Archive: Anyone who wants and JAOA
Archive Date: September 21, 2000
Author's Webpage: http://digitalmidnight.simplenet.com/garden/jaoa.html
Category: Drama, Angst
Disclaimer: George is god. I'm just mucking around in this little side
universe for fun. ^_^
Feedback: Always! I need to keep the bunnies fed...
Pairing: A, H
Rating: PG
Series: JAOA
Summary: The conclusion of the lesson.
The stretch tingled outward from shoulder to fingertips, burning softly. Anakin flexed his hand, rotating wrist and neck to loosen the muscles. Sighing softly, he sank down, pressing his palms to the floor between his feet and feeling an answering tingle surge up his calves.
Five days. He could count them off on the fingers of one hand. Five days of feeling as though he were constantly at a loss, out of his element and far beyond his depth as he tried to fill a place he was certain he was hardly qualified for. Five days of another life placed within his hands.
Swearing softly, Anakin slid into a long, low lunge that warmed the muscles of thigh and calf. He still found himself perpetually suppressing the urge to look around whenever Han said "Master". He had ruefully imagined the reflex to answer to his new title would become easier over time.
Five days, and he was a wreck of overwrought nerves. How, by all the Sith, did anyone do this for years?
Drawing himself up once more, he flexed shoulders and back, letting the loose warmth of his body guide itself. It was no longer 'late'; rather, it was the earliest hours of the morning, one of the rare times when the vast Temple grew almost silent. He hadn't bothered to lay down - sleep would have been impossible. Meditation had proved just as useless, his thoughts twisting and slipping around each other with a restlessness that would not be tamed. Obi-Wan, frustrated with his endless pacing, had at last pushed him out into the corridor and suggested he seek something from the Healers to make him rest if necessary.
Anakin shuddered at the thought. He hated the hazy, sluggish feeling such drugs left behind. And he dreaded the thought of what his sleeping mind might conjure, left to its own devices with him a captive audience.
He flexed his fingers, stretching them out and then clenching them tight, feeling the blunt circles of his nails sink into his flesh. He could still, if he let himself dwell on it, feel the sharp sting across his palm and the back of his knuckles. If he closed his eyes he could hear the crack of flesh on flesh, and the crash of body and chair tumbling to the ground and the high, shocked cry.
If he let himself think about it he was going to be sick again, and he had already been through dry heaves, chest aching and the taste of bile in his throat as his former Master wordlessly handed him damp towels and cups of weak tea to bring it under control.
He needed, desperately, not to think. That quest had lead him to the training halls, dark and silent in the odd hours, and the only thing he could think to drive his mind into submission to his body. Eyes half slitted, he forced himself into the first position of an openhanded Form of offense, stilling the tremble along his muscles and resisting the near overwhelming urge to strike out, to lash and kick and let loose the things that were twisting inside.
Set an example. He must set an example. He had been chanting it to himself, like a mantra, for half the evening. He must teach by example. Slowly, reluctantly, his adrenaline flooded muscles followed his command. Done at half speed, each motion took more strength then it would have at full as gravity worked to draw him off balance in the transition from kick to recoil, block to strike. Normally, he would have enjoyed the challenge of it. Now, it was a battle, one he set himself to conquer with clenched teeth and ragged determination.
Set an example.
A high kick, snapped out and recoiled in smooth slowness, the loosened muscles of his legs warm with the motion. Block, twist, gliding around; an imaginary opponent fell, thrown to the floor across one out thrust hip, only to spring back into place as he continued into the next level of the Form. Loose himself in the purely physical actions, letting his body guide his mind. Trying, desperately, to loose himself in the burn of muscle.
He grit his teeth so hard they hurt and acknowledge that there was probably nothing that would ever stop him from reliving the last day in his own personal nightmares.
Obi-Wan had picked him up off of the cold tile floor of the dressing chamber when he had finally stopped heaving. "Go back to your quarters," his Master had suggested. "Go talk to him."
"I can't!" His own panicked voice had broken just as badly as Han's had, the sound distorted in his ears. "Force, I can't!"
His Master's expression had said everything, not the least of which was coward, but Anakin hadn't cared. Better that, by far, then to face the truth. Better anything then to face the awful sound of wracking sobs that had haunted him for hours, the echoes of them trickling through his mind, burning through the bond until he would have given anything to block it out. They hadn't heard, they hadn't known, and it was a private guilt Anakin refused to share.
Around and around again on the cool mats of the training hall, from one Form to the next, each longer and more complex. His body performed each move by rote with simple efficiency and his mind would not be stilled. The echoes were quiet now, but he suspected it was only because physical exhaustion had caught up to the boy.
"I didn't see the incident," Master Koth had told him acidly, after all of the Padawans had been hurried on their way. "I don't think anyone did, certainly not Edrian's Padawan. It was a Force enhanced attack." And then, not giving him any time to dwell on that; "What were you thinking, Skywalker?"
He had tried to explain, to put it into words, but they had sounded empty even to him. In the end he could only hope that his first instinct at seeing the defiant, set expression on the boy's face had been right. Koth had been scathingly dubious, Obi-Wan disapproving. Qui-Gon had only shaken his head, his expression resigned.
"You couldn't take the easy path, either one of you, could you?" the elderly Master had said, and left it at that.
Strike and twist and strike again, because it was easier to keep going then it would be to stop. If he stopped, he would have to find something else to do. Something other then beat his fists against the walls and scream in frustration.
He had turned it over in his mind a thousand times through the afternoon, worrying at it, doubt creeping in and gnawing at him. What if he was wrong? His Masters had said nothing, but he thought, on some level, they understood. It had been a moment of stomach clenching fear to see the bruise across the other boy's face. Edrian's Padawan was spending the evening with the Healers, having a loosened tooth reseated. In those scant heartbeats, forced to find something on the spur of the moment, his only thought had been to drive the lesson home any way possible.
No one had said anything but he suspected, bitterly, that it was as much a test of the Master as of the student. And what if he, himself, failed when Han had not?
The hiss of the training hall door opening spun him about, his stomach clenching painfully as he forced a less revealing expression onto his face.
Framed in the doorway, clad only in rumpled sleep trousers, his bare feet silent on the tiles, Han hesitated. The boy's face was pale and blotched, his eyes swollen and red rimmed, making him look years younger. It sickened Anakin to see the dark ghost of a bruise across the boy's cheek and he had to swallow sharply to keep the facade of his composure. Even harder was to wrest control of his voice, to force the proper sternness there. "I told you to stay in our quarters."
Han edged past the frame of the door, letting it hiss shut behind him. His thin arms were wrapped tight around his chest, but his spine was straight and stiff and his dark eyes met Anakin's squarely. "I have an answer," he said, his voice, abused by crying, cracking awkwardly across every other word.
Anakin closed his eyes for a single heartbeat, rigidly locking his knees to keep himself in place. "What is it?"
Han swallowed, his eyes skittering away to look at the far wall. "We both hit," he said thinly, "and you want to know what the difference was." He swallowed again, arms tightening around himself. "I... I hit him because I was angry. I lost my temper and he was saying things and I just wanted to hit him until he took it back..."
The boy's voice trailed off. Anakin couldn't seem to draw breath, waiting, his own fists clenched. "And?"
Han's eyes came reluctantly back to him. He hesitated and then the words came blurting out in a breathless stream. "And you're not! You're not angry, you're upset and you hurt but you're not angry so you must've been trying to teach me something but... but I don't understand..." Han's voice was spiraling up desperately, his dark eyes bright with unshed tears. "I don't understand, but if you're not angry then am I still your Padawan?"
The last of his strength dropped away, whooshing out in the hiss of his expelled breath. "Han," he said softly, "come here."
The boy hesitated, teeth worrying at his lower lip. "Am I?
The bark of laughter was almost a sob. "Yes! Force, yes. Now, come here!"
He came, bare feet padding silent on the practice mats, and when he was in arms reach Anakin gathered him close, pulling the boy to his chest and holding him tight, his cheek pressed to the soft ruff of dark hair. Han stiffened, then, tentatively, returned the embrace, his hands fisting in the fabric of Anakin's tunic. His voice was thin and uncertain. "Master?"
"I'm sorry," Anakin breathed. "Oh, Force, Han, I'm so sorry."
The relief was almost palpable, like a nearly hysterical warmth bursting from inside. Han's hands tightened on his arms, the boy pressing close to his chest as though he might never let go. Anakin could feel the small shivers that ran through his slight frame and he held him tighter, swearing softly to himself and at everything the day past had put the both of them through.
After a few heartbeats Han slowly pulled away again, enough to tilt his head back and look at the older man. "I don't understand," he repeated softly.
Anakin sighed. Letting go, he gestured to the mat. "Sit down," he suggested, suiting action to words. After a moment Han joined him, feet tucked beneath his knees, elbows resting on his thighs. Anakin scrubbed his palms across his face, drawing a slow breath.
"You're right," he said at last. "I'm not angry." At least, he might admit privately to himself, not at the boy or at anything Han had done. "That is the lesson, Han. You struck in anger."
He watched the boy's dark brows draw down as Han considered that, worrying slowly at his lower lip again as he thought. He could feel it when the thought finally crystallized, the incredulousness and the flare of bright temper. Han was staring now, almost a glare, mouth open.
"The lesson," Anakin prodded gently.
Han snapped his mouth closed, the words spat through gritted teeth. "Peace over anger." And then, before Anakin could say anything, "Is that what that was all about? It was some kind of test, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Anakin admitted, and that was enough to set Han off.
"Sith!" The boy's hands came down on the mat, the sharp slap echoing. "Sith... they don't think I'm good enough, do they? They think you're wasting your time on me! They want me to leave! And they set that sith spawned Shev up to it and he was saying the worst things..."
"Han!" Anakin raised his voice, cutting sharply across the boy's in mid rant and making him fall silent, face set in angry, rebellious lines. Drawing a deep breath, Anakin thoughtlessly tugged on a handful of his own hair. "What was the other Padawan saying?" And, when Han refused to answer, eyes turning away, he chuckled ruefully. "It was about me, wasn't it?"
The boy started, almost guiltily. Smiling slightly, for the first time in hours, Anakin reached out and gently ruffled Han's dark hair. "It was about me and it was as insulting as he could make it," he confirmed. "Han, it's not just you. They do it to all of the new Padawans."
Han gaped, caught in surprise. "What?"
Anakin nodded slowly. "It's a test of loyalty. A Padawan who won't defend their Master, even against a harmless verbal attack... would you trust that Padawan at your back in battle?" He let that sink in, watching as understanding slowly flickered through the boy's dark eyes before pressing on. "It's also a test of you. To see how you handle it. Defense can take many forms."
Han sat back, absently tugging on the short length of his braid as he drew his knees up to his chest. "Did I fail?" he asked at last, with a tone that said he had already guessed the answer.
"No," Anakin replied, warmed by the boy's start of surprise. "No, you didn't. What was questionable was the way in which you responded."
"Hitting him, you mean," Han replied disgustedly.
"Not exactly." The Knight laughed softly, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "Given the temperament and resources of those involved, hitting isn't always a bad mark. I started an all out fist fight in the middle of the main corridor when they insulted Master Qui-Gon."
Han mulled that over for a moment. He was almost comically serious, huddled there on the mat, arms wrapped around his knees as he rocked slightly from front to back. "I should have taken it out of the dining hall?" he guessed at last, the ghost of a reckless grin touching his lips.
Anakin forced his own answering grin back down, making himself give the answer the seriousness it deserved. "No. But you shouldn't have used the Force."
Han stopped rocking abruptly, eyes wide. His mouth opened in a silent "o" of surprise, then closed again as he swallowed rapidly. "I... I did?"
Anakin felt his own brows rise upwards. "Han, you flung your tray at Shev and then attacked him at such a Force enhanced speed that Master Koth didn't even catch all of the exchange. What else would you call it?"
Han was blinking, but every time he paused his eyes would grow wider, white nearly ringing the dark pupils. "I... but..." he floundered, reaching up to tug harder on his braid. "But I don't know how!"
"I know that," Anakin said levelly. "No Initiate would. You did it on the moment, when you needed to, without thinking. Do you remember how it happened?"
"Yes... No..." Han grimaced, biting on his lip. "Maybe?" Groaning, he dropped his head to his knees, his voice muffled. "I don't know. I didn't even see the tray. I was so angry and then everything just got really clear and it was like everyone had stopped moving except for me and it was just so easy."
"You reached out to the Force in a moment of high emotion and channeled it in a way you haven't been taught," Anakin clarified softly. "Your lesson records indicate you've had some trouble with objects..."
"I moved a rock once," Han said, not looking up. One hand detached from his knee, thumb and forefinger held a knuckle's width apart to illustrate. "It was a very small rock."
Anakin rigorously suppressed his smile. "The point is that your marks in your lessons wouldn't indicate that you could do what you did in the dining hall."
The boy shifted slightly, dark eyes appearing above the barrier of his knees. "You mean I might actually have some talent?" There was sarcasm there, but also a desperate edge of hope.
Anakin sighed. "Han, if I didn't already think that, you wouldn't be here. But you did something completely unexpected in a moment of anger." He kept his voice gentle as he spoke. "Where do you think that strength came from?"
Han raised his head, propping his chin on his knees. He started to open his mouth to reply and then stopped, hesitating. Anakin felt the small burst of the realization between them, even as Han's jaw firmed into a stubborn line. "No."
"Yes," Anakin corrected softly.
"No!" Han declared. "I didn't... that couldn't be... I wouldn't do that!"
"I don't say you did it on purpose," Anakin replied. "Han - if there was one thing the Order learned during the Wars, it was that the crossing of the line from light to dark is rarely a conscious choice. It is fueled by emotion; anger, fear, passion, desperation. There are very few of us who haven't touched it at one time or another, even just for a moment. And when you do... it is very, very easy." He let those words sink in, watching what little color remained in the boy's face drain away. "For someone at your age, at your stage of training, it is incredibly dangerous." He leaned forward, fingertips lightly brushing the dark bruise across Han's cheek. "Padawan... I am sorry for this. But do you understand why I did it?"
Han swallowed, the sound audible in the stillness of the hall. "Peace over anger," he whispered softly. "I'll remember." Dark eyes glanced up, meeting Anakin's own with a look he had never seen on the boy before. "Master... I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Anakin said softly. "Just remember." Looping his arm around the boy's shoulder, he urged them both to their feet. "Come on." Smiling slightly, he pushed Han gently towards the door. "We can both catch at least the illusion of sleep before Master Obi-Wan pounds the door down at first light."