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.
He is taller than you would have guessed for his age. His hair is a mixture of his father’s tawny brown and your light auburn. His eyes are distinctly classed with his father’s, glowing from the inside with life and vitality. For a ten year old boy, his maturity seems high, as is his flexibility. He moves around the floor, his training saber of wood held high to parry a strike. With a sudden move, he leaps in the air and executes a flip, landing behind his opponent.
All sound stopped when he pressed to the floor several minutes ago, and now all that you hear is your own heart beating. Its gentle beat sounds like a thick drum to you, and you can feel the pulse in the tips of your fingers. He is all you see, all you can think about. The only thing more uncomfortable than the heavy beating of your heart is the lump in your throat that you try to swallow around.
His hair is shorn short, tight to his head. The white of his initiate’s uniform is unmarred by dirt or grime, specifically kept that way for this exhibition to the Master’s. Every yearmate of his presses forward, eager to be the next one on the floor, eager for a moment in the spot light that will decide their future.
You want to throw yourself over the railing and run to him; you want to dig a hole and hide. And the war inside of you shorts your reactions out so that you just sit there…deadened and dull. Deafened ears to all surrounding you and blind to all but your son, you sit. And stare.
Your son.
With a final thrust, he defeats his yearmate to win the match. His hand raises, letting his flowing outer tunic fall down his arm. The inner tunic is as white as the other, and tight to his arm. His smile is infectious and you feel proud…so very proud to be the mother of this child. But sad as you have not input on his life.
“The ten year olds are too young for Masters generally,” Qui whispers in your ear, as he leans over to you. His eyes twinkle at yours as his hand lands in your lap, seeking its mate in yours. “But that Kenobi boy is well trained even at his age. Someone will take him next year.”
You try not to let the tears gathering in your eyes fall; try not to let the ache of a lifetime spill out into your psyche. Master Yoda saves you from having to speak, banging his stick against the floor of the arena seats with some force. Several Padawans and Knights move a small distance away trying to avoid the Jedi Master’s ire. Qui-Gon does not bat an eye as he stares at his former Master. The set in the man’s chin makes you almost smile. So stubborn.
“Consider him, you will,” Yoda punctuates, setting his lips into a thin line. “A match it would be…”
Qui-Gon sighs, leaning back against the cool support of the seat. His eyes close and he shakes his head. You know the pain that he has been through these last few weeks and you have chosen to stay to help him heal. Oh, if only Qui-Gon would consider Obi as his apprentice.
You turn to watch the young bunch of children move off the floor, pushing through the elder boys and girls. Obi’s head is visible for its smooth fairness against the dark dirt of the floor and the various hues of hair surrounding him. You press your hand to your lips and watch him laugh and joke amongst his friends. A happy person he is.
Next to you, the conversation continues. Qui-Gon’s voice is low and controlled, as if the weight of the world depends on it. “Master…no…I have said that I will not take another apprentice. I will not open myself to that pain again.”
Yoda’s ears sink in dissatisfaction and he looks to you with large gray blue eyes. Qui-Gon continues, his eyes closed. “A never thought I would feel the pain of a broken training bond. Or the feeling of a father missing his son. Master…I have felt both, and I do not wish to return to that state. Send me on missions on my own.”
You nod at Yoda and then shake your head. The ancient Jedi Master hums quietly for a moment and then beseeches you with his eyes. “Convince him, you should. Without pain, to be is without love.”
You sigh and rub Qui-Gon’s hand in yours. “He has chosen what he feels is his path, Master Yoda. I cannot change his mind.” Your eyes look to the floor again, only to see that Obi is gone.
“Alone you will be.” Yoda states, staring at the floor again.
“Not completely, Master.” Qui-Gon answers, picking up your hand to kiss the back of it with gentle lips.
You expel a breath and watch as the next pair begins their dance on the floor in front of you. Your heart aches, calls for the lost years in your son. The lump in your throat is growing as you rub Qui-Gon’s hand. Obi does not know you…and as it should be. Many initiates do not know of their families, and those who do never see them. He is healthy and happy as you can see. Yoda has seen to his mental and emotional growth while other tend to his physical wellness. But the ache in your body…it is…overwhelming. Would it be selfishness to let him know of you now, to break into his peaceful and happy existence here with your appearance?
And Qui-Gon…you have seen the pain in him these last few weeks. To convince him to take a student would negate all of the walls he has placed up to block out the darkness and the pain. He would have to face the darkness within himself, the darkness that taints his soul through his bond with Xanatos. A man’s psyche is a convoluted thing, a Jedi’s so much more… And defense mechanisms exist for reasons.
Sacrifice the man for the boy? Sacrifice the boy for the man? Sacrifice you?
The choices are laid before you and you haven’t the heart to make the decision on the path to take.