Chapter Text
Qui-Gon Jinn had first met Obi-Wan Kenobi in the late afternoon, when the sun bled through the Temple windows and Obi-Wan had only been a child, squinting up at him, smiling. He wanted to remember their start as a time of ease, of instinct and fate. He wanted to think he had looked at Obi-Wan then the way he had looked at Anakin Skywalker only a few days before. But the truth was it had not been easy. He had not gazed down at Obi-Wan Kenobi and seen his future. Instead, he had been afraid.
The last time he had seen Obi-Wan Kenobi, it was an endless desert afternoon, when Tatooine’s twin suns blazed and Obi-Wan had smiled up at him, squinting against the glare, as Qui-Gon prepared to return to Mos Eisley, for the boy.
He could not recall exactly what Obi-Wan told him, except it was something about a pathetic life form. That was one of their jokes, the kind of joke so old neither of them knew the origin. Qui-Gon could always rely on Obi-Wan for levity at the right moment, to deliver a wry observation with a glint in his eye.
His eyes—
Qui-Gon knew he could not get in the way of the handmaidens. A few of them stood around the cot, these girls like wraiths, each an imitation of the other. They wore long dresses, ombré, orange melting into yellow. And red.
Obi-Wan’s red blood soaked into the delicate velvet of their dresses.
The urge to move past them and tend to his Padawan was primal, overwhelming. But the rational part of his brain, still functioning somehow. told him that he was not a medic. Some of Amidala’s decoys were trained in the healing arts. It was better for him to stand back. The internal injuries flared like bright embers in the Force. There, there, there and there...
Too many.
Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.
One of the handmaidens spoke quietly, and then Obi-Wan moaned, a broken, pitiful sound that pierced through Qui-Gon’s chest and he could not help but cross to the edge of the cot and lean over his apprentice. His finger trembled on Obi-Wan’s cheek. “Padawan,” he stopped to swallow, to steady his voice, “We are all here to help you.” Obi-Wan’s eyes were too swollen to open, and he felt his Padawan cast out for him in the Force as if he were a half-trained initiate, shields gone.
“M-Mmm…”
Qui-Gon steadied his hand. Obi-Wan leaned into the palm, and blood streamed from the corner of his bruised mouth. Qui-Gon heard himself make a helpless noise in the back of his throat, dashing the thin scarlet stream away.
The younger man would be mortified when he knew he had lost several teeth. Obi-Wan took great pride in the appearance of his uniform, perhaps because he had fought so hard to wear it. He polished his boots (and Qui-Gon’s, when he thought the Master wouldn’t notice) and shaved every morning, even if he had to get a bit creative during their more remote assignments. His tunics had been torn apart—Qui-Gon had done that, crouching over his Padawan in the sand, trying to assess his injuries. Qui-Gon glanced away from Obi-Wan’s battered face and looked, because he was a Jedi, and didn’t have the luxury of not looking. He saw a mass of dark bruising and black, thick blood.
And a boot print. The pattern of the bottom of a boot, stamped onto his Padawan’s abdomen.
Qui-Gon returned his focus to Obi-Wan’s face, smoothing his red-gold hair and rubbing his thumb softly over the cleft in his chin.
There is no anger
There is no anger
There is no anger
There were only the necessary things to be done. Qui-Gon closed his eyes and they were not on a starship, they were stars themselves in the Force, in the peace and strength, and he wrapped his energy around Obi-Wan there. He could not be angry. He could not let his terrified, confused apprentice feel the anger. He would be gentle, a comfort in the maelstrom of pain.
With me, Padawan. With me.
Obi-Wan did not answer. Their connection, imbued always with light, was muddied. Qui-Gon saw burning sulfuric eyes and pointed teeth, felt a sick, shuddering darkness. The creature who had attacked his Padawan. His Padawan, left to protect the Queen and her staff, while Qui-Gon was off on his self-imposed mission to free Anakin Skywalker. Another pathetic life form, Obi-Wan had teased, but dutifully stayed with the ship. And that was so often how Qui-Gon was able to pursue his wild bantha chases—because he knew Obi-Wan would be doing the other things, the necessary things.
He opened his eyes and blinked away the hot threat of moisture. His fingers had drifted behind Obi-Wan’s ear. Another of their private rituals, beginning from the earliest mission. But Obi-Wan’s waist-length braid, the symbol of twelve years of growth and partnership, was just a ragged tuft.
Teeth.
His Padawan has been held down by his neck while the creature bit off his learner’s braid. Qui-Gon knew because Obi-Wan was still lost in that particular moment, replaying it again and again. The creature had taken his braid and his lightsaber. He would take no more than that. Qui-Gon would not allow it. The injuries were dire, but they were not...Obi-Wan had survived worse. The handmaidens were murmuring their shock as they worked. The girls were unaccustomed to violence, Qui-Gon told himself. More experienced healers would not be so shaken.
“Mm…” Obi-Wan tried again, and the barest sliver of a blue eye appeared in the ship’s recessed light, searching and finding Qui-Gon’s face. He licked his lips. “...ster.”
Qui-Gon smiled. “Padawan.”
“Qu...Queen?”
“Everyone is safe. Thanks to you.” Qui-Gon assured him. Pride swelled in his heart. Obi-Wan was going to be a tremendous Knight. “Focus on healing now, Obi-Wan.”
He smelled the sharp antiseptic tang of bacta. A needle was stuck in the crux of Obi-Wan’s arm, to start an IV line. “The fluids will help with the internal bleeding.” One of the handmaidens explained.
Qui-Gon nodded numbly. “Thank you.” Obi-Wan’s eye was closed again. But he stayed beside his Padawan while the handmaidens continued to stabilize him. There was nowhere else he would be..
———
After the girls cleaned and dressed the wounds, set the broken bones, they stepped back and apologized for the ship’s limited medical supplies; some vital procedures would be impossible to implement. He heard the regret in their voices, and he bowed to them, insisted he could watch over his Padawan until they reached Coruscant. Each maiden bowed in return, then filed from the room.
He pulled a chair up to the cot and took no more than a few tight breaths before Captain Panaka appeared. The head of the Queen’s security removed his cap at the door. Qui-Gon bristled at that—Obi-Wan was hurt, but he was not, he would not…
“Master Jinn, I’m sorry to intrude, but I thought you’d want to know. The ship’s monitors captured the attack. If you’d like to view the footage—“
Qui-Gon ran his hand through his hair. He was a Jedi, and did not have the luxury of not viewing the footage. He would need to watch the assailant brutalize his Padawan, witness the origin of every mark left on Obi-Wan’s young body. “I will, Captain, but not just now.”
“Of course.” Panaka bowed. “The Queen—all of us—owe him a great debt.”
“Thank you.”
Qui-Gon looked down at his own hands as he heard the door hiss shut. Blood was crusted under his fingernails. His tunic and tabards were stained where he had cradled Obi-Wan against him, when he had returned to the ship with Anakin to discover his Padawan crumpled on a stretch of sun-bleached sand. He had not recognized the body as Obi-Wan’s. He had not understood.
He still did not understand. Qui-Gon sensed hatred seeping from the scratches and bite marks, in the way Obi-Wan’s braid was shorn and his weapon taken. Somehow, Obi-Wan living through the savage assault seemed intentional. A taunt.
Or announcement.
No, he could not watch the footage yet, but Panaka had informed him the assailant wielded a lightsaber.
“But it couldn’t be a real lightsaber. I thought only Jedi carried them.”
Qui-Gon knew the implications of that—the dreaded word hovered at the edges of his mind’s periphery. He could not think it. He rubbed his hand over his face. Exhaustion burned at the back of his neck but he could not think of that either. Instead he sat back in the chair and thought of Obi-Wan, how pleased he had been to earn those first yellow markers in his braid. That had been eleven years ago. He pictured Obi-Wan poring over data pads as he studied for his exams, idly sliding the tail of the braid between his fingers. When Obi-Wan was fifteen, Qui-Gon had been captured by pirates and held hostage for weeks, and the night he was returned to the Temple, he sat in their quarters and rebraided that soft auburn chain, a relief and a communion both for Master and Padawan. He had glimpsed something in Obi-Wan’s grey eyes, a bottomless and uncomplicated affection, and he had been less afraid of his Padawan after that night. More afraid of himself, because Qui-Gon had a tendency to feel things too strongly, and he worried he would pollute Obi-Wan’s love, his potential.
The beast with a false saber had the braid, but what the braid represented remained with them, in the Force.
Obi-Wan turned his head slightly, as if he could hear the loose and apprehensive narration of his teacher’s thoughts. A bacta-soaked bandage was taped over his eyes. “Mmm…” He tried again, voice hoarse and cracked.
Qui-Gon helped him drink lukewarm water from a straw. “Slow, slow.” Obi-Wan coughed and he took it away, wiped his Padawan’s mouth with his sleeve. “That’s enough for now.”
Obi-Wan settled back on the pillow, moaning. He moved his hand. Qui-Gon was quick to take it between his.
“Braid.” Obi-Wan said.
Qui-Gon squeezed his hand. “I know. It’s alright. We can start a new one.”
Tears slid from beneath the bandage. He heard Obi-Wan’s breath hitch. It was unbearable. Qui-Gon bowed his head until their foreheads touched. “My brave apprentice. I’m so sorry.”
Sorry for the braid, sorry he had not been there to protect Obi-Wan from a cruelty he could barely fathom. If he had been there, if he had not returned to Mos Eisley…
“‘m sorry. Lost...saber again.” Obi-Wan croaked, a smile pulling at the corner of his swollen mouth.
Qui-Gon chuckled in spite of himself. Only Obi-Wan could joke with him now. A tear landed on Obi-Wan’s cheek. “What will I do with you?”
The Force was a taut, ephemeral string between them. Obi-Wan’s emotions plucked that connection, vibrated through Qui-Gon. “Don’t send me away. Please. Please.” His Core accent slurred. “Not now…”
He had not heard his Padawan sound so frightened or unglued in years. Qui-Gon hushed the earnest words with a kiss to his forehead. The traumatized mind could regurgitate old images. He suspected Obi-Wan was back on Melida/Daan, or Bandomeer. “Of course not.” He stroked his hair. “Of course not, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan grabbed his hand tighter. “I can be better. More...c-capable.”
Qui-Gon shook his head, then realized Obi-Wan could not see him. He held the bruised face carefully in his hands. “You are very good. You’re just confused. Rest.”
He was not sure if it was the command or the medication, but Obi-Wan fell asleep either way, clutching Qui-Gon’s hand.
-------
Panaka checked in on them a few hours later, asking Qui-Gon if there was anything he needed. The man’s brow knit when Qui-Gon requested leather polish. Panaka returned a few minutes later with a container from the Queen’s wardrobe.
Qui-Gon polished Obi-Wan’s belt, then his boots.
-------
He was meditating when he heard a hesitant knock at the door. “Come in, Anakin,” Qui-Gon called out quietly.
The blonde boy stepped inside; Qui-Gon held a finger to his mouth, and Anakin nodded. Qui-Gon tucked the blanket around Obi-Wan’s shoulders as Anakin approached. No doubt the child had seen his share of misery and gore on Tatooine, but Qui-Gon would shield him when he could.
Anakin tilted up on his tiptoes, studying Obi-Wan with a frown. “Is he okay?”
Qui-Gon patted Anakin’s shoulder. “He will be.” In the mortal rush to help Obi-Wan, he had not checked in on his new charge. The eventful days on Mos Eisley and consideration of ancient prophecies already seemed far away. “Have you been keeping out of trouble?”
Anakin shrugged. “I think so. Everyone’s been sad and worried so I’ve just been sticking by Padme. Artoo had a loose wire. I fixed that really quick.”
“Well done,” Qui-Gon said. “It’s good to be useful.”
“Thanks,” Anakin rubbed his neck. “I don’t know him or anything but I’m really sorry your friend is hurt. I saw all the blood, I mean I didn’t mean to see but it was hard not to because it was everywhere. There was this pod racer named Mikku Tif who crashed doing this really wicked turn on Boonta Eve and it looked kind of like that. I basically saw him die..” The boy explained in a breathless rush, then winced. “But he wasn’t a Jedi. And he wasn’t even a good racer either, so…”
Qui-Gon smiled. “Do you know what I was doing when you came in?”
Anakin blinked at him. “Sure. You were just...sitting there.”
“True enough,” Qui-Gon conceded with a small laugh, “But I was also meditating. Meditation is a way to quiet your mind and listen to the Force. It is one of the first things a Jedi learns in training.”
Anakin quirked his mouth. “Is this because you think I talk too much?”
“Not at all.” Qui-Gon ruffled his hair. “But if you are sensing the emotions of others, especially at a difficult time like this, meditating can help you find your center.”
“My center?” Anakin seemed nonplussed, and Qui-Gon was reminded how different, how honest children raised outside the Temple could be. “You mean like my stomach?”
Qui-Gon was too tired for this sort of conversation and he could tell Anakin was too. The boy kept shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Why don’t we talk more about this later? You look like you could use some sleep.”
Anakin straightened indignantly. “I’m fine, really, Mister Qui-Gon. At home I hardly ever slept, cuz I was always working late at Watto’s shop and then I’d come home and need to help Mom with stuff and then when she’d make me lay down I’d just stare up at the sky feeling like, I dunno, like my chest was going to explode or something.”
Qui-Gon could not imagine what it was like for this child, supremely gifted in the Force, spending nine years unaware of its presence inside him. His voice gentled in sympathy. “I’m sure you are used to running on very little sleep, Ani, but space travel is different. It pulls energy from the body. When Obi-Wan was a boy, he wanted to stay up until some negotiations were finished, despite the fact that the delegates were of a species that slept only four hours every three days. He ended up falling asleep on my shoulder and woke up quite embarrassed, in a pool of his own drool.”
Anakin giggled. “No way. I didn’t think Jedi were ever kids. I mean, I’m a kid and you said I should be a Jedi and all, but in the Outer Rim you only see ‘em on holos if you’re lucky and they always look...well...like you.”
“If they all look like me, you must be talking about horror holos. But I can assure you, every Jedi Knight was a child once. Obi-Wan has been my student since he was only twelve.”
“Wow.” Anakin peered in Obi-Wan’s direction again. “That’s how old this kid back home is, but he’d be the worst Jedi ever because he’s a huge sleemo and steals from the other kids.”
“Maybe that boy steals because he feels desperate.” Qui-Gon suggested.
Anakin looked like he was mulling that over before he shook his head. “Nah, he’s just a sleemo. But Obi-Wan seems nice. Like, he’s shiny and stuff.”
Qui-Gon crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “Shiny?”
“Yeah. You’re shiny too, but like, a different kind of shiny. And Padmé is super nice, but she doesn’t shine like you guys do in my head. I think Obi-Wan is going to be okay, because he feels okay in my head. Like, right before that race I told you about, Boonta Eve? Mikka didn’t feel right to me. I knew things were going to go bad for him, but no one would’ve believed me if I told them anyway.”
The Force had brought him to Anakin Skywalker. Qui-Gon believed that. With proper instruction, the boy would surpass even Master Yoda. Here was a beacon of hope, to stand against the revelation of the mysterious, sadistic warrior. Balance. “I believe you, Ani. I sense that Obi-Wan will recover. I know he’ll be happy to meet you.”
“That’s wizard. Then I’ll be friends with two Jedi.” Anakin beamed. “And one day you guys can both go back to Tatooine with me and—“
Qui-Gon was on his feet a moment before the scream erupted. Obi-Wan was tearing at the bandage over his eyes.
“Obi-Wan! Padawan! Stop!”
“No, he’s here! He’s here he’s here he’s here...” Obi-Wan frantically ripped the adhesive from his skin and struggled to sit up.
Qui-Gon seized his shoulders. “No, you are going to injure yourself.”
“Master! Master!” Obi-Wan’s wild efforts had been in vain. His swollen eyes would not open. He reached for Qui-Gon, heedless of the IV and his broken leg, gasping and weeping.
“I am here and I’m telling you to stop!” Qui-Gon barked, and felt Anakin jump. His own fear pounded in his gut. Such a violent fit could worsen the bleeding. Qui-Gon captured Obi-Wan’s face in his hands, firm when his apprentice tried to squirm away. “Listen to me, he is not here. He cannot hurt you. You are safe, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan choked and huddled against Qui-Gon’s shoulder, shivering.
“Shhh,” Qui-Gon cupped the back of his head. His fingers stumbled over the mangled learner’s braid and he saw those burning eyes, laughing at him through the darkness. “I have you.” He heard footsteps pounding down the hallway and then handmaidens and security officers and Panaka were all inside. Qui-Gon whispered in Obi-Wan’s ear, “I’m right here. I’m going to step back while they help you. You’re very ill. You must trust me, Padawan.”
He relinquished his grip on Obi-Wan, watched as the handmaidens swept in, checking wounds and covering his eyes again.
“Master!” Obi-Wan still cried out to Qui-Gon, “He’ll kill me! He’ll kill us all!” He wrenched away from the ministering hands and a wave of energy sent the IV cart crashing.
Qui-Gon had enough time to push the girls aside before the next current burst through the room. He pressed Obi-Wan to the cot, laying his forearm carefully across his apprentice’s chest, sweat pouring down his face. He bore down on Obi-Wan in the Force, blocking the energy with his own, more focused power.
“What’s happening?” Padmé’s voice floated up, but Qui-Gon could not spare a second to look her way. Obi-Wan still struggled, fisting Qui-Gon’s tunic, trying to pull him closer.
“Master...you don’t...he’s here...can’t you feel it?”
Qui-Gon held him still while the maidens fixed the jostled bandages. “I feel your pain, my Padawan. Let them help.”
“Nooo…”
“You are confused.” He heard someone ask about head injuries. Qui-Gon spread his palm along Obi-Wan’s cheek. “There is no danger here. Let them help you, and then we can talk, Obi-Wan. You and I. Just lay back down for now. I have you.”
For twelve years, his was the voice that Obi-Wan obeyed above all others. And now it was the voice that broke through the tumult, and Obi-Wan slowly eased back onto the cot, breath hitching.
“Alright?” Qui-Gon asked, stroking his shoulder, his hair.
Obi-Wan swallowed and nodded. His skin was sallow under the yellow ship lights. His fingers trembled; Qui-Gon wrapped his fingers around them and kissed the bruised knuckles. Tasks resumed around them, scanners and bacta and bandages. Qui-Gon murmured soothing words, palm laid flat over Obi-Wan’s heart. They had done meditation this way before, for each other, after injury.
Qui-Gon closed his eyes and sank into the Force, as he would sink into cool water. Obi-Wan was there, always there, pure sunlight reflecting on the water. New shadows shifted in the depths, and he could sense Obi-Wan’s distress at the intruding darkness, ripples that spread, taking him further from Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon saw the sulfur eyes.
“You and I.” He whispered to Obi-Wan there. “Peace. The Force.”
“Don’t don’t don’t—“
“Peace. The Light, Padawan.”
“Don’t send me away.”
The water turned black. Qui-Gon emerged from the trance and Anakin was standing beside him, young face pinched. The boy surely felt the disturbance, had seen Obi-Wan’s agitated paroxysm. “It’s alright, Ani,” Qui-Gon reassured him softly.
Anakin bit at his bottom lip. “Who has yellow eyes?”
Qui-Gon’s stomach dropped. Dread seemed to crawl along the walls, under his skin. “I don’t--”
Obi-Wan jolted upright. Metal instruments flew against the wall with a loud clatter. The handmaidens backed into the hall. Obi-Wan turned his head and pointed at Anakin. “He’s here! He’s here!”
Anakin took a step back, looking at Qui-Gon with pleading, blue eyes. “What is he talking about? H-He can’t even see me.”
“Ani!”
Qui-Gon glanced up; Padme was running to them, and with a nod he agreed she should take the boy away. Anakin tugged at Qui-Gon’s sleeve. “Please, Qui-Gon, sir, I don’t understand..”
He spared a moment to clasp the child by his trembling shoulders. “Neither do I. It’s alright. Go with her.” Because Qui-Gon didn’t understand anything right now, except that both Anakin and Obi-Wan would fare better once the boy from Tatooine left the room.
“No! He’ll kill her!” Obi-Wan’s damning finger pointed at Anakin still, followed as Padme rushed them into the hall. Qui-Gon waved the door shut and returned to Obi-Wan’s side.
Obi-Wan shook his head. Sweat gleamed on his pale skin. “Master, Master, Master…”
Qui-Gon sat on the edge of the cot. “I’m here.”
Obi-Wan’s fingers reached, instinctively, for his braid, closed around air instead.
“I’m sorry,” Qui-Gon murmured, taking the trembling fingers between his hands. “I was not there to protect you, but I’m here now. I can assure you, you are safe, Padawan.”
“He...he took my braid and you brought him here…”
“Your mind is playing tricks. You were badly beaten,” Qui-Gon paused, watching Obi-Wan slide out of his grasp, searching again for that symbol of partnership. Qui-Gon took a section of his own greying hair and wove it into a hasty braid. “Here,” he guided Obi-Wan’s hand to the long, plaited strands. “It can be as it was, Obi-Wan. Hair grows. The markers can be replaced. In the meantime, I can wear it for you.”
Obi-Wan rubbed his thumb over the tail of the braid. “Why would you bring him here?” He asked softly, in that moment sounding almost like himself, the long-suffering and lightly chiding apprentice, “He wants to kill me. He’ll kill all of us.
Qui-Gon sighed. “You are talking about a nine year old boy, just freed from slavery. He is no threat to you or anyone else. You will realize this, once you’re feeling better.” His eyes fell to the dark expanse of bruises covering Obi-Wan’s bare chest. He sensed the bruising went deeper than flesh.
Obi-Wan’s mind felt...different. Traces of the dark creature contaminated the psychic wounds, like an infection that needed to be purged. His shields were gone, and Qui-Gon felt the residual terror from Obi-Wan, who seemed to float through the Force, untethered. He took the ragged stump of the auburn braid. The savagery of the act overtook him again—and he did not fight the anger, the guilt and helplessness. He was tempted to peel off the gauze covering Obi-Wan’s eyes, but knew it was too soon, and came from a selfish kind of attachment. He wanted to see those grey eyes, for his own comfort.
Because when he reached the starship, he had not been sure if Obi-Wan would survive. It would take a long time before the image of his Padawan’s bright blood seeping into the pale sand faded from Qui-Gon’s memory, if it ever did.
Another part of him was hesitant to look into the gaze so familiar, for fear Obi-Wan was changed, damaged, by the attack. I will never forgive myself, he thought, brushing his hand along Obi-Wan’s cheek. The unusual behavior was likely rooted in trauma, or a head injury. Serious, but treatable. Obi-Wan was young and strong. Qui-Gon knew no one as resilient.
As good.
“Master?”
The vulnerability in the voice nearly undid him. He took Obi-Wan’s hand. “I’m here.”
Obi-Wan squeezed his hand in return. “Please...I’ll...I’ll do better. I know...I can…”
“Shhhh,” Qui-Gon smoothed his hair, “You did so well. The Queen and the crew are safe. I’m very proud of you, Padawan. I am,” he paused to gather a breath, steadiness, “I have always been proud of you. It is a failing of mine that you have been hurt, that you would ever doubt your place in my life.”
A hand groped for his tunic. “Please...I can...I can...don’t leave me…he...he’s everywhere, Master…..Master…”
Qui-Gon bowed his head against Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “The last thing I would do is leave you.” He whispered. “He does not claim you, my Padawan. You are a child of the Light. It is the Light that is everywhere. All around us. In you.”
He stayed there, offering simple, physical reassurance, long after Obi-Wan succumbed to exhaustion.
————