DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
Surrounded by the softness of sleeping boys, Anakin lay wide eyed and sleepless in his bed. It was very late and he was crushingly tired ... but the dreams were getting worse and he was afraid to close his eyes. Afraid of what visions waited for him beyond the waking world.
Two beds over, Bin-yabro muttered something under his breath, and snorted. Kicked his sheets aside, twisting. On a sigh, Anakin slid out of bed. Reached for his robe, struggled into it, and padded to the door. Maybe if he just walked around for a while. Maybe that would help him relax. His head was buzzing, and he felt twice as heavy as normal. That was lack of sleep, he knew. But if he made himself just a little more tired, then maybe the dreams would leave him alone.
Or maybe he wouldn't notice them.
Obi-Wan, gaunt and hollow eyed, with bloody slashes in his tunic and his flesh, holds a notched and splintered wooden staff in his hands. His face is grim and grooved with a despairing, dogged determination. He raises the staff. Defends himself in a sluggish series of blows and counter-blows. Exhaustion is written in every line of his body. He stumbles. Goes down. A blade flashes overhead --
"Anakin? Anakin, what are you doing out here? It's long past the final bell, you should be in your bed, asleep!"
Head spinning, fear thick and cloying in his mind and mouth, Anakin fell against the blessed solidarity of the corridor wall and stared up into the anxious face of H'ellen Tidares, one of the fourth year Novices, and a friend.
"Please," he whispered. "I have to see Master Yoda. Please take me to him. It's very important."
H'ellen shook her head. "The Council is in closed session, Anakin, and has been for nearly a week now. You know that. I can't take you up there. I'm sorry, I just can't."
"Please., H'ellen," he begged her. "Something terrible is happening, and I have to tell them. I have to warn them. If they don't do something, I'm afraid Obi-Wan is going to die." He was crying, and he didn't care. He was tired and scared and if Obi-Wan did die he'd be here all alone amongst strangers who treated him like he was some kind of dangerous animal that had to be watched around the clock in case it went crazy and started attacking people.
If that's what being 'The Chosen One' meant, then the Force could just go choose someone else. He'd rather go back to being a slave.
H'ellen put her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Anakin, I don't know ..."
He clutched her arm with both hands, and shook her. "They won't be mad, H'ellen, I know they won't. I'm not making this up, I swear I'm not. You have to believe me. Please!"
H'ellen sighed. "May the Force be with me. All right. We'll go see Master Yoda."
Obi-Wan stumbles. Goes down. A blade flashes overhead --
"Hurry!' he gasped, and dragged her after him down the hallway towards the airlifts.
The Council chamber outer doors were closed. A soft blue light glowed beside them, indicating the closed session. Ignoring that, he banged on them with both fists. The doors slid open to reveal a gently shocked Chamber Guardian.
"What is the meaning of this?" she enquired. "The Council --"
"I know, I know, closed session, can't be disturbed, why aren't I in bed?" Anakin said impatiently. "I have to see Master Yoda. Please don't stop me."
The Guardian gave H'ellen a hard look. "Anakin, this is most irregular. I am afraid it was ill-advised for you to be brought here."
He scowled. And that was another thing. He really, really hated the way everyone in this place seemed to know his name. Who and what he was. Where he came from ... when he still hardly knew anybody. It gave them an unfair advantage.
"Look, ma'am," he said. "Don't blame H'ellen, I made her bring me. And I only came because it's important. Do you really think I'd be here if it wasn't?"
The Guardian opened her mouth, thought about it, and shut her teeth with a snap. Cast a worried glance back over her shoulder. "Anakin, of course I understand that you wouldn't be here if you didn't think it was important. But --"
"A problem here, is there?" a tart voice enquired.
The Guardian turned, bowed low. "Master Yoda. Forgive me. I --"
Anakin pushed by her to confront Yoda. Bobbed an insufficient bow and said, "Master Yoda, I'm sorry sir, I know you're very busy and the Council is in closed session and all but please, sir, please, you have to listen to me."
Yoda's ears rose. "Have to, do I?" he said, eyes wide.
If he weren't already terrified for Obi-Wan, that deceptively mild tone would have had him quaking. "Please, please, can I just come in and explain?"
Yoda nodded. "You can."
He flashed a relieved grin at H'ellen, and fought the temptation to blow a Jar-Jar at the Guardian. Then he scuttled after Yoda. The Inner Doors opened, he stepped through them, and met the combined enquiry of the Council.
Mace Windu said, "Anakin. You have good reason, I trust, to disrupt us in this fashion?"
He swallowed. Windu was another one that rattled him. Of all the Council, he'd seen most of him and Yoda. With Yoda, you knew where you stood. You might not like it much, but at least you knew. Mace Windu, though, was as easy to grasp as wet soap in the bath. He bowed, hoping he'd managed to include everyone because bobbing up and down made him dizzy.
"Master Windu, sir, I'm sorry. I had to. Obi-Wan is in terrible trouble. We have to help him."
A single glance rippled around the gathered Jedi. "What makes you say this?" Ki-Adi-Mundi enquired gently.
"I've seen it!" he said. "I have dreams and sometimes they -- come true." He waited a moment, waited for laughter or scorn or anger or disbelief. They didn't come. Silent, attentive, the Council waited for him to continue. He took a deep breath, and let it out. "I've been dreaming about Obi-Wan every night. He's fighting someone, or something. I think he's been fighting for a very long time. I don't know why I think that, I just do. He feels very tired. And he's afraid. And he can't keep going for much longer! Please, sirs, please, we have to do something!"
Another rippling glance. Mace Windu said, "We know, Anakin. We have been watching."
Watching? "Sir, I'm sorry. I don't understand."
"Impressive, it is, that your dreams have been so clear," said Yoda. "And credit it does you, to be so concerned for Obi-Wan. But the truth Mace Windu has told you. Know, the Council does, of the trial Obi-Wan faces. Help him we cannot."
"But why?" he demanded. "Why can't we --"
Mace Windu leaned forward and beckoned. "Anakin. I know this is hard for you to understand. There is still much you have to learn about the ways of the Jedi. About the Code. Qui-Gon was a great man. In many ways, the greatest of us all. But he was also ... unorthodox. I fear that from him you may have received the wrong impression about how things are done."
He hardly heard the words. Turned and stared at the gathered Council one by one. "Is this a punishment?" he demanded. "Are you making Obi-Wan pay for being angry when he fought the dark warrior on Naboo? Because if it is, that is so unfair! Of course he was angry. The dark warrior killed Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan loved Qui-Gon. How could he not be angry?"
"As you are angry?" Ki-Adi-Mundi said. "Now?"
"This isn't about me," he retorted.
"Wrong, you are," said Yoda. "It is always about you."
"Because I'm The Chosen One?" he countered, and let all his resentment and skepticism show.
Mace Windu said, "No, Anakin. Because in the end, it is only ever about us. What we as individuals do, to affect the balance of the Force. Every thought, every action, creates a reaction... for good, or evil. There is no place in a Jedi's heart and mind for anger. Or hate. Or fear. All these things lead to the Dark side. Obi-Wan knows this. He knows he must conquer these feelings within himself before he can continue to serve the Light."
"Well he's not going to conquer anything if he's dead, is he?"
Yoda sighed. "Your own feelings must you conquer, Anakin Skywalker, if any further down this road you wish to travel."
Outraged, he glared at them. What were they, stones? Lumps of wood? "Don't you care?" he cried. "Doesn't it matter to you that Obi-Wan is in trouble? In pain? Alone and scared and fighting for his life? Because if you don't care, then this is all just one great big mistake. If being a Jedi means that you have to turn your back on your friends when they're in trouble, then I don't want to be one! That's not the kind of person my mother wants me to be!" He was panting. Near tears. "Do you want to know what I think? I think you all spend too much time up here in your precious Council Chamber, high above everyone and everything, and too little time down there on the ground, in the real world, where real people live. That's what I think!"
Shocked silence reverberated around the room.
Mace Windu said, "You are overwrought, Anakin. You should return to your bed and try to sleep. Leave matters for the Council to the Council."
He could have flung himself on the cool floor and banged his heels against the tiles. Thrown back his head and screamed his rage to the ceilinged sky. But why bother? He was a child, and they were the high and mighty Jedi Council.
I won't always be a child. When I am a man, I will do what I want and that'll be the end of it.
"Go now," said Yoda. "Warned us, you have. The Force will account for the rest."
Exhausted, he turned and walked away. No bow of respect. They didn't deserve one.
I tried, Master. Please, please believe me. I tried.
Balancing the laden tray on one hand, Shmi pushed the cell door open and slipped inside. Shoving it closed again with her hip, she smiled ruefully to herself. Who needed a lock and key when the prisoners had made it perfectly clear they weren't going anywhere? The transponder in her body was a better chain than any metal forged ... and Obi-Wan's promise not to abandon her kept him trapped as successfully as any restrainers.
Obi-Wan.
Crossing the small stretch of floor between door and cot, she bent to put the tray down, then straightened and just stood there, looking at him. It was hard not to cry.
In eight days he had fought and won eight matches ... and with each match, the savagery of his opponents grew. Twice he'd been faced with more than one attacker, and for the past three nights, the challengers had come from off-world. Word had spread along the blackmarket grapevine of the captured Jedi who could fight as no-one in the Outer Rim had ever seen. Of the fantastic sums of money changing hands. And claws. And tentacles. On one fight alone, the second, Obi-Wan pitted against three Rodarii, Jabba had won four hundred thousand credits. Enough money to buy the freedom of half the slaves on Tatooine, at least.
It was blood money of the foulest kind.
Jabba made her watch every fight. Made her sit beside him, his loathsome fingers caressing her neck as he belched foul breath and swallowed small creatures alive. Every so often he would pinch her, hard enough to win a cry of pain, even though she tried so hard not to react. Not to make things worse for Obi-Wan, who would look at her with eyes so wounded, so haunted, that her heart broke anew within her every time. And Jabba would laugh, and press her close, and everyone knew what he was saying without a word being spoken.
It was impossible not to hate him.
Watching Obi-Wan fight was as bad as watching Anakin podrace. Worse, in some ways. Anakin had never been hurt. Obi-Wan was hurt every night. In heart, and mind, and body.
It couldn't go on for much longer. She'd tried to tell Jabba, pleaded on her knees for him to stop this cruel insanity. Attempting an appeal to his insatiable greed, she told him that being a Jedi did not make Obi-Wan indestructible. That the fights were taking an unbearable toll. That it wasn't good business to dip from the well more often than it could support. He'd hit her so hard that she actually blacked out for a few seconds. She told Obi-Wan that she'd tripped in the corridor and banged her cheek on the wall. He knew she was lying, but he did not question her story. Just eased the pain of the bruise for her, and then returned to his meditation. It was taking longer and longer, now, for him to heal the damage sustained during the vicious bouts that were making Jabba so rich. By a miracle she could only welcome, not explain, no bones had been broken. But he had been cut and torn and wrenched and clawed, battered and bruised and bitten and burned. And he had survived it all, without killing his opponents.
Until last night.
With a sigh, she settled herself on the narrow cot beside him and put a careful hand on his shoulder. "Obi-Wan," she said softly. "Obi-Wan, I have food. Come. Sit up. You must eat something."
He stirred beneath her hand. Grunted. "No."
"Obi-Wan, please. You fight again in five hours. Please, please eat something."
He shook his head. Kept himself turned away from her, hidden. "No."
Pressing her lips tight together, because one of them had to be strong, she eased calming air in and out of her lungs. "Obi-Wan, don't do this. Please. You had no choice. He was going to kill you. He was going to plunge that sword right into your heart!"
"I had a choice."
"To die! That's all. Instead you chose life. There is nothing wrong with that."
"I killed."
It was hard not to shake him. "To save yourself. You have done that before. This is no different."
He did look at her then. He was as white as the desert at midday. "You know it is."
Leaning over, she picked up a bowl from the tray and held it out to him. "At least have some soup. I tasted it, it's not so bad. Here --"
He snatched the bowl from her fingers and threw it against the wall. "I said no! Go away! Leave me alone!"
For a long time she sat there watching the thin gruel drip down the dirty bricks. Listened to him weep. Tears filled her own eyes, and wet her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.
This could not go on at all.
"Obi-Wan, I think you should --"
"No."
"It is my life. My right."
"How many times must I say it?" he asked. He sounded tired beyond bearing. "I will not leave you here."
"Then I will go. I will walk out of this hateful place without you."
He sat up. Grabbed her shoulders and pulled her round to face him. "You can't do that! You promised!"
"What I can't do," she said, struggling not to sob aloud, "is watch you dying by inches, hating yourself and punishing yourself for staying alive! Those you fight want to kill you! Surely you can see that? They want to be famous for killing a Jedi! And very soon now, one of them will get its wish, because you cannot do this for very much longer. Can you?"
His sudden passion spent, he released her and tipped sideways to lean against the wall. His pallid face was still marked from the previous night's battle. His eyes were sunken, and his cheeks, and there was a faint tremor in him all the time now, like a thin keen wind blowing beneath his skin.
"No," he said, and closed his eyes. "But that's all right. Once I'm dead, Jabba will send you back to Watto, and you'll be safe."
She buried her face in her hands. If only he were wrong. But he wasn't. The only way she would get out of here alive was for him to continue fighting with all his heart ... until his heart gave out, and he was slaughtered like a beast on the butcher's block. Then, and only then, would she be free to return to her home. If she did try to walk away, Jabba would kill her. And that would destroy Obi-Wan. Hurt him worse than anything done to him so far.
"Shmi," he whispered, and touched her arm. "Please. The only thing that makes this bearable is knowing that you will go home. That one day Anakin will return to free you, as he promised, and that you will have the life you deserve."
Blinded by tears, she clutched his hand. "I hate this," she said fiercely. "I hate Jabba. And I hate Watto, for --"
"No," Obi-Wan said gently, and brushed his fingers against her cheek. "Don't hate. You're too good for that. This is the will of the Force. We must submit, and be joyful in surrender."
He meant it ... and his simple sincerity broke her completely. It was wrong, he was the one in need. She should be helping him, comforting him, not ...
"I'm sorry," he was saying into her hair as he held her. Rocked her. "I'm sorry I threw the bowl, it was poorly done, Qui-Gon would be ashamed of me. You've been so wonderful, so brave. All you have to do is hold on a little longer. Just a little longer, Shmi. It is nearly over now, I promise. Please, please, do not worry any more. Not about me. Not about anything."
Then he was easing her down on the cot, and pulling a blanket over her and she was suddenly so tired, so very tired ...
"Eat," she said. Her voice sounded faint, even to her.
"Dear Shmi," he said. "I will. Now sleep. Sleep."
The last thing she knew, before blessed unawareness claimed her, was the press of his lips against her hair.
After forcing down the food she'd brought him, he stretched out on the other cot and sought a measure of peace. It was hard to find. Body and mind were both in pain, both stressed beyond any level he'd ever known. No lesson learned in over twenty years of training in the Temple, with Qui-Gon, had prepared him for this. Yes, in the past he'd been injured. Wounded. Had faced danger ... deprivation ... evil. But never on a scale such as this.
And never alone. In the past, there had always been Qui-Gon.
Without Qui-Gon, he did not think he could prevail.
Loss was still an aching hollow within. He had come to believe he would never feel whole again. Never draw another breath without hurting. Without missing him.
Enough. This is pointless. You cannot change the past. The future is a closed book. Live in the moment. Do what you can do here and now. The rest is smoke on the wind.
So Qui-Gon had told him, time and time again past counting.
He closed his eyes. Sank inside himself ... and slept.
As he slept, he dreamed.
"Well," said Qui-Gon. "This isn't very good, now is it, my Padawan?"
He bowed his head. "No, Master."
Qui-Gon smiled. "I suppose I shall have to stop calling you that."
"No," he said again. "Whatever else I am, or may become, I shall always be your Padawan. And you shall always be my Master."
"Are you angry, Obi-Wan? Fearful?"
He lifted his gaze, seeking guidance. "I know it is wrong, Master. I know --"
"Not as much, perhaps, as you think you do," Qui-Gon said kindly. "And more than you could dream of. Obi-Wan, to be human is to fear. And love. And hate. To be Jedi is to choose. It's as simple and as complicated as that. All you have to do is choose."
"Choose what, Master?" he asked. "Choose how?"
Qui-Gon laughed. "Choose wisely, my dear Padawan. And the Force will take care of the rest."
Startled out of sleep, he sat up. Qui-Gon?
Aside from himself and Shmi, the cell was empty. Heart pounding, shaking all his hurts to wakefulness once more, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. If only he could rest, properly. Be given time to heal. Pain was his constant companion, now, wearing him down, eroding his confidence. He needed more time ... but he was not going to get it. He would just have to do what he could, with the limited resources that remained.
In the other bed, Shmi sighed and shifted in uneasy sleep. What a glorious woman she was. No wonder Qui-Gon had liked her. For himself, he thought he was some small measure in love, as a boy will idolise his mother, or an older sister. How little she deserved the life she lived. The cruelty of it, and the waste. How obscene, that she should be held ransom to a being such as Jabba. Threatened and violated and hurt.
Because of me.
No wound he had suffered so far could match the pain of that. It almost made him glad, that he would never see Anakin again. Unbearable, the thought of telling the boy what his mother had endured because of him. Because he could not find a way out of this catastrophe. Because, in the end, he was not good enough.
They made me a knight too soon. I am not worthy.
In the beginning, some small shameful part of him had actually enjoyed the testing of his skills. The exploration of his limits. As an exercise it had been interesting, to see how well he could disable and defeat an opponent without killing or causing lasting damage.
As it turned out ... very well.
Too well.
He had given Jabba exactly what he wanted: spectacle and notoriety and incredible amounts of money. The Hutt's position had improved a thousandfold, thanks to him.
Well done, Obi-Wan. What a credit you are to your teachers. Your Order. The memories of all great Jedi who have passed before you.
He needed sleep. Needed tranquility, and long meditation, to cleanse his heart and mind of everything that did not become a Jedi. It was so hard. So hard. He did not hate those who tried to slay him. For all their ferocity and eagerness to claim his life as a trophy, in the end they too were prisoners and to be pitied, not hated. Not even the Slavid last night, whose mind had spewed forth such loathing, such lust for his blood, it had felt as though he would choke.
The Slavid's blade flashed overhead, bright death suspended. Was it time? Was it now? Death was the only solution, the only guarantee of freedom. He knew that, he accepted that.
He thought he accepted it.
But as the blade swung down, he rolled to safety. Snatched the splintering staff to his hand and with the last of his strength summoned the Force within. Bleeding, drenched in cold sweat, hot air escaping his lungs in an explosive cry, he punched the end of his weapon through the Slavid's exposed throat. Green blood fountained. The Slavid squawked once. Tried to lift the sword, to deliver the killing blow. Failed. Died.
Gasping, he flattened his hands to his face. No more. He would see it no more.
Jabba laughed, heaving bursts of amusement that shook him head to tail. Faithful as an echo, the droid said, "Ha! Ha! I win, Jedi. I win!"
If he could have summond death then, he would have. For Jabba. For himself. The hatred that flared bright as the suns burned for them both and he would have died gladly, died smiling, if the last thing his living eyes saw was the Hutt bloody and broken at his feet.
All the pains of his battered flesh awoke to screaming pitch as acid fury washed through him, corroding the mental barriers he rebuilt every night, every morning.
Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.
It was Yoda's favourite saying. He had made it his mantra, sung it a thousand times since opening his eyes a prisoner here, in an effort to quench the banked and glowing fires of anger and hatred that threatened to consume him. Above all, he must reject hate. Hate and the white-hot desire for revenge had placed his feet upon this dreadful path. Fighting the Sith, he had welcomed it. Embraced it. Gloried in the power that lifted him beyond himself, beyond what he knew he could do. All his life the Temple teachers and Masters had warned him of the Dark side. But not one, not even Qui-Gon, had ever come close to describing it.
It was beautiful. Speed and reflex and a strength beyond imagination.
All you have to do is choose.
Abruptly, he was angry. Choose, Qui-Gon? Choose what? What, precisely, were his choices here? To escape, which he could have done a hundred times already, and leave Shmi to pay the price? To continue fighting for Jabba, night after night, hurting, maiming ... killing, so that the Hutt could grow ever richer? To die, leaving Shmi to an uncertain fate? To refuse, which would again leave Shmi scapegoat and subject to retribution?
What a glorious range of options, to be sure.
There was one other alternative. One he could hardly dare to contemplate. He could turn to the Dark side. Deliberately. Willingly. Use its limitless powers to destroy Jabba, destroy this place, the evil that flourished here unchecked. Use it to free Shmi, and every other miserable wretch enslaved by the Hutt. He could do it. In the brief moments between Qui-Gon's fall and the Sith warrior's death, he had glimpsed what was possible within the realms of the Dark side.
He could do it.
All you have to do is choose.
Would it be so bad? Truly? If he did embrace the Dark, it would be for a good reason. Not for power, or greed, or personal gain, but to save lives. To end a great evil. There was even a pleasing symmetry to the idea: evil turned upon itself. Darkness defeating darkness. Yes, he would be lost, but Shmi would be saved. After all, his death guaranteed her nothing. Maybe she'd be returned to Watto, to live out her days in drudgery. Maybe she wouldn't. It would be better, surely, to make a sacrifice that actually achieved some good?
Drifting, he saw himself triumphant. Steeped in darkness, but wielding a power beyond the reach of such petty thugs as Jabba and his cohorts. Brilliant and blazing his retribution upon them, annihilating their evil once and for all, punishing them as they deserved to be punished. Inflicting pain for pain, terror for terror ...
Choose wisely, my dear Padawan.
The echo of his dream, of Qui-Gon's beloved voice, struck him like a hammer blow. Propelled him off the uncomfortable cot, across the small cell and face first into the opposite wall where he pressed himself, shaking.
In the name of the Living Force ... what was he thinking? Embrace the Dark side? Only if he wished to dishonour the memory of a man he loved and honoured and respected above all others. What a legacy to his wisdom and teaching that would be.
Qui-Gon! How I have failed you. How disappointed you must be ... would be... How I wish you were here.
Without the wall to support him, he would have fallen. Palms pressed flat to the rough bricks, he clung to its impersonal strength as a dying man, reluctant, clings to life.
I will not turn, I will not turn, I will not turn.
This was what fear did. Hate. Anger. Aggression. They opened mind and heart and soul to the seduction of the Dark, offered simple solutions to complicated problems. Negated humanity. Celebrated death.
I will not turn.
Slowly, slowly, he ceased shaking. Found the small, still space within that held the flame of the living Force, and coaxed it to brighter life. Banished the ravening Dark. Beat back the raging fires of fear and anger and hate that hourly threatened to destroy him.
In the end, there was only one choice. To live within the Light. To die within the Light.
The time had come to end this. No more fighting. No more profiteering from pain and suffering. No more flirtations with the Dark.
It was over. It was time to trust in the Force. To submit, and be joyful in surrender.
For the first time since this had begun, he felt at peace. Purposeful. Like a Jedi.
Laying down once more upon the cot, he composed himself and sank into a healing sleep.
Three hours later a guard came in and kicked the bed until he woke.
It was time.
Mace Windu shook his head, and joined Yoda at the window. "I cannot believe we are doing this," he muttered. "It is strictly against the Code."
Yoda snorted. "Remind me of this, you need not, Mace Windu," he pointed out. "A hand I had in writing it. But nothing written, there is, that cannot stand a little editing now and then, hmm?"
"But what of the precedent we are setting? What kind of message are we sending out?" Mace fretted.
Yoda looked up at him. "Heard the boy, you did. Sending a message we already were. The right one, think you?"
Mace folded his arms across his chest. "I know. I know." He managed a grim smile. "You realise, of course, that wherever he is right now, Qui-Gon is laughing his head off?"
Yoda nodded. "Of course."
"You had better be right about this, old friend."
Yoda patted his hand. "I am. Trust me ... I am."
Frustrated, Mace glared through the window at an enemy yet to be seen face to face. "It is a great risk we take, Yoda. We still do not know which path Obi-Wan will choose."
"Important, that is," Yoda agreed. "But also important is the message we send today. If the Sith indeed are rising, vital it is that all beings know one thing: wise it is not to rouse the righteous might of the Jedi."
"The righteous might," Mace echoed. Contemplated the next few hours, and shook his head in wonder. "Yes. The righteous might indeed."