time, to another person. To Mace Windu, it was not.
"Are you in pain?"
Lips parted, but no words came out. The young man blinked and turned his head away, nodding slightly.
"Obi-Wan," Mace said firmly, setting the cup down and grasping the young man's hands. "Look at me. I know it's safer to cocoon yourself in silence, but it isn't healthy. I'm not expecting you to organize a drunken orgy within the Temple," he watched as a pink tinge colored the face of the young man; then continue briskly, "because such a thing should never be called to a Council member's attention unless said Councilor is invited as well…there, I've missed that smile."
It wasn't the full smile that captivated a room even of cynical politicians, but it was an attempt.
"Now, you've struggled back once more and I know it's hard. Your mind has a mind of its own and one you don't recognize, but you can push past some of the damage. Don't let it take control of you – take control of what is within your grasp. The rest will come later."
Obi-Wan slowly nodded and sat up against the pillows, fingers wearily kneading his temples. "I – I…," he all but stuttered, but encouraged by Mace's squeeze of his fingers, tried hard to push the words out.
"I – I feel like… two banthas sat on me. Or - kicked me. Or," Obi-Wan tried a tentative smile as his voice grew stronger, "or that Master Yoda suddenly went Sith and whacked the heck out of me with his stick."
Genuine amusement radiated from Mace's eyes and his tone was dry in a way terribly reminiscent of Obi-Wan at his driest. "I don't think the little troll would be terribly pleased to hear that comment, considering something seems to have 'whacked the heck' out of you."
"That explains the banthas." Obi-Wan's half-hearted grin faded as the words registered. "What – happened?" A hand explored his side, a puzzled look accompanying a wince.
So much for hoping…Mace inwardly sighed. "You don't remember?"
"N – no," he whispered. "Did I have another seizure; I thought I was long past those."
"You had an – accident, of some kind or other." Mace deliberated: should he tell the truth? It might put Obi-Wan on guard, but it could as well backfire. He was already dealing with more than any one person could be reasonably expected to cope with. He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, patting Obi-Wan's knee. "I suppose you remember what happened that time Qui-Gon and I left a tumbler of alcohol in the cooler never suspecting a thirteen-year-old padawan to mistake it for something else?"
"Oh, Force!" Obi-Wan gulped. How could he have forgotten? He'd thought the glass of amber liquid was merely juice, downing it in one quick gulp before he'd realized different and then heading off to a gymnastic class.
He had never been in such close touch with the Force, or so he'd thought, tumbling with no effort, vaulting with grace, and walking the beam as only one in communion with the Force – or accidentally drunk – could do. Then everything around him had somersaulted, everything else had spun in dizzying array. Faces – voices – objects receded and advanced; the floor became a wall and the wall smacked him.
After a terrified giggle he remembered nothing, nothing until he had woken up in Qui-Gon's arms, the big Jedi stroking his head and telling him to lie still.
"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan, I'm sorry."
He'd never seen that light in his master's eyes, that worry and shame mixed. Qui-Gon had been a good teacher, a somewhat distant man it was true, but kind and considerate since their pairing not long before.
A hand had wavered up and patted that bearded face, the padawan suddenly needing to wipe the worry away.
"Not – nots you. Clumsssssssy. Oh….my head," he'd moaned, nestling against his master's chest. Suddenly he'd been flying, or as it had turned out, been lifted in his master's arms and taken to the healers for what had turned out to be only the first of many mishaps as a padawan and another new nickname, "Drunky-Wan."
He hadn't cared.
He'd seen that look in Qui-Gon's eyes, drunk or not, in pain or not. Real affection. Real worry. Real guilt. More than that, he had seen Home. He was where he belonged, with whom he belonged. No nickname could interfere with that.
Only a bright-eyed boy with a mop of blond hair and a destiny. Qui-Gon's legacy. Qui-Gon's apprentice.
"I don't think I've had a drink since – since that last time M-Master – Jinn and I…." He took a deep breath, fighting to steady his voice. Why had he to behave like an emotional child? He was trained to deal with his emotions to avoid such moments as now beset him. "How did I get hurt?"
After some deliberation on his words, Mace kept his explanation short and to the point.
"I found you in one of the training rooms when you didn't return for dinner… nearly a week ago. You were in, well, a catatonic-like state. A lot of us were pretty worried about you. We don't really know what happened, but we thought you had suffered a relapse of some kind." Well, at least Yoda thought so until he had a look for himself. It is the truth – in a way.
"A week ago!" The young man's eyes widened in disbelief; he blinked once and looked away, visibly wilting. "I'm sorry to be so much trouble, Master Windu -"
"No more of that, Obi-Wan." He squeezed the young man's shoulder, sensing the flood of emotions pouring through him. Gratitude, shame, and guilt predominated. "Apologize for events you had control over, nothing else. You've been ill and sadly mistreated; you can hardly be blamed for that."
Obi-Wan swiped at his eyes. "Perhaps not," he slowly admitted, but looked up, cheeks flushing. "My reactions should be in my control. I'm supposed to be an adult, a Jedi, yet here I again sniffle like a crèchling and force you to play nursemaid to another master's castoff. Such behavior is inexcusable for a Jedi, yet you tolerate it. Why?"
"Why?" Mace stared. The boy's mind was misfiring and he wanted to know why he wasn't admonished?
He cleared his throat. He preferred his gruff and forbidding Jedi persona, a buffer to the harsh realities of a Jedi's life. Some Jedi were able to shield their souls with merely the Force; he preferred something a little more concrete as a backup. A tender-hearted Jedi could only become in time a hard-hearted Jedi.
"It's the right thing to do, that's why. You often are the first to line to help someone in need, in case you don't remember, and we Council members can't be shown up by a padawan, now can we? You're here because I want you here, if that's what you're asking. If you're asking why I tolerate this 'behavior' from a senior padawan who is ready to be knighted, well– it's because I'm well aware it's your injury affecting you in ways large and small. I'd quite properly chastise you under other circumstances."
Mace reflected rather sourly that he was treading dangerously close to – "nice and understanding." To keep in practice, and to make sure he still could, he growled in the back of his throat and directed a somewhat unsuccessful glare at Obi-Wan.
Apparently the young man missed both cues, or didn't care, or – a disturbing thought – thought it unworthy of response. After this time, had he lost his ability to intimidate the boy? Just offered knighthood, should he now be offered mastership?
What was next, sitting on the Council?
Sitting upright with his blanket twisted around his waist, and ignorant of the older Jedi's thoughts, Obi-Wan offered, much like an initiate who wasn't convinced of a lesson and had to grasp it by repeating it, "I know there's not always a reason, that life is not always fair or just. But I have this feeling…like the Force is trying to tell me something and I'm – I'm not listening. That I have the answers within me as why all these things are happening and that I'm meant to make them right somehow. But I can't do anything; all I do is feel things. I'm haunted by questions without answers, like 'why' all this happened, so suddenly, from out of nowhere – "
He felt his chin lifted and his eyes found Master Windu's – calm, warm, and understanding.
"That's no surprise. Actually, a change of scenery might do you good…Master Dooku is returning to the Temple and has spoken to us about taking you for a quick trip to Serrano – what?"
"Master Dooku?" Obi-Wan cleared his throat, his brow wrinkled in honest confusion. He barely knew the man or the man him. What would the Jedi master want with him? He'd kept his distance throughout his entire apprenticeship with Master Qui-Gon. "Why?" That one word encompassed all his doubts and uncertainties.
"He's…less than pleased with recent events."
"So he wants to try to straighten me out." Obi-Wan nodded and straightened his shoulders.
Now it was Master Windu's turn to look surprised. "No, to do what he can. He's concerned – you're his grand-padawan after all. He never, ah, intervened in the past because he feared he might cause unnecessary strife and now – well, strife has already severed one bond. He chooses to step forward now because he feels he can offer assistance that would have been shunned in the past."
Fingers twisted and untwisted until Obi-Wan realized what he was doing. He frowned and stilled them, studying them unhappily. "He doesn't approve of me and never has."
Led by an impulse with no logical rationale, Mace tousled his hair and informed him, "Quite the opposite in fact. He flat-out told Qui-Gon to shape up. He was convinced not just that you needed Qui-Gon's trust and affection to thrive, but that Qui-Gon needed yours, as well. I think he was right; neither of you are well since," Mace winced and hesitated. Since Qui-Gon went inexplicably mad…but he could hardly say that.
"Since he listened to the Force," Obi-Wan murmured.
"No!" The vehemence in his voice startled even Mace. And it was the truth. Horribly, gloriously, the truth. And that meant…
…Mace had some real sleuthing to do.