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Chapter 43

The Beat of My Heart

Obi-Wan smiled ethereally. The cave emanated Light. Pure Light. Even Yoda's aura paled in comparison.

He turned to Brummel. "Have you ever felt—?"

"No."

Obi-Wan pondered. "Coda, why don't you take a look? Brummel, Palmer: hang back. It could be dangerous to Jedi."

Landon scratched his new beard, joining Coda. "I got your six. Let's check it out."

"Seems harmless," remarked Padme

"Famous last words," Obi-Wan said.

"The Force ignores me. What are you feeling?"

"I feel," he murmured, "like something's about to end. And something else will begin."

"Good or bad?"

"It depends on what you want."

He turned away and approached Galen, who was seated on the ground, stroking Wilk's head where it rested on his leg.

"How are you holding up?" Obi-Wan asked.

"I'm a little tired," Galen said.

"It's very special—the way you helped Palmer."

Wilk's head lifted. "A feat which, on command, cannot be repeated."

"Perhaps not," Obi-Wan allowed. "Right now, I'm more concerned with the cave. Have you ever been here, Galen?"

"We have not," Wilk said. "I told you already."

"Since you met him. What about before?"

Galen tried to force down his fear, but Obi-Wan saw through it. Every child has a first trauma, the center of a web, around which future pain's spun. He knew they were standing at the center of Galen's.

"Can I tell you a story, Galen?" Obi-Wan said. "I don't remember my parents. I grew up in the Jedi temple. The caregivers raised me. But they weren't like parents, because Jedi can't love. We're not allowed."

"Why not?"

"When you love someone, you're scared of losing them. You get angry when you're scared. Angry people do bad things."

"I get angry," Galen's voice wavered.

"We all do," Obi-Wan promised. "Jedi try to be perfect. But we're certainly not. As hard as I fight it, I love many people."

"Like Miss Padme?"

The Jedi blinked. Padme was watching them, a vision of femininity in spite of her dirty hands. "I haven't said the words," Obi-Wan found himself answering.

Wilk said, "Love is an instrument, prone to decay."

"I don't think so," Obi-Wan said. "No, I'll defend it from that reduction. Love is the violence of good, and it sleeps uneasily. I've spent my life sneaking by it, because I think I might burn if I look it in the eye."

Galen frowned. "You were telling a story."

"Indeed," Obi-Wan chided himself. "When I was still young, a little green man was very kind to me. He taught me to use the Force. He taught me right from wrong. When I was scared, he taught me not to be." Behind his eyes, a garden bloomed around Yoda and a boy Galen's age. "He also taught me to take a leap of faith. And that I wasn't alone. He said, 'Not always around, will I be. Let me help you while I am.'"

"But," Galen despaired, "how can you trust him if he doesn't love you?"

"Would a man who doesn't love me, give me all of himself?"

Landon stood guarding Coda from invisible threats. "Hey, I wanted to tell you..." He kicked the dust, crossing his arms. "Thanks for..."

"You don't have to thank me," Coda said. "It's your secret. You'll tell them when you're ready."

"No, actually, I don't think I will."

"You will. Because you are a good man. Maybe you weren't before, but it was always your potential."

Landon entertained the thought that she'd learned more in ten years than in her previous two million. "I've been lousy at making friends. My entire life," he lamented. "But Obi-Wan's taught me what friends really are."

"And now you're teaching me."

Landon looked off, before hearing a grunt of revelation. He followed her gaze to some ancient writing etched on the cave wall.

"You have something?" he asked.

"Aye, a mystery," Coda mumbled.

"What does it say?"

Coda wiped away the dirt that obscured a few words. Her brows knit, and she read, "'Herein is your Dream. Whether you wither in its prison, or find the undiscovered, is in your law onliest."

Landon sighed. "Shit, who wrote that—Wilk?"

Obi-Wan said nice things and he really seemed to mean them. But Galen's parents once said he could only trust them. Wilk said the same.

Truthfully, children need a bigger circle. Galen's big brown eyes beseeched the wolf.

"It's okay, Galen," Wilk nodded.

"Mister Obi-Wan," Galen said, "you shouldn't go in there."

"Into the cave?"

"That's where my parents died."

Wilk's ears erected. He lacked air to gasp. The truth so long withheld struck the wolf more bluntly than the boy who spoke it. Galen had wrestled with its power every moment of every day.

Wilk's gentle paw covered his hand. "I am so sorry, my boy..."

"They wouldn't let it go," Galen mumbled.

"Let what go?" Obi-Wan demanded.

"Their dream. They wouldn't leave. No matter what I said."

Obi-Wan tugged his beard. "I don't understand. The Light Side of the Force flows through that cave. Why would it take a boy's parents?"

"It didn't take them," Coda said, approaching with Landon. "It gave them a choice. They got it wrong."

"Boss, I've got a bad feeling about this," Landon said.

"I can't walk away. What I'm seeking—we're seeking—" Obi-Wan corrected himself, "—is in that cave. I'm sure of it."

"Are you willing to bet your life?" Landon asked.

"I'm betting every life. I have been since Coruscant."

In the decade since her reset, Coda had observed that women abandon men who, in their secret striving to build thriving inner worlds, ignore the colorless hungers deemed virtue by women, who dress their pettiness in constant grievance. Yet she'd observed these same men struggle to leave those inner worlds.

Neither Obi-Wan nor Brummel wished to see their similarity. But they were kin through shared sin, through pain and trauma, and love denied to themselves by obligation or loathing

"Why you two?" Padme asked. "Why not Palmer?"

"Have a heart, Senator," Palmer said. "I'm still recovering."

"You look fine to me."

"Have you ever heard of post-traumatic—?"

"Shut up," Landon said.

Obi-Wan interceded, "The Force reaches for Brummel, and for me. We'll find what we need."

Galen screwed up his face. "I don't want them to die," he whispered to Wilk.

Padme pulled Obi-Wan out of earshot. "Obi-Wan—"

"I'll be all right."

"You already gave them a memory," her eyes glistened. "What more?"

He ran a knuckle down her cheek, staring into her eyes. "I don't know. But wherever's left will be yours."

Padme took his free hand discretely within his cloak. "Obi-Wan, I—"

The Jedi paled. The horizon shook and hot was cold. He blinked and staggered. A rippling stanchion of a woman held him upright. "Obi-Wan—what's wrong?—are you okay?"

"What?" Light flashed, and he was unstuck in time, like one exiting a stupor of drug and dream.

She touched his face. "Are you sick?"

He pulled away, looking about.

Obi-Wan was home. Standing in his kitchen. Beyond it was his living room: comfortable, modern.

The freshly painted walls were covered in art, holographs, and reproductions of ancient tapestries.

Three blue sofas framed a holo-projector, which rested on a shelf filled with videos and books.

A glass wall showed the deck, where partygoers gathered.

Obi-Wan smiled at Aayla. "I think the ale is hitting me."

"I should hope so," she laughed. "Miler's a terrible influence..."

"I am on sabbatical."

"And reveling in it. Come. Don't be rude to your guests."

Outside on the deck, Landon played Sabbac with Miler and Julian. Somehow was well ahead, prompting accusations.

Galen was sleeping on a bench, Wilk curled to his side. Brummel strummed a guitar for Coda's favor.

Obi-Wan walked to the railing. He braced his hands and looked out.

Above there was only blue, a blank canvass for the Force, too content to create today. Ahead, and around, rolling green fields met a shimmering horizon. The sun painted the peaks honey-bee gold, and little dots that were gizkas danced on the surface. Summer flowers of purple and blue encircled the house like beauteous bulwarks.

Dainty hands fell on his hips. A slender body pressed to his back.

"Hello there," he smiled.

"Hello, husband," Padme said.

He turned in her arms. Padme's summer wrap exposed her from naval to sternum. A pale blue headband held back her hair, fixed in intricate curls.

He dragged his hand down her face, tracing her lips, no less arresting for having been memorized. His heart swelled and he said, "I never thought I could love you more."

"Then you lacked imagination," Padme said.

She felt his smirk when their lips met, gently as the wind setting down leaves.

"I love you," she whispered.

Bree-dee-dee-doo.

Bree-dee-dee-doo.

Brummel's eyes snapped open. He winced at the sunlight streaming through the window. To the left of the bed a screen chimed and blinked. His sleep-clumsy hand pawed the receiver.

"Good morning, Mr. Carde," a Twi'lek said cheerfully. "I wanted to inform you that your Jedi tunic is being delivered to your room. We're sorry for the delay. Our cleaner is very backed up with the festival starting."

Brummel looked about. The entire right wall was the glass face of an aquarium. The fish were all dead, floating face-up. To the left withered plants framed an office nook.

"That's not mine," he said of the tunic. "You must have the wrong room."

"Sir, we carefully restored it. Every detail is exactly as you remember."

"Why are the fish dead?" Brummel asked.

"Is it not to your liking, sir? We killed them to your specifications. If you're unable to revive them, I could—"

"I don't want the tunic," Brummel said, closing the channel.

He walked to the bathroom. It pushed the limits of rugged to see his week-old beard, tangled hair, and black-rimmed eyes. Scars vital and forgotten covered his body.

Brummel opened the closet. Inside were a black body suit and cape; or gray slacks with an orange shirt. He dressed himself in the latter.

He heard a light splash and whirled around. A diver had entered the aquarium to net the dead fish.

Brummel walked to the door, tilting his head. It was too large at the top but angled going down so that it barely fit a person.

He squeezed through the opening, coming face to face with the Twi'lek concierge.

"Mr. Carde! I brought your tunic."

"I don't want that," Brummel said.

"But we—"

"Look, this is my vision, right? You're here to help me?"

"Whatever you need," the Twi'lek promised.

"Then tell me how to get out of here."

"The hotel exits are clearly marked."

"Not the hotel!" Brummel growled. "How do I leave the vision? Why am I here?"

The Twi'lek opened his arms, crestfallen for his failure. "I'm sorry, sir. Did you not receive your itinerary? I have a copy right here..." In his suit pocket, he retrieved a small trifold with Brummel's name on the front. Inside was a description of The Festival, a traditional celebration that went back to Mercian times. On the opposite page, it read Special Attraction and showed an image of Adi Gallia.

Brummel clenched until it crumpled, voice savagely low. "Tell me how to get there."

"Of course," the Twi'lek swallowed. "Take the tram on the bottom floor."

"One more thing: what happens if I kill someone here?"

"As I said, our cleaner is very backed up."

Padme threw her head back giggling. "You do not know the ways of the Force."

"I most certainly do!" Miler said. "M'mother told me."

Aayla rolled her eyes. "Okay, prove it. Choke me with the Force."

"I don' wanna choke ya. I love ya."

She melted against him, kissing his cheek.

"Oh, brother," Landon said.

Wilk interjected, "Come now, friend. Let their love be unmolested."

"Let my eyes be unmolested."

Obi-Wan suddenly had a thought. "Where's Quinn? I haven't seen him in hours."

"I'm sure he's around," Julian said. "More importantly, where are those kids of yours?"

Padme traced her husband's beard, smiling fondly. "They're at their grandfather's. They'll be home in the morning."

Brummel asked, "Is Yoda still trying to train them?"

"It's the candy he feeds them," Obi-Wan said. "Whether sweet or sour is a matter of opinion."

Padme took back her hand. "That's his polite way of saying I don't like it. We came here to get away from politics, and the Force."

Any flavor in the words was thoroughly exhausted, repeated to meaninglessness, so that neither Padme nor Obi-Wan called it conflict. Their trenches were dug, and they fired every so often to keep up appearances.

"We're not going anywhere," Obi-Wan said mildly.

"Well, I'm afraid we are," Coda said. "To bed. I've drank too much."

"There's no such thing," Miler said.

Aayla snatched his glass and set it on the table. "Oh, yes, there is. I would think your body is 80 percent ale."

"Then there's twenty for the takin'."

Landon laughed and clapped him on the back. "Kid, you might be my hero. But let's call it a night."

"Yes," Wilk agreed. "Let us all retire, so we might reconvene before noonday."

What friends he had. How grateful they made him. To trust one with your life: that isn't hard. It's the sum of need and availability, divided by time. Friendship is different. It's not entrusting your life, but rather enjoining it.

Obi-Wan smiled contentedly. "I'm so glad you're all here."

"Wouldn't change a thing, Gen'ral," Miler squeezed his shoulder. "We'll see ya in the mornin'."

The group said their goodnights, leaving Obi-Wan and Padme alone on the deck, beneath a cosmic panorama, naked, dark, jeweled with misshaped stars that shone too brightly, filled the wrong spaces, like a child would draw them before learning constellations. In this way it was perfect.

Padme slid down so her head was on his heart, palms soothing his wired back. He kissed her head, held her tightly. Everything was as it should be.

"I love them," he said.

"I know. I've never met anyone with so much love. If you'd hidden it any longer, you might've burst."

"Yes, I would've loved all over everything." Padme gave him a withering look. He kissed her forehead, and her brows, his beard gently bristling. He pressed his cheek to her head and squeezed her tighter. "I've been thinking about something," he said.

"What's that?" she sighed happily.

"I know I'm too sentimental. So calling this an 'idea' may be pretentious. It's a silly little thought. It may make me small."

"Obi-Wan, my expectations are properly modest."

"It's been said that love is an expression of the Force. But since I met you, I've always known love was a purpose above all. If you removed it from the Force, nothing in its matrix would come to any good. And so lately, I've wondered, if Love created the Force to grow the beings it betroths."

Padme let out a noise that was sigh and squeal and moan all at once. She crawled into his lap, kissing him fiercely. She rid him of his shirt and he stood up holding her. Their lips met again and he carried her through the house, ignoring Quinn at their kitchen table, up the stairs, into their bedroom.

Obi-Wan followed her to the mattress, kissing down her neck.

"I've loved you for so long," he growled.

"Show me," Padme whispered.

In the tram seat across from him, Brummel found a boy staring. "Can I help you?"

"Are you here alone?" The Boy asked.

"Yes. Where are your parents?"

"Why are you here?"

"I don't know yet," Brummel said.

"Have you thought about it?"

"Sure I have."

"Maybe that's your problem," said The Boy.

"That's profound. Thanks," Brummel said dryly.

The tram stopped at the front gates. Children in Jedi and Sith robes dueled down the walkway with plastic swords, trading meager threats in mock-adult tones.

Brummel stepped off, walking to the box office. The crowd was a mix of families and loners, from all species and backgrounds. Rich and poor comingled, eschewing cynical wisdom that they weren't to get along.

"How can I help you?" the teller asked.

"... I need a ticket."

"Of course, sir," said the teller, a pretty Miralukan with freckled cheeks. "Would you like the red experience, or the blue experience?"

"What's the difference?"

"I can't tell you, sir. That would ruin the surprise."

Brummel glanced at the children dueling on the walkway. "Is there a third option?"

"There is not. But I assure you, both experiences include an encounter with Jedi Master Adi Gallia."

He smiled tightly, jaw rippling. "Give me a blue ticket."

"Very good. Would you like to pay with a scar scan?"

"Excuse me?"

"The one on your neck should do nicely," she said.

Brummel fingered the skin, burned by his own saber.

She ran her scanner along the scar. It suddenly burned like it was only now forming, but this lasted just a moment, before the skin went numb.

"All done," the teller smiled. "Enjoy your experience. I hope it's everything you've been waiting for."

Brummel took his ticket. He felt his neck, finding the scar gone. "What if I haven't been waiting for anything?"

"Perhaps something's been waiting for you."

Obi-Wan laughed to himself at a private joke with Padme. You develop a lot of those. They could talk for hours using references alone.

He poured some chips into a party bowl, leaving the kitchen. A hand caught his arm. He turned to find Quinn.

"There you are," Obi-Wan said. "Why are you hiding in here?"

"I need to show you something," Quinn answered.

Obi-Wan's smile turned confused. "Sure. Is everything all right?"

At the dining room table, Quinn had laid out a map depicting a planet called 'Mareth.' There was a city named Cuimhn, a vast desert called The Dead Zone.

Quinn tapped a point at the desert outskirt. "Right now, you're here."

Obi-Wan swallowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"Ride twenty miles northwest. You'll reach the Dearmad Rainforest. There you'll find a path, made very recently. Follow it."

Obi-Wan wavered. He grabbed the table. Everything hurt. There was no Mareth. It was foolish. It was mad. "Stop it!" he growled.

"Deep in the jungle, you'll find—"

The doorbell chimed. He whirled around. Obi-Wan stumbled from the kitchen and his mind was clear again. He pushed out a shaky breath.

Miler answered the door. On the other side were two children and Yoda.

"Uncle Miler!" cried a boy.

Crouching down, he caught the leaping child. "Hey there, fella! How are ya?"

"Grandpa taught us to see the future!"

"Oh, yer mam will love that..."

The little girl made a beeline for her dad. Obi-Wan's heart froze in his chest. His lips parted, and he blinked something back. Time meant nothing and mistakes were forgiven. Obi-Wan picked up his daughter.

"Hi, Daddy!"

He swung her in a circle and shuddered out laughter. "Clara," he whispered. "Oh, Clara..." He pulled her to arms length. They shared through their eyes—the same cobalt blue—a secret truth of the universe you can't learn in meditation. "You're my daughter," he whispered. "You're my baby."

Yoda harrumphed. "Expect me to lose her, did you?"

Obi-Wan laughed again. He wiped his face and put down Clara. "Well, you're at that age."

"Be kind to your father. Not always around, will I be."

"I treasure every second," Obi-Wan said.

Main Street resembled his homeworld Prayto, lined with overpriced retail, decadent dessert shops, and exotic restaurants serving sentients.

Women bought trinkets. Children bought costumes. Men fought with their stomachs, because lunch had to wait.

At the end of Main Street, the walkway split. To the left was a red bridge, to the right a blue one.

He met a stout little usher, with four arms and white hair standing on end. The usher took his ticket.

"What if I change my mind? I might want red," Brummel said.

"You made your choice. You're stuck with it."

"None of this is real. I could just kill you."

"Would you, please? It would make my day."

Brummel's lips pursed. He saw it in his head, and that was good enough.

Crossing the blue bridge, he entered a carnival—a cheap knockoff of Coruscant's Galactic Fair.

The colors were wrong: black glass, gray and white tents. In the distance a ferris wheel moved horizontally.

He smelled popcorn and sugar, felt the ground quaver. A calliope cried the Mercian melody that once haunted Coda. The carneys seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite place them.

"Hello."

A beautiful Twi'lek, wearing the scant ensemble of a Huttese slave girl, carried a basket of red tickets. "Would you like to enter the raffle?" she asked.

"No."

"Are you sure? It's free. You'll be entered to win a chance to survive."

Brummel's face darkened and he grabbed her arm. "Survive what? This vision?"

She smiled unperturbed. "You and your friends are going somewhere, aren't you? I want you to live, but you have to enter my raffle."

Brummel released her. "This is ridiculous."

"How badly do you want to live?"

"I'd rather die than be a fool."

"No, you'd rather die than forgive yourself."

Brummel held on to a breath. He felt off-balance. The careful seals that made his heart a cold void had so been weakened by Coda that this stupid little girl wrenched one free. "You don't know a damn thing," he hissed.

She took his hand, placed the ticket in his palm. "Everything will be all right."

He read the ticket: a random string of numbers. Many times had he thought he could heal, only to sink once more in the muck of sin.

"I hate when they do that," the Twi'lek said.

She was staring at a dunk tank. In the jester's seat was a little boy, arms chained behind him.

The gamer runner laughed, bounding in circles. "Step right up! Take a shot at the kid! Can he swim? Can he not? Let's find out!" He gave the ball to a woman with flinty brown eyes.

"No," Brummel whispered. "No!"

He tried to leap from his spot. The Force didn't work so he took off running.

The Boy stared without expression as the woman threw the ball. It struck true. The boy fell. Squirming in his chains, he sank to the bottom.

Brummel jumped up the stairs and into the tank. Taking The Boy in his arms, where he went on thrashing, Brummel surfaced.

The crowed booed and jeered. He exited the tank, ripping the key from the carney's hand.

He freed the Boy from the chains and held him in his lap.

"Are you okay?" he demanded.

"I'm fine," The Boy said. "Why are you here?"

"Because you were drowning! I saved you..."

"I guess you did," The Boy smiled. "That's not what I meant. Why are you here?"

Brummel dropped on his rear, as the jeering crowd disbanded. He raked a hand through his hair, dripping on the ground.

"I'm here to see my master."

Obi-Wan was an artist, his instrument the Force. It was always self-evident that he would be a Jedi. That it wasn't his sole profession was a harder-won awareness. He'd never sought a woman's love. In fact, he'd feared it, in the way we fear anything we're told could destroy us.

Then one day he met Padme Amidala. Men and women persist in denial, afraid to cut the vines that choke their co-reality. But when Obi-Wan removed them, it revealed vocations greater than Jedi Master: husband and father.

Obi-Wan lay with his family on a checkered blanket, peering at the dark sky—impeded from owning heaven by riotous stars, which glowed blue and green and purple and orange—and this didn't seem strange under the spell of dream logic.

"Daddy?" asked Jackson.

"Hmm?"

"Why'd you leave the Jedi? Are you a Sith 'cause you left?"

"A Jedi is afraid to live, and a Sith is afraid to die. As I have no fear at all, their war did not suit me. The best thing I ever did to make the universe brighter, is be your father."

Clara snaked beneath his arm, and he held her to his side. "I love you, Daddy," her voice slurred.

"I love you, too, little angel."

Soon the children slumbered.

Padme found his hand through the tangle of limbs. She laced their fingers, brought his knuckles to her lips. His heart jumped and he shuddered and it was better than serenity. Meditation cannot offer the sacred felicity of two spirits intermixed.

"I want to stay like this forever," Padme mumbled.

"Then we will."

Brummel strode up the walkway holding the boy's hand. His nose wrinkled at the smell of anthricite fuel mixed with candy and ale.

It was coming from a ride called The Midnight Tangent. Shaped like Obi-Wan's ship, it subjected its guests to whiplash and loops.

"Don't you want to ride anything?" Brummel asked.

"I think I might," The Boy said.

"You are obnoxiously vague. The Jedi would love you."

"The Jedi love everyone."

"If by everyone, you mean themselves," Brummel said.

"Shouldn't you love yourself?"

"Now you sound like Doctor Stall."

"I'm just a child," The Boy assured him. "But we are a little different here."

"And where is here?" Brummel demanded.

"I think you already know."

"Is this the Netherworld? Are you—"

"Look! Come on!"

The Boy dragged his eyes to a caricature artist, who studied her nails in absence of customers. Brummel wrinkled his brow. He followed the boy over.

"Oh, wow!" said the artist. "Welcome! I haven't had a customer in—I don't know how long."

Sample drawings hung from her kiosk. One showed Obi-Wan and Brummel standing in a cave. In another drawing he found likenesses of Coda and the crew walking a mountain path.

"Was Obi-Wan here?" Brummel asked.

"We get lotsa people," she drawled." At least, we used to. Name doesn't ring a bell."

"That's his picture right there!"

"Honey, how can ya tell behind that beard?"

"I swear to—"

"Relax," The Boy said. He tugged Brummel to a chair. "Let's get our portrait done. I've always wanted one. It may be my only chance."

At length Brummel stared into the distance, through the curious ferris wheel that moved the wrong way. He'd always assumed the Force would take vengeance for his sins. But maybe this boy was rather its avatar of pity.

The artist asked, "Would you like a realistic portrait—or should I exaggerate?"

"Show us as we truly are," said The Boy.

"Yes," agreed Brummel. "Let the masks be removed."

The joy of basking in the stars had been leavened by cold.

Obi-Wan went inside, walking to the closet.

He took a blanket and shut the door and found Quinn in the darkness. "Good god, man!" Obi-Wan cried. "What are you doing?"

Quinn grabbed his arms. "Deep in the jungle, you'll find ancient ruins."

"Damn you, Quinn! Stop it!"

"There are two ways to reach the main chamber."

Obi-Wan growled. He threw him against the wall and punched next to Quinn's head.

"Choose wisely," Quinn said.

"I already have!" Obi-Wan yelled. "That is my wife! Those are my children!"

"They are no more your children than a little girl's dolls."

Obi-Wan's hand trembled on the wall. His pale lips pulled under his beard.

He shut his eyes, and Clara and Jackson were stars against black. And in their heat something melted, leaking down his face.

"Obi-Wan?" Padme's voice.

His eyes opened and Quinn was gone. Padme was standing at the end of the hall. He forced spit down his throat, strangely bone-dry. His trembling hand slid down the wall.

"No," he whispered.

Brummel looked too youthful; he was missing pain lines. But otherwise the artist captured him perfectly.

"Looks just like you," The Boy said.

Brummel stared at it. "Too young and naive."

"Because you're so much wiser, right?"

"If you like. We're all running on a wheel. I just run harder."

"Sounds futile," The Boy said.

"Life's too short to overcome, too long not to try. People who say they're happy think trying is good enough."

"But you run harder."

"I run harder," Brummel said.

His head lifted. He heard static from the park speakers. Wait—not static—the hum of a saber, brandished for demonstration.

A slimy voice oozed from the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention, please? Now appearing at Stage 12, the Festival is proud to introduce Jedi Master Adi Gallia!"

Brummel's head turned slowly. A hundred feet away, on a rotted wooden platform against a black backdrop, Adi Gallia smiled coldly. Brummel locked eyes and stood from his chair.

He'd killed her once, when the wound was fresh. Ten years had taught him it wasn't enough. Vengeance is never sated. But he could chase one moment of dismal ecstasy.

"Don't do this," The Boy said.

"And why not?" Brummel growled.

"Because it's not what you want. Not really."

"We're all running on a wheel."

"Please," The Boy begged. "You don't have to do this..."

Brummel reached for his belt, finding a saber where there'd been none. He took it in his hand and marched toward Gallia.

Her black tunic and cloak suggested a Sith. Her disc-shaped saber left no doubt. Purple lightning gathered on her fingers. An appalling cackle beckoned her pupil.

"Hey!"

Brummel turned back.

The Boy's face was ashen. In his eyes was the end of time. "Do you know why you never found peace?" he said. "Because you never sought it."

"That's not true..."

"Revenge isn't peace. Self-loathing isn't peace. Take my hand. Let me show you."

"Show me what?"

"The picture," said The Boy. "It's finished now."

"I don't care about your god damn picture!"

The Boy offered his hand with a tired smile. Wind gathered around him, tousling his hair, and the sun shone such that his eyes looked bottomless.

In Brummel's short life, he'd seen more degradation than I think you can imagine, including from feeble old men and tiny children.

Would The Boy make him a fool—add one more stone on his broken back?

His own voice answered him. Life is too long not to try.

Brummel took his hand. The Boy led him to the artist.

There on the easel was a drawing of Brummel holding baby Barrett.

The Jedi shut his eyes, too late as tears streaked his hard face. A gasp like a sob couldn't be swallowed. His lip quivered and he looked at The Boy. "Barrett?"

"Hi, Dad."

Brummel dropped to his knees. He crushed The Boy to his breast and cried uncontrollably.

Every whimper was a ghost wrenched from his chest, released to this place where they truly belonged.

"Barrett," he sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

"It's okay, Dad," his boy cooed. "It's not your fault. I love you."

"I love you, Barrett. I love you, son. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"I love you. I love you. I love you so much."

"I will always love you," Barrett said. "I will always be with you."

"I want to stay. I want to be with you forever."

"The time will come. We'll be together. But your life's not over. Your friends need you. Coda needs you. Let yourself be happy, Dad."

"I don't know how," Brummel croaked.

"Let her in. You'll find out together."

"I love you, Barrett..."

Brummel held his child for hours and days—maybe he held him forever—until at last his tears ended, and there was air where the boy had been, and dark cavern surrounded him, and the Force released him to become what he would choose.

"Obi-Wan, where are you right now?" Padme asked.

She looked weary. Her hair was tied back in a sensible bun, her dark blue garments beaten by sand. This wasn't the woman who'd remarked on the stars and laid feather kisses. Those who weren't her children outside.

She was an imposter.

Rage obliterated reason. Obi-Wan screamed. "Get out of my house!"

It didn't work. She didn't flinch. Patient empathy governed her person.

And that's when he knew.

The imposter was Obi-Wan, huddled in a fantasy he couldn't bear to leave. Because monsters lived beyond this house. He might be one of them. They were better off where they were, he with his figments and she with reality. Out there he'd never have what he'd built in this house.

He wasn't worthy of love. He never had been. At least here he could cuddle its pale imitation.

"Obi-Wan, you've been here for days," she said very gently. "You need food and water..."

"I have plenty," he said weakly.

"We're on a mission. Do you remember that?"

"I've been on thousands of missions..."

"None more important," Padme said. "You belong in the real world. Come back to it." His eyes squinted and he screwed up his face and she grabbed his hand. "Darth Sidious is looking for a weapon. We have to find it first. Yoda gave you this mission because no one else can do it."

Obi-Wan shuddered. The Force took him in its grasp.

A blaster bolt hit his chest. His skin cooked with radiation. He felt Miler's loss and Quinn's claw squeeze his hand.

But he also felt Clara laughing in his arms. He felt the woman he worshiped take him inside her.

Obi-Wan's eyes shined. "I don't want to go," his voice broke.

Padme wiped the dampness from his beard. Her delicate palm cradled his cheek. She stared into his eyes. "Obi-Wan Kenobi, you are my only hope."

"You're the beat of my heart," he answered.

"And you're mine."

The world spun,

the house warped into a cavern,

and he fell into her arms.