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.
The noise in Jabba's gaming room came in drowning waves. Shmi pressed her hands to her ears, trying to blot it out, dampen it somehow. Her head was pounding and she'd only been seated on the dais for five minutes. The packed room stank of bodies, and smoke, and a panting eagerness for blood and death. There were so many beings crowded head to shoulder to hip she had to crane her neck awkwardly to see down into the pit where the battles took place. Droidcams whizzed overhead, lights flashing as they recorded this most recent bout. Bookmakers screeched the latest odds. Rivals hooted and yowled. Brief fights broke out here and there, to be quelled unforgivingly by Jabba's guards.
But even so ... even with the shouting and the buzzing and the yelling and the screaming ... even so, she could hear the terrified beating of her own heart. Her mouth was desert dry, and she felt sick.
Obi-Wan was planning something.
When the guards came to fetch them, he had dressed in his fresh tunic without comment. Embarrassment about revealed flesh had long since ceased. There had been no privacy in that cell. No modesty. They were as close now as children, as brother and sister raised in poverty. In accustomed silence, then, had he stripped, washed and reclothed himself. In silence stood in formal meditation, head bowed. It made the guards uneasy. They didn't like it, but they didn't dare stop it, either.
Then he had opened his eyes and nodded. Side by side and flanked by the guards they'd walked along the uneven corridors towards the gaming room. Obi-Wan took her hand. And when they parted, he kissed her. Pressed his palm to her cheek, and smiled.
"I hope Anakin knows how lucky he is," he'd said. His voice was warm with affection. Tranquil. His eyes were clear and peaceful. All turmoil erased.
He looked new-made, somehow. As though she were seeing him for the first time, unshrouded.
That was when the fear had smote her.
"Obi-Wan ..."
He'd laid his finger on her lips. Smiled. "Be at peace, dear friend. Remember what we agreed?"
It is the will of the Force. Submit, and be joyful in surrender.
With her head aching and her stomach in knots, joy was about the furthest thing from her mind. Beside her, Jabba lifted his hand and waved it in the air. An attendant lifted a hammer and struck the commencement gong. The crowd gave voice, surging forward in anticipation.
In the pit below them, a door opened. At its first sight of Obi-Wan, the screaming audience erupted in a frenzy. The noise beat against her skin like a sandstorm, stripping her of defences. Almost of reason.
Then the second door in the pit opened, and Obi-Wan's opponent emerged from the darkness.
The crowd fell silent.
On a gasp, she stood and stared down into the arena. At first she thought her eyes must be playing tricks. That the pain in her head had somehow affected her vision. Jabba could not be serious. Could not be. To match a human against a Gulgoran? What was he thinking? Was he mad? Had he grown tired of this latest amusement so soon?
In the pit, Obi-Wan looked at his opponent. Looked at the height of him. The breadth and the depth. Looked at his four immensely muscled arms, gleaming blueish purple in the harsh light of the arena. At the hands as big as sandscoops, gloved to the elbows in claw tipped gauntlets. At the sheathed swords bisecting the slab-muscled back. At thighs as round and strong as pillars, clasped tight as a lover with chain mail. At the flat, malevolent face, with its thin lips and three elongated eyes and the double slung jaw graced with daggerish teeth.
Inspection completed, Obi-Wan lifted his slender wooden staff and studied it for flaws. And then he threw back his head, and laughed. It was a paen of joyous disbelief.
She thought the very walls would shatter at the noise. She thought her bones would break. The audience was on the brink of chaos. Jabba was laughing, golden orange eyes bright and blazing with bloodlust. Moneylust.
It began.
At first it looked as though Obi-Wan were fighting in earnest, as he had every night before this one. He leapt, he somersaulted, he struck with the staff. Fluid and graceful, he flowed above and below and around the giant Gulgoran, evading the wicked blades, the punishing fists, the explosive kicks that would have shattered his body on impact. The audience cheered and bellowed and screamed at every blow, every hairsbreadth evasion. The betting continued, fast and furious.
After the first lightning quick moments, though, she began to worry. Obi-Wan wasn't fighting at all. He was teasing. Taunting. Goading the Gulgoran to mindless fury. And it was working. Wild slashes with the diamond tipped gauntlets had torn his tunic in several places. Scored lightly his sweat sheened skin. In rage, the Gulgoran seemed to grow even taller, the whistling passes with the swords more vicious.
Obi-Wan! she screamed at him within the booming confines of her skull. What are you doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?
Well ... yes. Of course he was. It was exactly what he was trying to do ... without appearing to be doing anything of the sort.
Beside her, Jabba was silent. Still. His enormous eyes narrowed, and the tip of his tongue protruded ominously. Then a rumble began in his chest. She couldn't hear it, but pressed against his dry hide, she could feel it.
Without warning, his hand clamped about her wrist so hard she cried out, and he was surging forward from the dais, dragging her with him, beckoning with his other hand to his ever faithful translator droid. The spectators in his path scrambled to get out of his way. Some moved too slowly, or were pinned in place by other bodies. Jabba surged over the top of them, heedless of their screams and shouts and protests.
Halting at the edge of the pit, he leaned forward. Hauled her to the brink ... and threw her off. She screamed, once in shock ... and a second time in agony as her arm was wrenched nearly from its shoulder socket. Jabba was still holding tight to her wrist. Dangling in mid-air, her vision bloody and dissolving, she thought she would break into pieces.
Obi-Wan looked up. Saw her, and mistimed his leap. The Gulgoran caught him a tremendous blow in the chest with a lower arm. Sent him flying into the opposite wall. Stunned, winded, he crumpled to the floor and lay there groaning for air, staring up at her in shock.
The crowd lost its voice.
"Jedi Kenobi!" Jabba growled. "Ju hunga me ezzra, seh? Gree lo na fenna fenna, ni gree lo tobudo? Chai bo doon, Jedi, ne doon-lo. Habat?"
"Jedi Kenobi!" the droid boomed. Its voder had been patched into the sound system; Jabba's anger reverberated from wall to wall. "Do you take me for a fool? Do you care for her so little you would see her cut to pieces before your eyes? You will fight, Jedi, or she will suffer. Understand?"
Obi-Wan staggered to his feet. "I am fighting." His voice shook.
Jabba bellowed. The droid said, "You are dancing. We are not here to see you dance, Jedi. We are here to see you die. Or not. Perhaps you require a little incentive?"
Insanely, at first she thought Jabba was pulling her back to safety. She was wrong. Immensely, terrifyingly strong, he lifted her until she was level with his slime-slicked face. Then he took a vibro-knife from a nearby spectator. Flicked it on, and slashed the blade through her arm from elbow to wrist. The pain of it stole her voice and crushed the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping.
"No!" Obi-Wan cried. There was blood on his tunic, his face. Her blood. "Leave her alone!"
Incredibly, Jabba cut her again, this time across the breast. She couldn't stop herself from screaming. Dimly, she heard Jabba say something. The droid translated. "Her blood is on your hands, Jedi. You were warned. Fight -- kill -- or she dies."
She saw her own anguish mirrored in Obi-Wan's bone white face. He had forgotten the Gulgoran even existed, even though it was standing almost directly in front of him. Was staring up at her, desperation and despair written over and over in his eyes. With a sobbing gasp he wrenched his gaze from her and held out a pleading hand to Jabba. "I cannot," he said. "I cannot kill."
Jabba laughed. In gutteral Basic, disdaining the droid, he said, "I can." And he cut her again, over the ribs this time. She felt the blade scrape against bone, felt the hot rush of blood down her side. The room spun.
Obi-Wan screamed. "Leave her alone!"
Something very strange was happening to her vision. It was fading in and out, as though she were looking through a pair of faulty macrobinoculars. Somewhere there was a great deal of pain, but it seemed unreal, as unlikely as the blood that poured from her body and splattered the floor below her dangling feet. Splattered Obi-Wan, and the grinning Gulgoran.
She should say something. Tell Obi-Wan that it was all right, that she had always thought it would come to this. That she loved him, and forgave him, and trusted him to look after her child.
Words were beyond her. Helpless, half-fainting, she could only watch.
Jabba spoke again, and the droid said, "Time is up, Jedi. Make your choice. Kill, or watch me slice her into pieces so small you'll never know that she was even human." Then he cut her a fourth time, across the belly. It hurt so much she screeched, a shocking sound that went through Obi-Wan like a bolt of lightning. The Gulgoran threw back its head and laughed. Touched a gloved finger to its face, where her blood gleamed wetly, carried it to his mouth, and sucked slowly, sensuously, eyes never leaving Obi-Wan's face.
"Mmmm," it crooned. "Is good. You like, yes?"
Between heartbeats, Obi-Wan altered, contorted with an incandescent rage that lit him from within like a building consumed by fire. A conflagration of fury and hate that knew nothing of reason, or balance, or humanity, but understood only violence and the need for revenge.
With a speed and a single minded brutality she could scarcely believe, he exploded upwards and kicked the Gulgoran in the face with both booted feet. The creature screamed, staggered backwards and nearly fell, as black blood burst from its nose and mouth.
Jabba bellowed, delight shuddering him. Taking it as a signal, the spectators opened their mouths and shrieked for more. She wanted to die, or at least faint. The pain in her arm and side and breast and belly was nauseating, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her heart.
Obi-Wan had lost his battle with the Dark.
She cried out again when Jabba pulled her up over the edge of the pit, and hauled her back with him to the dais. She was soaked in her own blood, dizzy with the loss of it. When Jabba finally released her she slumped to the ground. Pressed her face to the filthy paving stones and wept. Unable to see, not wanting to see, she listened to the spectators scream and applaud each blow, each strike, each rending of fragile flesh.
And then there was a hot breeze blowing in her face, and she decided she was losing her mind.
"Hey, hey, whatsa this then?" a familiar voice demanded. "Sleeping at a time like this, eh? I don't think so!"
Watto. Hovering in front of her, snout thrashing in agitation. Looking worried ... for a certainty, she was losing her mind.
"Come on, come on, you must be sitting up now, yes?" Watto said, shouting into her ear. "Or else I'm not going to be doing a very good patching up job on you, I think."
He had a medical kit. A shot of painkiller. A spraytube of synthflesh. Another of insta-bandage. Dazed, docile as a child, she let him inject her. Seal the jagged slashes in her flesh. Bandage them.
"Yes, yes, this is better I think!" Watto yelled over the chaos around them. "I can't believe he did that! Damaging my property, who does he think he is, eh?"
"Watto, be careful! He'll hear you!" she shouted back.
He waved a dismissive hand. "No, he won't! He's too busy making another half a million, the slimy bastard!"
It was true. Jabba had forgotten her. Hadn't even noticed Watto. Was straining forward, tongue lashing, deceptive arms pumping in excitement as he followed the invisible battle in the pit below.
"Watto, help me up!" she demanded.
"Eh?" Watto replied. "Are you crazy? We're getting out of here, now!"
"No, no, I have to see!" she cried frantically. "I have to stop him, before it's too late! Please, Watto, please! I'm begging you, please!"
Perhaps he felt guilty. Perhaps he felt ashamed, or responsible. Or perhaps he saw something a little dangerous in her face. She wasn't sure. She didn't care. He helped her to her feet ... through the crowd ... to the edge of the pit. She fell to her knees and looked down.
He was still alive.
She'd thought the other fights had been bad. Compared to this, they were nothing. The playful scuffling of children.
The Gulgoran was a mass of bloody wounds, of pulped flesh and broken bones. One arm dangled uselessly, splintered ivory protruding through mangled muscle. Its left cheekbone was exposed. One eye had been put out. She couldn't understand why it wasn't screaming. How it was still on its feet, and moving, pursuing Obi-Wan with lips stretched wide in a permanent grimace of mindless hate.
Impossibly, Obi-Wan was unscathed.
He moved so swiftly her eyes could barely follow him. Had she thought he was tired? Heartsick and despairing? Worn to exhaustion after nights and nights of fearful fighting?
It must have been some other Obi-Wan.
The man in the pit below her was terrifying. She could not recognise him. Could find nothing familiar in the snarling mask of his face, the unleashed ferocity of his attack. It was more than she could comprehend, that this man had kissed her. Held her. Wept in her arms.
No. Not this man.
This man and she had never met.
All around her, the crowd was falling silent. Even they, in the midst of their drowning bloodlust, even they could see that something was wrong. Unnatural. One by one the screaming voices sank into silence until all that could be heard were the droning of the droidcams, and the agonised breathing of the Gulgoran, and the absence of Obi-Wan's defeat.
Fuelled by a power she could not understand -- did not want to understand -- he continued his deliberate dismantling of the Gulgoran. With casual, lethal grace he spun the staff, striking the Gulgoran blow after blow, tearing great gashes in chest and back and arms. The floor of the pit was slippery with blood now, but Obi-Wan misstepped himself not once. The Gulgoran was visibly failing, each gasping of air an audible groan. There was more fear than fury in its face. An agony of anticipated defeat glowed in its remaining eyes.
Merciless, Obi-Wan continued his attack.
If there'd been food in her stomach, she would have vomited it out. This was bloody slaughter. This was murder. The stuff of nightmare.
"Stop," she screamed. "Obi-Wan, you must stop!"
At least, she thought she screamed. It came out as a whisper. Her bones had turned to water. There was no strength in her, only despair.
The Gulgoran went down, and as it fell found the hilt of a discarded sword with one broken-fingered hand. It staggered upright again, fuelled with a dying desperation. Lunged at Obi-Wan in a final act of defiance.
Obi-Wan laughed. Plucked the sword from his enemy without touching it. Raised the curving blade high overhead, and plunged it through the Gulgoran's chest. The forged metal sliced through flesh and bone as though through the air itself. The hilt thudded home against the purple-blue hide, Obi-Wan's fingers wrapped tight and killing about it.
The Gulgoran screamed.
It seemed to her then that time slowed, dream-fashion. There was the Gulgoran, skewered on its own sword, mouth open in a shrieking of agony. There was Obi-Wan, anchored to the other's body, pressed flesh to bloody flesh, breathing the air his enemy exhaled.
Then, as she watched, incapable of speech or movement as often happened in dreams, Obi-Wan woke from his murderous trance. The mask of the stranger fell away, revealing beneath it the man she had shared a prison cell with these past eight days. Puzzled, he stared at the wrecked and ruined flesh before him. Unclosed his fingers from the sword hilt. Frowned at his black-bloody hands, then back at the terribly injured Gulgoran.
Understanding pierced him, and he shuddered. In his naked face, rejection. Revulsion. Reaching out, reaching up, he placed one palm against the Gulgoran's ruined cheek. She saw his lips move. Frame two words.
Forgive me.
And then he stepped back. Held his arms out wide, away from his body, and looked steadily into the Gulgoran's pain-wracked eyes.
The Gulgoran threw back its head and howled, a soul-stripping cry of pain and victory and hate. It half turned away, one diamond-tipped hand raised. Then, with a rage that burned the air between them, it swung its sole undamanged arm in a blurring arc ... and opened Obi-Wan from left shoulder to right flank.
The force of the blow spun him around full circle. Somehow he remained on his feet. Looked down with detached interest at the tattered strips of his tunic, rapidly turning from white to red.
Someone was crying. After a moment, she realised it was her.
The Gulgoran's strike broke the spell. As one, the crowd exploded into sound. Watto was tugging at her, frantic.
"Hey, hey, it's all over now, the Jedi is done for, let's go, eh?" he screamed at her. "While the going's good, you know what I am saying?"
But she couldn't move. Or speak. All she could do was cry, and watch as Obi-Wan sank to his knees, soaked in blood, the dawning of an impossible pain in his young and beautiful face.
All around them, the walls began to shake.
In a place of strange shadows, a familiar voice.
"Well," said Qui-Gon, "That was very melodramatic of you."
He couldn't meet his Master's eyes. "I am sorry. You must be very disappointed in me. I could not have failed you more completely if I had tried."
"The Gulgoran lives, you know," Qui-Gon said mildly.
"If that is true, I am pleased," he replied. "But it makes little difference."
"I expect it does to the Gulgoran."
Not even Qui-Gon's gentle teasing could make him smile. "The Slavid died."
A gentle sigh. "Nowhere in the Code does it say that a Jedi cannot defend himself against attack. You know perfectly well that I have killed to save my own life. And yours. In this matter you are wrong and self-indulgent. Let it be."
As reprimands went, it was mild. He bowed his head, accepting the rebuke. "Yes, Master." Then after a moment, added, "Master? A question, if I may?"
"Always."
"Am I dead?"
Qui-Gon laughed. "No, you're not dead. Merely dreaming. Your wounds were grievous, Obi-Wan. Inflicted on a body already pushed to its limit. The Healers have you in deep trance. In time you will wake, never fear."
"Then if I am dreaming, are you really here?"
More laughter. "There is indeed much you have yet to learn of the living Force, my Padawan. Yes. I am really here. But please do not ask me where 'here' is, for I cannot say."
"I understand, Master," he said, although he didn't really. But no matter. He was with Qui-Gon, and that was all he needed to know.
"And now I have a question for you, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said. "Will you answer me?"
"When ever have I not?" he replied. "Ask me anything, Qui-Gon. I will answer."
Qui-Gon's smile was sad. "You will not like it."
"Ask me," he insisted.
There was a small silence. Then Qui-Gon said, "I need to know, Obi-Wan ... do you understand what it is that you have done?"
What he had done. Did he understand what he had done?
The Force be with him ... if only he did not understand.
"Yes, Master," he said, and was proud of himself that his voice did not waver, or break. That he could face this most bitter of all bitter truths, and acknowledge it unflinching. "I do understand."
"Tell me," Qui-Gon said gently. "What is it, that you have done?"
Pride faltered. In its stead, uncertainty. "Master ... do you not know?"
"Tell me," Qui-Gon said again. "I would hear it from your own heart."
Ah. So this was how he would be punished. A cruel tasking, indeed. But fitting.
"Master," he said, "I have betrayed my oaths. My honour. Everyone I know and hold dear. Master, I have betrayed you. In rage and hatred and fear I opened myself to the Dark side. I called upon its power to aid me. To help me hurt ... kill ... another living creature. This is what I have done."
Could one cry, here? He could feel no tears upon his face. Truly, could not really feel his face at all ... yet he thought he was weeping.
Qui-Gon said, "Tell me about the Dark side."
"Master?"
"The Dark side, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon insisted gently. "Tell me of it."
Crueller yet. For long moments he could not answer. It was too hard, too shameful. The crucible had consumed him, and all of Qui-Gon's hopes and dreams for him were turned to ash. "Master ...." he whispered. "Please, I -- do not care to speak of that. It is too terrible. Besides, what is there of the Dark I need tell to you? Your knowledge and experience far outstrip my own."
"You think so?" said Qui-Gon. "We shall see. In the meantime, I do not accept your refusal to answer. As your Master, I require it. Or were you untruthful when you said that you would always be my Padawan?"
Qui-Gon's disapproval cut more deeply than any knife. "No!" he cried. "I was not untruthful, it is the truth. At least it was the truth, before I abandoned my honour and foreswore my oaths. I cannot be your Padawan now, Qui-Gon. You cannot be my Master. I am no longer a Jedi."
"That is not a decision you are qualified to make," Qui-Gon said sternly. "Yet again, you take too much upon yourself. I will ask you again, Obi-Wan. Tell me of the Dark side."
"What is there to tell?" he cried, despairing. "It is everything you and the other Masters warned me of, and more. It has a beauty and a power I never dreamed. It consumes and burns and seduces without mercy. It is thicker than blood, sweeter than wine. In the Dark everything is simpler. Faster. Stronger. Compared to the Dark side, the Light is cold and thin and quiet and so much harder to hear. To feel. To control. The Dark side is passion. The Light is passionless. The Dark side is flame. The Light is ice. The Dark side is a fire, roaring through the blood. The Light is a single candle, deep in the heart."
"I see," Qui-Gon said at length. "It is powerful, you say?"
"Yes. Powerful. Overwhelmingly so. I have never felt anything like it, not even in those brief moments when I have been truly at one with the Light. There is nothing like it."
"I see," Qui-Gon said again. "In that case, Obi-Wan, how do you explain your current predicament?"
Confused, he stared at Qui-Gon's questioning face. "My current predicament? I do not understand."
"You are in the Temple Halls of Healing, Obi-Wan, drugged and tranced and watched over by no less than three Master Healers," said Qui-Gon. "Fear not, you will recover, but it has been a close run thing. The Gulgoran came close to tearing you in half, my Padawan. It took the combined strengths of Yoda, Mace Windu and Ki-Adi-Mundi to keep your body and soul together on the journey back to Coruscant. If the Dark side is so powerful ... how then could this be? Could the Dark not defend you from the Gulgoran?"
"Well, I -- I rejected it, Master," he replied. "When the Gulgoran struck, I was not protected. I had opened myself to him, offered him my life in compensation for taking his."
Qui-Gon smiled. "As I said, a melodramatic gesture ... but not without interest. Can it be, Obi-Wan, that you truly do not understand what has happened?"
"No, Master, I do understand," he said. "I have told you. I --"
"Spare me another recitation of your sins," Qui-Gon interrupted. "They are a matter for the Council, not I, for which I thank the Force from the bottom of my heart. Obi-Wan, you freely admit you embraced the Dark side, yes?"
He hung his head. " Yes."
"And yet here you are, clearly not of the Dark. Clearly, you stepped back into the Light. Agreed?"
"If you say so, Master."
"I say so." Qui-Gon shook his head. "Obi-Wan, to the best of my knowledge, no Jedi who has ever gone to the Dark side has ever managed to return. It is generally accepted that once you step onto the Dark path it will dominate your destiny forever. Yet here we are, you and I, and I sense no Darkness in you at all. You are to me as you have always been ... my crystal clear and light-filled Padawan apprentice Obi-Wan Kenobi. Foolhardy and reckless and distressingly headstrong ... but a good and wise man, nevertheless."
He couldn't take it in, at first. Felt thick headed and stupid. "No Darkness?" he repeated.
"None."
"I am not tainted?"
"No."
Fearfully he reached within himself. Searched his heart, his mind, and found nothing but a weary acceptance of all that had gone before, and a blossoming hope of what was to come. The hate ... the crushing fear ... the blinding fury that had fuelled him ... all were gone. Not without trace, though. He could sense the echoes of their presence. Thought that perhaps he always would. And that was no bad thing.
Here was learned a lesson that must never be forgotten.
He raised his eyes to look into Qui-Gon's proud, stern face. "I am a Jedi still?"
Solemnly, Qui-Gon nodded. "You are a Jedi. And the Force will be with you, always."
Joy like pain filled him, then. He covered his face with his hands and wept with it, deluged by a relief beyond words.
When he raised his head at last, to thank Qui-Gon, to beg his blessing and forgiveness ... he was alone.
"Qui-Gon?" he called. "Qui-Gon! Come back!"
As from a great distance, he heard his Master's voice. "Our destinies lie along different paths, Obi-Wan. In time, if the Force wills it, we shall meet again. You have a job to do, my Padawan. Train Anakin as only you can. Be brave. And don't look back."
"Yes, Master," he replied, and in the echoing silence of this strange place his voice sounded most forlorn. "I promise."
And then the shadows moved, and melted, and he sank into them without resistance, without questions.
It was the will of the Force, after all. Submit, and be joyful in surrender.
The Halls of Healing were beautiful, Anakin decided. They had lofty ceilings and enormous windows which spilled golden light over the blue and green and rose-pink walls and floor. Imbued with the gentler aspects of the Force, with love and nurturing and peace, they were full of perfumed flowers and green growing things and the vibrancy of life renewed. It was the perfect place for those who were sore in heart and mind and body to rest and recover, to mend and rediscover the joy of life.
He never wanted to come back here ever again.
The Healers had promised him that Obi-Wan wouldn't die, but it was hard to believe them. Before Qui-Gon, he would have. Before Qui-Gon, he really hadn't believed that a Jedi could be killed.
Now he did. And the truth of that still hurt him, if he let it.
Not that he thought the Healers were lying. They wouldn't do that. But the fear he'd been told he must eliminate from his life, that would lead him astray into the mysterious ways of the Dark, that fear whispered to him in the middle of the night ... what if they're wrong? What if he does die?
If Obi-Wan died, he had no idea what he'd do. The thought was so terrifying he didn't know what to do with it, didn't begin to understand where he could put that kind of pain. The merest suggestion, the remotest possibility of it sent him into a shaking huddle in the corner of his comfortable chair.
He won't die. He can't. I need him.
He'd been waiting in this terrible, beautiful place ever since they brought Obi-Wan back from Tatooine. At first the Healers had tried to make him leave, because there was nothing he could do and it wasn't a place for a small boy and in any case, he should be in class. When he wouldn't go, they sent for Master Drago. Master Drago sent for Senior Master Allosis. And Senior Master Allosis sent for Yoda.
In the end, he'd discovered, everybody sent for Yoda.
The Master had stared at him in silence for long moments. Closed his eyes and considered. Lowered his ears, opened his eyes, and passed judgement.
"Stay, the boy can," he announced. "His Master it is that lies ill. A Padawan has the right to hold vigil."
"But not in the room with him," Healer Vam said in her soft, inflexible voice. "That I cannot permit."
Yoda nodded. "Agreed. Not in the room. But near by."
So with that settled, near by he had remained. And taken his meals. And kept clean and tidy in one of the Healing Hall washrooms. H'ellen had brought him fresh clothing and ripe figs to nibble on. She'd hugged him, and kissed his cheek. "Don't worry, Annie," she'd whispered. "Obi-Wan will be all right."
Of course he would be. But for himself, he was beginning to wonder how much longer he'd have to wait. It had been four days. Four days of sitting and sprawling and pretending to study his lessons, all the while trying to catch a whispered snatch of conversations between the Healers as they left Obi-Wan's solitary room on softly silent feet, or congregated in quiet corners to confer. Between the other Jedi, too, who were not always here because of Obi-Wan, he wasn't the only patient, after all. That didn't matter, though, because they all talked, to each other and the staff on duty. Lofty Yoda and Mace Windu had been frequent visitors. They always left looking solemn, grave ... but since it seemed to him it was the way they always looked, he decided not to let it worry him.
They never spoke to him. Hardly anyone did. At first it had made him cross, but now he quite liked the feeling of being invisible. Of drifting like a sand-wraith, seeing everything without being seen.
It was surprising what you could learn when you were a ghost.
He now knew that Obi-Wan had been found close to death after losing a fight with a Gulgoran. He knew that the mortally wounded Gulgoran had been healed here and sent away again immediately. He knew that the fight had been arranged by Jabba, and that there had been many more of them, and that Obi-Wan had been hurt in those, too, although not as badly as the last one.
He knew that phenomenal amounts of money had changed hands because of these staged battles. He knew that somewhere in the Temple there were recorded copies of the bouts Obi-Wan had fought, including the last one with the Gulgoran. And he knew there was something terrible in it, something that frightened even the Jedi Council.
He really, really wanted to see that fight.
And impossible as it was to believe, he knew that all of this had happened because several members of the Council, including Yoda and Mace Windu, had taken a group of some twenty Jedi to Tatooine to rescue Obi-Wan from Jabba's clutches. That they had stormed his villa, confiscated the fight recordings, taken Obi-Wan and the Gulgoran from under Jabba's nose ... and left Jabba's expensive, expansive and highly fortified residence in ruins behind them.
And oh, how he wished he could have seen that.
But most of all, he wanted to know what Obi-Wan had been doing on Tatooine in the first place.
Mid-way through the fifth morning, one of the junior Healers came to fetch him. He'd thought something was happening, something more than the regular traffic of bodies in and out of Obi-Wan's room. The air was different, somehow, charged like the last breath before a storm. Crackling and itchy and full of suppressed excitement.
"Come," said the junior Healer, a small smile on her broad face. "He is awake, and wishing to see you."
The Halls of Healing were no place for undisciplined outbursts, so anyone watching him would notice nothing unseemly in the way he followed the Healer obediently across the hallway to Obi-Wan's room.
Inside, he was turning cartwheels.
The junior Healer opened the door for him and stood aside. Placed a warning finger on his shoulder as he passed and said, "Stay a short while only, Anakin, and be mindful. He is yet far from well."
He nodded. "I will. I promise."
"I'll hold you to it," she warned, and closed the door behind him.
It was a small room, bathed in light from a tall window and in the fresh scents of blooming flowers in a profusion of hanging baskets. There was a single bed, placed squarely in the centre of the falling sunshine, and a chair, and a table with basin and ewer and an awful lot of pill bottles.
There was Obi-Wan.
For one dreadful moment he thought there'd been a terrible mistake, and that Obi-Wan was dead. Then his Master smiled, and opened his eyes.
"Anakin."
It was the shadow of his Master's voice, the merest suggestion of the man he was so painstakingly coming to know. The first thing anyone noticed about Obi-Wan Kenobi was his energy. The way he bounced when he walked, in a hurry even at a standstill. Restless and eager and keen as a falcon, he was. He had been. The still figure in the bed, cradled with pillows less white than his face, was a stranger.
"So. I look that bad, do I?" Obi-Wan asked.
He blushed. "No. No, sir, you -- you look --" He stammered to a halt. Took a deep breath and let it out. A Padawan must always tell the truth, no matter how difficult. "Yes, sir. You look pretty bad."
Obi-Wan beckoned him closer with the stirring of one finger. Said, still smiling, "Well, I'll let you in on a little secret if you promise not to tell."
Mutely, he nodded.
Obi-Wan lowered his voice. "I feel pretty bad, too."
That made him laugh, and laughter eased the strangling knots in his chest.
He approached the bed, and stood beside it, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm good at secrets," he said. "I won't tell."
"Good," said Obi-Wan. "I'd like them to let me out of here before I grow my first grey hairs."
That was impossible to imagine. For all that he was a man grown and of an age to be his Padawan's father, Obi-Wan was so youthful, so full of fire ... easier to imagine Yoda young than Obi-Wan old. He said, "Are you really going to be all right?"
"So they tell me."
He wanted to ask about what happened, how exactly Obi-Wan had been hurt, wanted to know so badly it itched. But that would be an impertinence. Padawans did not interrogate their Masters. If Obi-Wan thought he should know, then Obi-Wan would tell him, and he would have to be content with that.
It was that patience thing they kept nagging him about.
"Ask," said Obi-Wan. He was smiling.
Really? He swallowed. "I -- I heard you fought a Gulgoran. Is it true?"
"Yes," Obi-Wan replied. "Unfortunately for me, I lost. Hence the new accommodation."
"Did it -- you know. Hurt?"
A breathless laugh. "Quite a lot, actually."
"I heard you were on Tatooine."
Obi-Wan nodded. "Yes."
"I don't understand!" The words burst out before he could prevent them. "Why Tatooine? Why did you --" With an enormous effort he stopped. Swallowed the hot and hasty words. Why was none of his business. More quietly he said, "Did you see my mother?"
Something, some memory maybe, moved behind Obi-Wan's eyes. Darkened them.
"Yes," he said eventually. "I saw your mother. She is well. She sends her love."
"She's all right?" he asked anxiously.
"She is fine. Do not worry about her," Obi-Wan assured him.
He wasn't lying ... but he wasn't telling the whole truth, either. And that made him angry. This was his mother they were talking about. Nobody had the right to keep secrets about his mother. Not even Obi-Wan.
"Anakin," said Obi-Wan, warningly.
Scowling at the floor, he put aside his next question ... for now. But one day he would ask it, and Obi-Wan was going to answer.
Friendly again, Obi-Wan said, "You are not the only person hereabouts who's been hearing things."
Warily he looked up. "Really?"
"Really," said Obi-Wan, dry as a desert. "I hear that a certain young Padawan of my acquaintance bearded the Council in its den and told them a few things that perhaps they did not want to hear."
Acutely uncomfortable, he went back to staring at the floor. "Sorry," he muttered. "Hope I didn't get you into trouble or anything."
"What prompted you to do such a thing?" said Obi-Wan. He didn't sound angry, but it was clear he expected an answer.
He met the tired blue eyes squarely. "I dreamed you were in trouble. You were fighting. You were losing. There was a sword --" And then he stopped, because Obi-Wan had closed his eyes, and his colourless face was tight with pain. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know it was wrong, but I had to tell them, I had to --"
Obi-Wan reached out an unsteady hand and touched him to silence. "No," he said. "You were right, Anakin. I was in terrible trouble. If you hadn't spoken to the Council it is doubtful they would have interfered ... and for a certainty, I would have died. So it seems that I owe you my life."
And that stopped the air in his lungs. Pinned his tongue behind his teeth. All he could do was stare, silent as stone, as Obi-Wan said with a smile and his eyes all the things that words could not.
It made him want to cry. Which would be too embarrassing to live with, so he grinned instead. Said, as cheekily as he knew how, "Well, you know. I'm your Padawan. That's my job."
He was rewarded with Obi-Wan's surprised laughter. "Hardly!" his Master retorted. "Your job, you abominable child, is to be a dutiful student and reflect glory upon your venerable Teacher!"
Which made him laugh, for the first unguarded time in Obi-Wan's presence. His Master joined him ... for a few precious seconds. But then he stopped, gasping, and his whole body twisted. Suddenly his face was bathed in sweat, and his fingers were clutching at the light blankets that covered him, and pain like fire danced in the sunlit room.
The door behind him was flung open, and Healer Vam was on him like a whirlwind. "What is the meaning of this? A moment, you were told, and no longer! Begone this instant, you wretched nuisance!"
"No," Obi-Wan moaned. "Anakin -- it's all right --"
Pushed roughly aside, he stared in heart pounding fright as the Senior Healer wrestled with Obi-Wan's pain. Obi-Wan was sobbing, choking ... he would never have dreamed anything had the power to hurt his Master like that. Trembling, he backed away ... and nearly fell over Yoda.
"Here you should not be, now," the Jedi Master told him gently. "Rest, does Obi-Wan need. Come back later, you can."
"I'm sorry -- I'm sorry --" he stammered. "I didn't know --I didn't mean to -- I didn't know --"
Yoda smiled. Patted his arm. "Of course you did not know. Sorely wounded has your Master been. Sorely wounded. But recover he will, in time, and then will your training truly begin."
"With Obi-Wan?" he whispered. "He can stay? You won't make him go away again?"
"No," said Yoda. "We will not. Need him, we do. All of us." Then he rapped his walking stick on the floor. "Now go. To your studies you must return. Tomorrow afternoon will you see Obi-Wan again, and not before."
He bowed. "Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."
As he left the room he risked a last glance back at Obi-Wan. He was calmer now, the Healer had given him something, or done something, and his pain had eased. Her hand was pressed to his forehead, and she was murmuring words he couldn't hear. Yoda had moved to the bedside, and from behind he looked ... relieved.
He closed the door and went back to the waiting room that had been his quarters for the past few days. Gathered his scattered belongings, and piled them into a carryall.
So everything was going to be all right, after all. Yoda had said so, and everyone believed Yoda.
A sudden memory stopped him in his tracks, and an enormous smile spread over his face.
Abominable child. Obi-Wan had called him an abominable child.
He let out a small yip of delight, and laughed at himself. "He really does like me!" he crowed, and dashed out of the waiting room, out of the Halls of Healing, and back to his friends.
Everything was going to be fine, now. Just fine. For ever and ever, and ever.
The next time Obi-Wan woke, Yoda was perched on the chair beside the bed, sleepy eyed and waiting.
"Hmmph," the Master said. "Feeling better you are, yes?"
"Yes," he replied. "Thank you."
It was true. There was no pain at all, now, not like when he'd spoken with Anakin. Vam had not wanted him to see the boy at all, at least not so soon, but he'd felt his Padawan's fear, his concern, even while soaked to overflowing with drugs. It would have been cruel to keep the child waiting any longer.
"How else feel you?" enquired Yoda.
He took his time about answering. There was so much to think about. Sort through. Reconcile, in his heart and in his mind. He opted for a safe answer, but an honest one. "Lucky."
That made Yoda laugh. "And so you are, Obi-Wan. And so you are."
"Thank you, Master," he said. "For what you did. For listening to the boy. I owe you both my life."
"The will of the Force, it was," said Yoda. "Outspoken is young Skywalker proving to be. But loyal, too. Courageous."
"And dangerous, still?"
Yoda pursed his lips. Held his breath, then let it out in a long, slow sigh.
"Still dangerous," he agreed. "To himself, and all those whose lives entwine with his. Yours, most of all. Feel it, I know you do."
Reluctantly, he nodded. "Yes. From the very first. But Qui-Gon believes in him. Entrusted him to me. I cannot walk away."
"Qui-Gon," Yoda said musingly. Regarded him with a brooding look. "Spoken with him you have, yes?"
Shock stole his breath for long moments. Then he nodded. "Yes. How did you know?"
Chuckling, Yoda reached out and gave him a gentle poke with his walking stick. "For more than eight hundred years have I dwelt within the Force," he said. "A few tricks here and there have I picked up, hmm?"
"So it was real? We did speak? I thought I was dreaming."
"Real it was," Yoda said. "Help you he did, I think."
"Yes." He took a deep breath and eased it out. "Master Yoda, when will the Council wish to speak to me of what occurred on Tatooine?"
"They will not," said Yoda.
He blinked. "Not?" he repeated stupidly. "Forgive me, Master, but I do not understand."
Yoda sighed. "Considered the matter has already been. Through the Force and on data-discs has your fight with the Gulgoran -- with the Dark side -- been examined. Dissected. To one side has the issue been placed, for now. Of the Dark side, and the return of the Sith, there is much more to learn. On those matters our energies must we concentrate." With a little grunt, Yoda jumped to the floor and began to pace. "When away from the Temple I sent you, your future I could not see. Only that you would soon face a great test. That you would meet it alone. That on your choices would a great many futures depend. Certain I was not, which path you would take. Shrouded in mystery is the Dark side. Clever at hiding its true purpose and intent." He stopped. Leaned on his stick. "Necessary, was your trial of blood and fire. Amazing and most welcome, your victory. But sorry I am, for the pain and anguish you have suffered."
Brought to tears, he could only lie there, weak as an infant. All his life he had held Yoda in awed regard, respected and revered and feared him, too, a little. He had trained with him somewhat, and watched him battle Qui-Gon in more Council sessions than he cared to remember.
In his wildest dreams he had never imagined the Master apologising to him.
Yoda said, "The droidcam recordings of your fights in Jabba's villa have been destroyed. Speak of what happened there you will not. Especially to the boy. Focus on his training you will. And on your own."
"My own?"
Impatient, Yoda rapped his stick again. "Chosen One or not, Anakin Skywalker's potential in the Force unprecedented is. Training him, controlling him, will be a task of enormous difficulty. Ready you must be, to keep pace with him as he grows. Learns. Already have I said: clouded is his future. And so is yours. Together will we work, you and I, to prepare you for what is to come." Moving closer, he stared upwards with a frightening intensity. "Choose this task for you I would not. Mistaken to do so, was Qui-Gon. Not because you are not worthy .... but because I fear the price that might be paid."
There was only one possible response. "I gave Qui-Gon my word," he said tiredly. "If he believes in the boy, then so must I."
A shadow of profound sorrow moved over Yoda's face. "I know."
"It will be a great honour, Master, to study with you. I will not disappoint you again. I swear."
Yoda nodded. "This too I know," he said gently.
There was one more thing he had to ask. "Master ... a question?"
Yoda's ears dipped. "The woman," he said. "Skywalker's mother."
"Yes," he whispered. "Please. Can you tell me?"
"The woman is safe," Yoda said. "A slave she remains, but out of danger. The Hutt has other things to occupy his mind."
Laughing hurt, but he couldn't help it. "I heard about that," he said, wincing. "About what you did to his villa. I cannot pretend to be sorry, but I must say I am surprised, Master. Wasn't that a little ... well, Qui-Gon would call it melodramatic."
Yoda waved his hand. "A gesture was required," he said. "Our position made clear. Warriors for peace have the Jedi been, for hundreds upon hundreds of years. To the Light we devote our lives, and in its service do we gladly die. But used and abused by the Dark side we will not be. A reminder of this, Jabba and his friends were given."
"Yes, Master," he said. "They certainly were."
Yoda's smile was sly, and in his eyes a gleam of treasured memory. Then he gave a sharp nod. "Now, Obi-Wan, rest you will. Regain your strength. Some days more must you remain here, the Healers tell me. When well again you are, to see me you will come. And we will begin."
"Yes, Master," he said. "Thank you, Master."
"Hmmpph," said Yoda, then offered a wicked, unlikely grin. "After a week of training with me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, thanking me you will not be!" He turned to leave, pulled up short with an impatient exclamation, and fished in the pocket of his robe. "Almost I forget! Something for you, I have."
A silver and black cylinder whirled lazily through the air towards the bed. Reaching out his hand, he closed his fingers about it. Closed his teeth on a startled cry.
Qui-Gon's lightsabre.
Unbidden, his fingers caressed its cool elegance. For long moments he could not speak at all, only smile, and watch his fingers relearn each curve and line and scratch. Only once he was sure he could speak without disgracing himself did he lift his gaze to Yoda, who was regarding him with more compassion than he'd ever seen before in that ancient face.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"You are welcome," Yoda replied.
The door swung open on a gesture, and closed behind the Master a moment later, and he was alone. And very, very tired.
And finally at peace.
It would take time, he knew, to accept all that had happened to him since he and Qui-Gon had been sent on the seemingly straightforward mission to Naboo. To retread the pathways that had led him to this time, and this place, in order to reach the fullest understanding of his actions, his choices, and the mysterious ways of the living Force. To truly embrace the changes that had been forced upon him.
That would be the hardest task of all. A part of him, he knew, would always grieve for Qui-Gon, always resent the stolen hours, the unshared stories, the ruined chance to pay back, in some measure, the debt he owed that remarkable man. The blinding, immediate pain might fade, was fading ... but not the secret ache of regret.
Nor would he want it to.
The whisper of a voice, remembered: Peace, my Padawan. It is the will of the Force. Submit, and be joyful in surrender.
He sighed. Tucked the lightsabre under his pillows. Let the crushing weight of fatigue, of recent pain and recovery press him flat to the bed and close his eyes.
"Yes, Master," he said. "It is as you say. I will submit. I will be joyful. I promise."
Then he was asleep. And smiling.
Looking towards the future with hope.