Chapter 53. Serenity Breached

Sidious was under no delusions as to his "so-called" new apprentice. The man had impressive shields but a mind as warped as his had more cracks and sieves in it than a crumbling dam to a Sith.

The fool saw himself as following a path to a life of luxury. He could be useful, he would be useful. He would never be a Sith.

He would be a means to awaken the sleeping power inside one Obi-Wan Kenobi, for that power slumbered, he was certain. One so consciously wedded to the Light understandably shied from power, shied away from what he feared – and fear was one of many paths to the dark. Fear of the dark power that propelled him forward at the fall of his master, fear of the immense power that healed that same man.

A sane man, a sane Jedi, would rather forsake that power than invoke it.

But invoke it Obi-Wan Kenobi would; the Force had shown him that. How or why, even when was yet hidden, but Sidious had seen enough of the future to know that when it was time, Obi-Wan Kenobi would rise, stronger than ever, and woe to those whom he opposed.

And he suspected that this so-called Jedi might be the means to unlock it.

Such a pawn of his own desires, this eager acolyte-wannabe. Sidious did not doubt this one had ambition. He burned for revenge against the one who stole his life and cast him to ignominy. Lust was slowly consuming him, especially now that he had been placed in close proximity to the object of such lust. It was all rather amusing to contemplate.

Inhaling deeply, Sidious let the tickles of desire tremor up and down his nerves. How he would love to see this confrontation he claimed to be against. It would be stimulating, so stimulating he was almost tempted to be assured he would not be alone at such time. But one passion could not be allowed to overshadow another; he would feast from a distance now that he had access to this one.

All his secrets, one by one, were his to pluck and plunder, but, he thought, he would let them ripen and rot yet awhile. Secrets were, like wine, better aged.

Sith were as well.

Anakin Skywalker had been taught to hate.

By the derision and scorn of those free men and women who saw he and his mother - all slaves, in truth, not just them - to be lesser beings to be commanded and humiliated, commanded and judged. By the scarcity of abundant food which had his mother doing without to feed a growing boy, by the long hours that kept him from his mother's love and guidance. By the cold nights that stole his warmth as he trudged shivering to open Watto's shop while his mother rubbed sleep from her eyes as she bent over her worktable and by the blistering heat as he ran errands during the day.

By indifference and greed.

By those who saw two slaves, not two people – those who had owned or surrounded him, such as Gardulla, who had delighted in heaping abuse on his mother. By Watto, who believed he had the right to expect calluses and blood from Shmi's finger tips, fingers that should be tending her son's bruises and wiping his tears, and by those who aimed their feet and vile invectives, those Mos Espa transient multitudes, directed at the slave errand boy who had learned how to evade their grasping hands and their cutting words nearly at the same time he had learned just to walk.

But Anakin had also been taught how to love – by a mother who suffered any abuse, endured any request if by doing so, such abuse and such acts were directed away from her son. By a mother whose unsteady fingers brushed his tears away and whose swollen lips kissed him good night; by bruised hands that tucked their two thin blankets around his shoulders whilst she shivered without.

If hatred was without, love was within. Home was a haven amidst the hell.

Until he had come into their lives and their very home; he into Shmi's bed and into Anakin's fears. His mother had toiled on her back to protect her boy and her boy had toiled at his side to learn to wield the tools of hate to keep her alone there.

And then the Jedi, the Angel and the Jester had come with their plea, not demand: help us, if you will. And then the Jedi, the Angel and the Jester had left, this time with Shmi's son, and Shmi herself was left behind.

And his mother, he prayed, was left alone.

To keep her so, Anakin had embraced his destiny with open arms and an apprehensive heart. The Jedi had become a sought after means to an end: freedom. Freedom: from the tyranny of the cruel taskmaster who molded a boy into a weapon to one; freedom: from the tyranny of the self-righteous and the guardians of justice to another, one neither righteous nor just.

And so their plans coincided and the weapon's wielder and the weapon shared a common purpose: destroy the Jedi generally, and Qui-Gon Jinn specifically. Remove the padawan that was and replace him with the padawan to be. Plant suspicion and distrust, ever so carefully; plant the fertile ground of imagination and water it with the hopes of prophecy come to life.

The plan succeeded spectacularly.

Qui-Gon Jinn heard the Force and felt its guiding hand. The Force, aided and abetted by three skilled Force users, saw to it that its Child claimed his destiny and his future; a destiny and a future that would destroy that of another. The fateful step was taken and the insidious plot set in play.

Act One now followed the prologue: the removal of one Obi-Wan Kenobi. Qui-Gon Jinn would be driven to repudiate his padawan in the most destructive way possible, thus forever removing the padawan as a threat and leaving the Jedi master susceptible to his winning replacement.

As in real life, no plan, no matter how cunning, no matter how ingenious, can help but stumble over the unexpected and the unforeseen.

Anakin fell hard.

The Jedi master's gentle humor and warm affection had won his devotion as the padawan had earned his hate for the spot he had already claimed in that same heart.

He had known as soon as he heard Qui-Gon speak of his padawan to his mother: Obi-Wan Kenobi would not easily be shaken from the Jedi master's affections. What's more, he was instantly jealous of that affection, even though he had been gifted the same. This transgression was personal; this against Anakin: a threat to his ability to secure that affection entirely to himself.

A boy who had little clung to what he did have for fear of it being taken away: the boy had found the father he had never had and a brother he did not want: the one who had first claim on the affection Anakin longed for and the affection lost to him with his mother's absence.

"Qui-Gon Jinn is a powerful Jedi, but a foolish and shortsighted one as well; he is all too easily manipulated by those who know his weaknesses." And so he had been persuaded his beloved padawan was a coward and a failure, a cruel and devious man; persuaded to push his almost-grown chick from the nest to be replaced by a devil masquerading as an innocent chick, a waif of the Force needing a guiding wing.

But that same soft heart that had freely given itself to Anakin as promised had not given it to Anakin alone; deep inside it had not relinquished the publicly repudiated one. That same heart wept for its loss while the mind remained oblivious and convinced the disgraced one had been evicted.

For that Anakin would never forgive Kenobi.

He had been most displeased with his tool's attacks upon the padawan, for the master wished to extricate his own revenge against the apprentice.

"Kenobi is mine to destroy, little da'emon; not yours. He is already half destroyed, and by Qui-Gon Jinn himself. The final blow shall be his to deliver as well, the better my revenge."

"I have nearly killed him more than once; he was powerless against me." And I would have – should have, he mentally boasted. I am the Chosen One, after all.

"Little one, be not so proud – he is powerless for now against all. He is mine to kill through Qui-Gon Jinn, not yours. For now he languishes alone and unwanted."

"Then why haven't you killed him?" He dared to be cheeky, believing distance to be an adequate defense. "I almost did – twice. You're not powerful enough, are you? I'm the 'Chosen One' born of the Force – " He squawked, suddenly unable to breath or break free of the intangible grasp.

"Whelp of MY body you are. Your mother was just a means to my ends; she was the garden from which the Chosen One would spring, only I made sure the seeds scattered there were mine. You are the Chosen One because they are foolish enough to believe so – and that is all that matters."

"I have no father," he spat back once he had caught his breath. Claim he might to be parent in biology, but he was no father, only stern taskmaster and disciplinarian. His mother had been a free woman and untouched by a man, any man, when he had been conceived. Her freedom and her innocence had been stolen while he was yet a child in her womb. She would bear her son into slavery and after initiation into the cruel rites of forced submission not many months after.

The truth was his only buttress against the lies to come.

"Your mother does not wish to remember the nights I spent trying to father the 'Chosen One' upon her; she who was who meant to be mother to you. The prophecy never made mention of the father so I chose that role as mine." The lips cracked in a smile. 'Long ago I planted the notion of prophecies within Jinn's mind; he responded as programmed."

The head bent forward, raven locks falling over his forehead.

"You are my spawn; my creation. I found her– stimulating. I was not," there was a strange hesitation between the words, "gentle with her, but I was willing to -" another slight hesitation, almost a softness to the voice in contrast to the cruelty of the words, "help her forget. It made the pain and humiliation so much more delectable each successive attempt to father you. She cried in my arms when I returned each time – until you, my sweet child, were finally created. For that gift, I gave your mother forgetfulness. Your mother birthed you and your mother raised you, but I, dear son, am the one who gave you the knowledge and the skill to wield your power.

"I am, remember, the one who can take it away as well."

And the memory, the nightmare faded…replaced by the onetime memory of his mother's hands clutching the shoulder blades of a muscular fair-skinned back in rhythmic motion, a tango of two knotted bodies amidst crumpled sheets and the nearly silent whimpers of a slave woman who knew only that submission protected her son.

"No…no, Mom, no!" Anakin bolted upright, only to be gathered into strong arms. He fought blindly, small fists flying until his arms were gently pinned to his side.

"Child. Young One, wake up."

Anakin's gaze cleared to see a worried face bent over him. "M – master. He was here, Master, he was here."

"Who was here?"

His mother's face, tight with pain; his mother's voice, soft cries and moans, filled his being.

"Who was here, Ani?" The voice was insistent. "Who was," the voice trembled, "who invaded your mind?"

"Obi-Wan!" he blurted out. He couldn't tell; he couldn't. His mother's life was forfeit if he so much as breathed one word. The truth was a stone that weighed down his heart; the lie lifted that burden.

Even Qui-Gon Jinn knew better than to stalk the hallways of the Temple and barge into Mace Windu's quarters at nighttime. A purple lightsaber would be at his throat before he could be at his former padawan's throat.

Strangely enough, it was also that thought that gave him pause. Mace Windu, no matter his faults, would know – have to know – if he harbored a – a – mind-rapist, a practitioner of the dark arts, which in turn argued that his former padawan had not done what he had been accused of.

But Anakin had been truly terrified.

"Oh, Force," he moaned into his hands, wondering if he was going mad, or if it was the world around him. And in truth, the voice of the Force had stopped shrieking its litany, its very damnation of he-who-had-come-before not all that long ago.

With trembling fingers, he comm'd Ni'sha. It was either consult her or the Force, and right now he needed more than answers, he needed a hand upon his, not a voice in his head. The latter only confused him.

"Truth be told, I never liked Kenobi," Ni'sha admitted with a shrug, leaning forward to handing Qui-Gon a cup of tea before settling back and curling her feet under her to take a sip of her own. "But not liking him does not mean I'm ready to see him as a Sith-in-training, either. He's not Xan – that boy was falling for a long time. Kenobi never even really teetered."

"It only takes one misstep to fall," Qui-Gon argued back.

"Oh, Qui-Gon." Ni'sha leaned forward and pressed both hands to his cheeks. They were warm from the cup of hot tea, warm on his skin, her thumbs warm on his lips as her mint-scented breath was warm against his neck. "Every single one of us fell by that reasoning. We fell during our trials. We were knighted because we picked ourselves back up."

Her reasoning was more than sound; it was accurate. Jedi faced many temptations, made many sacrifices. It was a hard life and it took commitment to live it. Commitment was a choice to turn away from other desires as well as a desire to heed the Force's call. That test, that choice, was the trial and when one turned away from the self and turned to the Force, that padawan became a knight.

And hadn't he – hadn't Obi-Wan – turned to the Force, to save a life? Had not the Force granted him that power in turn?

The voice inside that insisted he had Fallen for once remained silent.

Ni'sha pressed a gentle kiss to his lips before again cupping his chin between her hands. "You so nearly died. Obi-Wan saved you – well," she pursed her hips and tried a grin, "the Force, working through Obi-Wan saved you. I'll always be indebted to him for that, even if I think he's a prissy, uptight, arrogant son-of-a–"

"He was never arrogant!" The protest burst out of him without thought, the words of a master feeling his apprentice was being wronged. "Headstrong, reckless, yes; tart-tongued because to be otherwise betrayed the tender heart within because –" because a tender heart was too easily bruised. So a shell of sarcasm, of dry wit became the means to conceal that which lay within.

"Another pathetic life-form, Master?"

Each use of the epithet earned him a stern glare, each glare purchased flushed cheeks and a half step back, a glance upwards through half closed eyes and a flash in the Force that was surprise and hurt commingled.

"Why do I sense we have picked up another 'pathetic life form'?"

But the apprentice had not known of what the master spoke, there in the stinging sands of Tatooine.

"The boy who saved us."

The reprimand had not shocked him; the revelation of the subject had.

The Jedi master groaned and felt that his head was spinning out of control. The same things that damned him suddenly seemed to, if not excuse him, at least exonerate him from malicious intent.

"Master, please…fix it. It's dreadfully hurt." Obi-Wan's stricken face and the helplessness shrouding his shoulders, his outthrust hands and his pleading voice: that memory flared within his mind, unbidden.

A pathetic life form, the words glib and easily off the boy's tongue not long before. And not long after, the trembling in hands that cradled a broken body; the soft sheen of tears spilling from eyes that knew some injuries could not be healed, some repairs beyond man and even sometimes the Force.

Together they had set the small spirit free in a spiral of flame.

"It was – just a – pathetic life form," a forlorn voice whispered; anguish whispered through the Force. Qui-Gon had just - held his tongue, for once, and held, only - his boy's shoulders.

That boy – had he never existed? Or was the truth around him twisted; the boy still inside the man?

And if earlier words were to be believed as truth, had not Mace Windu said the Force had abandoned him?

Without the Force, he could not harm Anakin, could not gain entrance to his mind. Without the Force – had he been abandoned by it for the evil he had done – or would do?

What was the truth? What was reality?

He dared not ask the Force. He dared not face the truth, for whatever truth was, in the end it didn't matter. He had either lost the memory of the boy once dear, or the boy that ever was. Either way the truth would surely shatter him.

And the next time his heart was shattered, it would be lost forever though his body – the husk that housed him – would live on, brittle and hard, and oh-so-dead while the lungs inside continued to breathe and the heart continue to beat.

A thumb traced his eyes, wiping away the dampness that had collected there.

"Let it go, Qui, let it go. That time, that boy, is past," Ni'sha whispered. "You've got a wonderful new padawan. The old one is not worth your tears." Her finger tips stroked his lashes, his cheekbones - wiping away the memory that hurt. Oh, how it hurt, to remember the sheen of tears upon his cheeks, that time. It hurt: remembering how a tear trembled on the thumb that had swept the traces of his away; it hurt: remembering, that he had told Obi-Wan, gently, at least…

…Jedi don't cry.