Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 If thirteen-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi were to make a list of the top three things he absolutely hated most in the galaxy, it would go as follows:

1.  
2.  
3. That Corellian Barn Goose* that nested in the arboretum, outside of the Archives.

The first two slots in the list would be blank for obvious reasons: Obi-Wan Kenobi was a Jedi padawan and hate was not the Jedi way. However, the goose living in the arboretum would earn Slot Three because the things Obi-Wan felt towards that particular goose were decidedly against the Jedi Code. In Obi-Wan’s defense, the goose was an absolute bastard: it was an angry, relentless creature who would and has thrown hands with anything and everything (living, dead, or otherwise) that dared to cross its path. (It’s the sort of creature that would shank somebody in a Denny’s parking lot for half a plate of cold hash-browns, if that helps conjure up any mental images.)

And Qui-Gon, much to Obi-Wan’s continued dismay and endless frustration, had a habit feeding it bread crumbs.

The Jedi Master had no idea that he was only encouraging it.

All that being said, if thirteen-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi were to make a list of the top three things that he very strongly disliked, it would go as follows:

1. watching others suffer needlessly
2. feeling helpless
3. hoi-broth ORthat smacking sound Master Qui-Gon sometimes made with his lips when sampling tea, because it was so unnecessary and unrefined and just… ugh.

As seen above, there would be two things in the Third Slot because, honestly, Obi-Wan couldn’t decide which was worse—sure, he was rather severely allergic to hoi-broth, but would he rather choke to death on his own swelling throat than listen to Qui-Gon smacking on his chamomile tea every evening before bed? Yes. Absolutely.

I, the author, bring these lists up for three reasons:

1. I, personally, think I have a great sense of humor and thought you’d all get a kick out of it. Also, this shit’s about to go from 0 to 90 in the sorrow department, and I thought it might be nice to start off with something humorous and sardonic.
2. I think it serves as a poignant reminder that Jedi, no matter how refined or well-put together they may seem, are, at their core, people—people with great flaws, and great propensities towards compassion and kindness.
3. Suffering has a tendency to make people forgo boundaries, morals, and personal discomforts in search of relief.

With this in mind, I had hoped Obi-Wan’s lists would give a weight to the following statement: Obi-Wan Kenobi’s loneliness was so profound, he would’ve given anything to have his master beside him, even if Qui-Gon did nothing but smack on his tea for the rest of the night. Qui-Gon could even bring the goose if he liked, Obi-Wan didn’t care. He just didn’t want to be alone in the dark, anymore.

Of course, it was very unlikely that Obi-Wan would ever even see Qui-Gon again. His ex-master had made it very clear that, when Obi-Wan had chosen the Young over the Jedi Order, he’d lost Qui-Gon’s (very, very limited) respect. Even if Obi-Wan made the first move and called out to Qui-Gon for help, it was unlikely that the Jedi would ever answer. Obi-Wan had, after all, betrayed the Jedi Order.

He’d betrayed Master Qui-Gon.

(And hadn’t Qui-Gon already been betrayed enough by his padawans?)

Obi-Wan had been trapped on that Force-forsaken planet for months and months and months fighting in a guerrilla-style war proxied on by two groups who hated each other so vehemently, they couldn’t even agree on a name for the planet. It was a war that didn’t just pit brothers against brothers, or fathers against sons—it was a war so depraved in nature, that one army consisted of adults, and the other army consisted of children.

Children.

When Obi-Wan had first arrived on the planet (it felt like lifetimes ago) the mission had been so, painfully, brutally simple: rescue Master Tahl. And the Young, as the army of children had so eloquently called themselves, had aided the Jedi in their quest and then… then the plan was to just leave. Obi-Wan couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. They were Jedi. Peacekeeping was part of the job description. This was a planet that needed peace like an addict needs a hit; he’d watched children, far younger than him, needlessly slaughtered.

“Master, please! They need help! We can’t just leave them!” Obi-Wan had cried. But his plea had fallen on deaf ears. So attuned he was to the suffering of other children, he laid his padawan braid and his lightsaber aside, choosing to abandon the Jedi Order hoping that maybe, just maybe Qui-Gon Jinn would see how serious the situation was. (After all, if Obi-Wan, who loved and lived and breathed the Jedi Order—felt so strongly for this cause that he was willing abandon it all, it had to be important, right?)

But Qui-Gon didn’t see it that way.

Qui-Gon only saw, for the second time in a row, a padawan willing to betray him for their own morals.

“Then you have made your choice,” Qui-Gon had spat out, poorly contained anger brimming at the seams of their newly-fractured bond.

And in an instant, Qui-Gon was gone.

In the following weeks, Obi-Wan thought often of his decision. He wondered if he’d made the right call. Weeks quickly bled into months and Obi-Wan saw horror and depravity he never thought possible. He witnessed death dished out a thousand different ways. He killed people. Sometimes out of righteousness, sometimes out of anger (abandoned children, fighting for survival would always be easy targets for anger.) He witness torture, he suffered torture. He lay away, many sleepless night, reaching along his fractured training bond, wondering if, even past all the shattered glass, Qui-Gon could still feel him. He reach out often and wondered if things ever got bad enough, Qui-Gon would ever reach back.

War was hard. Starvation was hard. Torture and murder and survival were all hard, hard, hard.

The worst of it came at the very end. The war was won. The fighting was over. Obi-Wan worked with the Young establishing a new government. He watched, joyfully, as that broken, broken world began to stitch itself back together. For the first time, he no longer yearned for the Jedi Temple. He was happy! For the first time in his life, he had done something good. Even if the Order never took him back, he could be happy knowing he had brought about change for the better. He had ended suffering.

His happiness shattered with a single blaster bolt.

Cerasi, the leader of the Young, and his best friend was shot in the chest. He didn’t see it coming. The Force hadn’t warned him.

(Why hadn’t it warned him? Was he so unworthy of it that it rejected him, as Qui-Gon had?)

“It isn’t fair…!” Obi-Wan wailed miserably, his hands pressed into the palms of his eyes as he knelt over Cerasi’s shallow grave, one leg splayed awkwardly to the side. It was purple and swollen, baring a nasty gash on the side. He’d injured it in the ensuing chaos after Cerasi’s murder. The bone-deep throbbing told him it was likely fractured however, there was no time to fix it. So instead, he wrapped it in a dirty bandage and assisted in digging a shallow grave for his friend. The earth was still frozen from the previous winter, they weren’t able to dig very deep. The pain remained constant all the while and Obi-Wan found that he didn’t mind it: pain was the only friend he had left on this planet.

It would be difficult to describe the impact of the loss: Obi-Wan hadn’t left her side since they buried her. He couldn’t bring himself to part from her. Everything felt so terribly wrong. It was as if someone had heated up a stone until it was red hot, and buried it in the pit of his stomach. Every breath he took (and she didn’t) felt like agony. Distantly, he could understand why there were such strict rules in the Order about attachments—he wouldn’t wish this kind of suffering on anyone.

The thirteen-year-old child would have liked to have claimed that he hadn’t openly wept, that the pain of loss wasn’t so keen that it threatened to shatter him like a star gone nova. A real Jedi, wouldn’t cry, a cruel voice whispered against the back of his mind. But Obi-Wan wasn’t a real Jedi. He wouldn’t ever be a real Jedi. So, it really didn’t matter whether or not he cried.

So he cried. He cried because he missed Qui-Gon. He cried because he missed Cerasi. He cried because he was hungry and cold and his leg hurt painfully. He cried and cried and cried until he had no energy left and he fell asleep—curled and shivering in the cold, at the feet of his best friend.

- - -

Without Cerasi, the peace the Young had fought so hard to attain, slid quickly through their fingertips. The Young, themselves, began to stretch at the seams, ripping and tearing in the wake of their leader’s death. Obi-Wan saw it out of the corner of his eyes, as he moved lifelessly from day to day. He saw it building but couldn’t find the energy within him to do anything about it.

Cerasi was dead.

Qui-Gon was never coming back.

And why should he? Obi-Wan was hardly worth coming back for. It was easy to see why Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted to take him on Bandomeer. There was very little about Obi-Wan that was worth accepting or loving or protecting. He was bad. A real fuckup. Qui-Gon should’ve let Obi-Wan’s slave collar explode on Bandomeer. That would’ve certainly saved them all a load of grief. If nothing else, it should have been Obi-Wan to die, not Cerasi. Why did the Force take her? It wasn’t fair. Nothing was ever fair. It was simple: Cerasi didn’t deserve to die, and Obi-Wan did!

Dying was the only thing Obi-Wan had ever been good for.

Things only continued to decline after Cerasi’s death. Though he hadn’t been the one who pulled the trigger, there were many who blamed Obi-Wan. After all, he had the Force, didn’t he? Why didn’t he feel anything? Why did he warn her? Why didn’t he stop it? It should have been Obi-Wan to die, not Cerasi. And Obi-Wan couldn’t agree more.

The Young were tearing themselves apart. Cerasi had been the lifeblood of their people, of their government. Without her, everything was falling apart. And yet, Obi-Wan couldn’t bring himself to care. It didn’t matter to him. Nothing mattered to him. The world around him had become dull and lifeless, as if the colors had been leeched from the trees and the sky and the redrocks. He would lay awake at night, staring at the stars, unable to muster up the energy to pull himself upright and meditate. He wondered where Qui-Gon was. He wondered if Qui-Gon would ever come back for him? It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered.

Then, the warning signs became to obvious for Obi-Wan to continue to ignore.

He was trekking through the trees, dragging his leg behind him, trying to find peace (or at least muster enough strength to heal his leg), when he saw it: a big banner hung between two trees. Written on it in dripping, finger-drawn ink, said: ‘AVENGE CERASI, MAKE WAR!’

Obi-Wan felt his blood boil. How dare her named be used in this manner, enticing the others to return to the war she’d fought so hard to end. His vision tunneled and, for a moment, he could only see red. The pain in his leg was forgotten. Screaming, tears rolling helplessly down his cheeks, he launched himself at the banner, tearing it from where it hung, suspended, in a blind, primal rage. In many ways, it was cathartic for the young boy, who sobbed openly as he tore the heavy fabric apart until it was nothing more than unreadable strips.

He didn’t want to fight anymore. He was so tired of fighting.

When he was finished, he sat in the dirt, tightly gripping the strips of fabric, and closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing. He’d probably made the fracture worse with his little fit, he thought distantly. It served him right. He’d never given into his anger so completely, before. Guilt clawed at his heart. Anger was not the Jedi way. What would Qui-Gon think if he were there?

He’d probably be disappointed. Obi-Wan thought, bitterly. He was always disappointed.

And what did it matter? He wasn’t a Jedi anymore.

It mattered because Obi-Wan so, so desperately wanted to be a Jedi.

The ex-padawan scrubbed at his cheeks and shifted weight. Pain shot up his leg reminding him that, yes, it was, in fact, still fractured. It was so terribly ironic. He’d fought so hard to earn Qui-Gon’s respect, he fought so hard to become a padawan in the first place, and he’d given it up in a heartbeat. Then again, looking at the ashen, angry, emaciated faces of the Young, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Suffering has a tendency to make people abandon their morals in search of comfort. Obi-Wan had happily abandoned his morals to help the Young end their war. And now they wanted to start up the fighting again. Why? For what reason? Because they were upset? Qui-Gon had been right. This planet was doomed from the start.

In his time on Melida/Daan, Obi-Wan had faced every kind of hardship imaginable: from enduring freezing nights, to the horrible anxiety of battle, to the hunger pains of weeks without food, to the all-encompassing agony of losing his best friend. He had suffered more than he had ever thought possible and for all of his suffering, he’d grown immensely as a person and learned three key lessons:

1. You can’t save somebody if they don’t want to be saved.
2. War is shit.
3. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be a Jedi.

“I have to talk to Nield,” he whispered, wobbling slightly as he rose to his feet.

Nield, of all people, would see reason. With Cerasi dead, Nield was their leader. He needed to know that they couldn’t go back to war. And… And Obi-Wan needed to call Qui-Gon. He needed help. He needed to get off this planet.

The lifelessness that Obi-Wan felt seemed to leech into his very core. It took him ages to stumble into the tunnels, where he finally found Nield. Ages and ages and ages. It was dark outside when he finally arrived. He was shivering again. After so many months on Melida/Daan, so many, many nights spent outside in the harsh cold, he thought he’d get used to it.

He hadn’t.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Obi-Wan said and sat beside Nield, who looked as miserable as Obi-Wan felt. The former was huddled up next to the fire, hunched over his blaster while he cleaned the rust from it with some kind of foul-smelling, viscous, green liquid.

“I-I… we need to talk,” Obi-Wan began, whimpering softly as he drew himself nearer to the fire. He could feel his fingers anymore. The light glinted off his swollen leg. The half-healed deep gash nearest the fracture, was swollen and angry and weeping fluid. It was infected again. Which was fine, Obi-Wan probably deserved it. At the very least, it explained, in part, why he felt like shit. “There was a banner, outside, in the forest. They’re mobilizing for war. Nield, I know you’re heartbroken, I am too. Cerasi… Cerasi was my friend. Please, but we can’t let them do this! We can’t let them destroy everything we fought for- everything she died for!” Obi-Wan begged, his voice constricting painfully with emotion.

For a long time, Nield, didn’t move. Then, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a little package, which he passed over to Obi-Wan. “For your leg. It’s infected,” he said simply.

Obi-Wan was overcome with the desire to slap Nield. “Bacta? Nield, I-I don’t – I don’t-“

“Put it on,” Nield demanded, his head snapping up. His eyes blazed with pain and anger and Obi-Wan found himself recoiling and carefully opened it up, smearing it across his aching leg before tightening the bandages around it. “It’s the last one,” Nield said. “I’m happy to give it to you, though. You’ll need your strength,”

“For what?” Obi-Wan cried, feeling anger and hysteria rising once more. “Nield, you aren’t listening. The banner-“

“And who do you think put. it. up?” Nield spat out, his hackles rising as he rose to his feet.

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened in horror. “Nield! Why? What are you doing? The war just ended! We can’t go back!” he cried.

“They killed my friend! They killed her and I want justice!” Nield cried.

Obi-Wan’s eyes welled with tears of grief and frustration. “She was my friend too! She was my best friend! Don’t you think I understand that want for justice? Don’t you think I’m hurting too?” he cried. Then, he shut his eyes and fought rigorously to control himself. “But not like this,” he said at last, finally grounding himself.

“And why not like this? Why?” Nield cried.

“Because we’ve already won! They lost, we won! What more do you want?” Obi-Wan’s hands were shaking. He had a horrible, horrible feeling that everything was spiraling out of control. The war had taken everything from the young. It had taken everything from Obi-Wan. He wouldn’t allow it to continue.

“I want them to suffer.” Nield spat.

“No, no, no. Nield, you don’t. This isn’t the answer. This isn’t it. Nield think of everybody you lost in the war. We can’t go back!” the red-headed ex-padawan exclaimed.

Nield’s hands clenched into fists and he set his blaster aside. “Choose your side, Obi-Wan. Either fight with us, or leave,” he said.

The Force was electric, shrieking at Obi-Wan to back off. But his temper was rapidly slipping away, and he was losing control.

“Or what?” Obi-Wan demanded. “Or you’ll have me executed? Neild you’re going to lead these people back into the slaughterhouse for, what? Petty vengeance?”

“It’s justice! I refuse to let them get away with it! With the murder of our leader!”

“It’s not justice!”

“And what would you know of justice? You’re a Jedi coward! You only believe in peace! Well peace isn’t an option! Not anymore!”

Like all fights between prepubescent boys, it quickly spiraled into shoving and name calling. The Force had long since receded from Obi-Wan, who refused to head its warnings. Obi-Wan was passionate and hotheaded. It was the first and foremost reason that none of the other masters wanted him as his padawan. It was the primary thing wrong with Obi-Wan and, for once, Obi-Wan was more than happy to embrace it. What did he have to lose? He wasn’t a Jedi anymore.

 “The Jedi are not cowards!” the ex-padawan shouted and stepped forward.

“Yours was! Look at what he did! He just abandoned you here! He didn’t even stay to fight!” Nield snarled, giving Obi-Wan a little shove.

“Qui-Gon Jinn is not a coward! He’s the greatest Jedi who ever was!” Obi-Wan shouted.

“And he abandoned you! You’re a stupid, failed, Jedi-drop out, and your master didn’t even love you enough to protect you!”

“That’s not true!” There was painful desperation in Obi-Wan’s voice because, honestly, Nield had a point. “At least he was smart enough to know when to fight and when to leave! You’re about to lead so many people back into war, back to their deaths, and you don’t even care! You don’t care about anybody or anything and-“

Obi-Wan screamed in agony. Nield, in his anger, had reached down and picked up the container of green liquid, splashing it into Obi-Wan’s face.

The skin around Obi-Wan’s eyes immediately began to blister and peel, cracking and bleeding. He howled in pain, clawing at his swollen, bleeding eyes. His legs gave out and, all at once, he was writhing in the dirt, twisting and contorting, and desperately trying to make it stop.

Nield’s own eyes widened in horror. He’d been angry at Obi-Wan, sure, but he hadn’t wanted this to happen. He placed a shaking hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and whispered, “I-I… I’m sorry- I’ll be right back-!” before twisting away and dashing out of the tunnels, shouting for help.

“No! Don’t go! Nield! Don’t go!” Obi-Wan begged, horrified by the idea of being alone in the tunnels. What if nobody came back for him? He was, however, only met with the sound of Nield’s retreating footsteps.

Obi-Wan began to cry.

*Picture a Canadian goose. Now, imagine a Canadian goose with the head of a Western grebe (for the sake of this exercise, I recommend Googling pictures of Western grebes. The experience is well worth it.) Now, picture that same, grebe-headed Canadian bastard, except it’s twice the size of a regular goose, with a color pallet matching that of a grayscale picture of the planet Jupiter. Now, shift focus and imagine, if you will, the following abomination (roll with me here, I know where I’m heading): a cross between a raccoon, a magpie, and a seagull. The resulting creature (a racmagull, as I shall call it) has just divorced its wife and lost its small, self-owned Mexican restaurant to economic collapse, and now it’s living in your garage, fist-fighting your dog for a bowl of kibble. It has nothing left to lose. It wants blood, vengeance, and justice against God. Now, picture the aforementioned goose and give it the personality of the racmagull I have just described. That is a Corellian Barn Goose.

Chapter Text

The ride back to Coruscant was terrible. Absolutely horrible. Qui-Gon wouldn’t say a word to Obi-Wan and it was eating him alive. So Obi-Wan, after tolerating nearly four days of painful, awkward silence, cleared his throat and asked (and by ‘asked’ I mean ‘squeaked timidly’):

“Is that a new to robe? It- It looks different. New, I mean,”

It may be worthwhile to point out that Obi-Wan couldn’t actually see the robe, not in its entirety. If he could’ve, he would’ve noticed that, no, it was the exact same robe. He also would’ve seen the way Qui-Gon’s brow quirked in either irritation or confusion (it’s always difficult to tell with Qui-Gon.)

Obi-Wan’s vision was dark and cloudy. He could see light and movement, and, occasionally, he could make out some vague, non-descript shapes, but that was about the extent of it. His vision was far too dim and blurry to decipher anything worthwhile, and his eyes weren’t able to take in enough light to see most colors anymore.

It was truly miserable. And it frightened Obi-Wan to his very core. He knew very little about the complexities of healing. Could his vision be restored?

Thanks to time, watered-down bacta spray, and shoddy Force-healing (which had never been Obi-Wan’s strong suit, as previously stated), the wounds around his eyes weren’t quite so raw, anymore. Qui-Gon, when he had arrived, hadn’t commented much on them, but had provided a little extra bacta, and had done a bit of extra healing.

Which was fine. Absolutely fine. Obi-Wan asked for help, not comfort.

Obi-Wan tracked Qui-Gon as best he could with his damaged pupils, not wanting to alert his former master that anything was off. Qui-Gon had insisted that the boy visit the Halls of Healing when they returned, and Obi-Wan was in no place to disagree. However, the mere thought of it made his stomach churn anxiously. If the damage to his vision was permanent, it would only be another mark on a growing list of reasons why Obi-Wan didn’t deserve to be a Jedi.

Now, I know what you’re all wondering: How did we end up on a ship heading back to Coruscant? Weren’t we just with a newly-blinded Obi-Wan in the tunnels?

Yes. You are correct. You should be very proud of your observational skills.

However, let me explain to you a Thing ™ about writing:

nobody has time for that shit.

There were, of course, several pertinent things that occurred betwixt the tunnels and the ship, which I shall outline for you:

1. Nield, realizing he’d made a horrible mistake in blinding the ex-padawan, fulfilled his promise and ran outside to get help. Spurred on by rather intense feelings of guilt and shame (which is the correct, non-sociopathic emotional response to violently blinding your friend in a fit of rage) Nield abandoned his plans to continue the war and allowed Obi-Wan to send a transmission back to Jedi Temple requesting assistance with the situation, as it had completely spiraled out of control.
2. Back at the Jedi Temple, Qui-Gon Jinn received Obi-Wan’s transmission and, spurred on by intense, but slightly repressed, feelings of guilt and shame (which is the appropriate, non-sociopathic emotional response to abandoning your padawan in the middle of a warzone) and decided to assist his ex-padawan and the Young.
3. A week and a half after receiving the initial transmission, Qui-Gon arrived on Melida/Daan, assisted in brokering a firm peace treaty between the Elders and the Young, established a government, and agreed to take Obi-Wan back to the temple.

The reunion between ex-Master and ex-padawan was, for the most part, unspectacular. It was, in fact, so unspectacular that it was borderline emotionally neglectful on Qui-Gon’s behalf.

This was how the Event occurred, from the perspective of the (physically) damaged ex-padawan: Obi-Wan, upon recognizing the blurry, shapeless visage that appeared to be Qui-Gon, was so relieved that he burst into tears. However, after reaching out to his former master in the Force and receiving no reciprocation (Qui-Gon mostly just stood there looking disappointed) Obi-Wan straightened up and clamped down on his emotions, immediately feeling stupid and childish.

This was how the Event occurred from the perspective of the (emotionally) damaged ex-Master: Qui-Gon was so horrified by the sight of the bedraggled young man (the injury, as it turned out, was far worse in real life than it had appeared on the holo) that he stood frozen, too stunned to move. The feelings of guilt and shame returned and Qui-Gon, realizing how worthless he had been as a master and decided that, instead of comforting the broken young man, the best course of action was to stay as far away from him as possible, and thus, protect Obi-Wan from the potential burden of getting too attached to him, again. Who was Qui-Gon protecting? Himself or his former student? Unclear.

“Obi-Wan, it’s the same robe I’ve always had,” came Qui-Gon’s harsh reply.

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile or sob, he was just so happy that some of the tension was broken.

Except, it wasn’t really broken, it was only mitigated. How was he supposed to proceed? Apologize? Beg forgiveness? Yell and demand to know why he’d been left behind?

Obi-Wan’s fingers curled into the rough fabric of the clean robe he’d been given to wear. He hunched himself over and squeezed his eyes shut. It was such an odd sensation, shutting his eyes. It was the sort of action that never held any merit before, but now he could feel when his eyelids slid over his tired, calloused eyes. It was incredibly uncomfortable. It felt like his eyes no longer fit inside his skull. They hurt and itched and they kept him awake at night.

The pink, healing scars around his eyes tugged roughly at the skin of his nose, his forehead, and his cheekbones whenever he spoke or scrunched up his face. It was like, no matter how hard he tried, they wouldn’t let him forget that they were there. It would serve as a constant reminder of his failures on Melida/Daan.

The only respite that came from closing his eyes came in the form of a blessed release from the constant, pounding headache. His eyes couldn’t process information like they were supposed to. They were sensitive to light. They didn’t move right anymore. And his poor, tired brain didn’t know how to compensate for it.

It was that second Symptom, however, that was absolutely going to do him in: sensitivity to light. He wasn’t just sensitive to it, it was painful. It made his eyes so, so tired. He felt like he had to flinch or squint all the time because the cabin lights in the starship, especially in Hyperspace, were far too light. He resisted, however, any urge to shield himself. He was rather desperate not to lose Qui-Gon’s favor and he figured, the less Qui-Gon knew about his damaged eyes, the better.

Not that it really mattered.

Qui-Gon clearly had no intention of bringing it up.

And that fact, alone, brought wave upon wave of grief down on the tired, inconsolable padawan. Yes, there was a part of him that would go to any length to hide his new affliction from his old master. However, there was another, very real part of him that wanted help, that wanted comfort, that wanted Qui-Gon to ask about them, because if he asked, it must mean that he still cared, at least to some degree, for his padawan’s wellbeing, right?

But Qui-Gon never asked.

In fact, Qui-Gon went to great lengths to avoid speaking to the boy. And Obi-Wan slowly became more and more resigned to the fact that Qui-Gon didn’t care. Not at all. Somewhere, in his tired, tormented brain, he wondered, once again, if it wouldn’t have been better just to have taken Cerasi’s place and died in her stead. Qui-Gon certainly would’ve liked that better, wouldn’t he? Finally free of the obnoxious little welp he had the great misfortune of calling an ex-padawan?

“Stop that.”

Obi-Wan’s head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. He hadn’t realized he’d been hunched over, digging his fingers into his new, tender scars while he worked his way deeper and deeper into the darkness of his own thoughts. There was blood on his fingers. His eyes were bright and unseeing, fixed on where he assumed Qui-Gon’s face was. His voice was gentle, almost regretful. Obi-Wan would’ve given anything to have been able to read Qui-Gon’s thoughts, or, if nothing else, see his expression.

“We need to work on your shielding. Your thoughts are bleeding out all over the place,” Qui-Gon’s voice returned to its usual stony, stern, levelness as he reprimanded the boy.

Obi-Wan physically recoiled is violently that his head smacked against the back of the seat. It only made his headache worse. He slammed his shields down and regressed back as far as he could, hiding. Words couldn’t quite describe how stupid and ashamed he felt.

But, at least there was no mistaking it now: Qui-Gon was disappointed. Not just disappointed, Qui-Gon was ashamed. And Obi-Wan probably deserved it. Definitely deserved it.

What an embarrassment he was! What a failure he was! It was no wonder Qui-Gon had abandoned him. Really, it made sense.

He should’ve let Obi-Wan die on Bandomeer.

“Stop it,” Qui-Gon repeated, his voice firmer than before, almost harsh.

“That’s enough,” Now Qui-Gon’s voice was quiet, almost remorseful. Obi-Wan felt fingers wrapping around his own, someone was prying his hands away from his face and-

Oh.

He’d curled up on himself again. He must’ve been digging at his scars again. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He couldn’t see, anyways, but it was nice this way. Better. This way, he could at least pretend to hide.

His face was wet. Was he crying? Or bleeding? He didn’t really care either way. Somebody, Qui-Gon obviously, was cleaning off his fingers with a scrap of soft fabric. Then, he moved to clean Obi-Wan’s face and the boy flinched away.

He hated the way his face felt. He didn’t want anybody touching it.

“Stop moving,” The Jedi ordered and the red headed boy stiffened and complied. He had to resist leaning into his ex-master’s touch. He’d always craved physical affection, so much more after the nightmare on Melida/Daan.

“You’re going to give yourself an infection if you keep touching your face like that,” Qui-Gon said. His voice had returned to that soft, regretful quality and something about its gentle musicality made Obi-Wan want to burst into tears.

He’d only ever wanted to be loved. Had that been too much to ask?

The silence grew thick again and, when Qui-Gon’s hands pulled away, Obi-Wan felt his emotional resolve waver once more.

“Open your eyes, Obi-Wan,” the sternness had returned. The boy complied.

“I don’t hate you,” There was a firmness to these words, an importance to them. And yet, a gentle quality all the same. Perhaps this was an apology. “And I certainly don’t wNt you dead. I never wanted you dead,”

Obi-Wan watched Qui-Gon as best he could through his damaged eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to respond, and Qui-Gon merely sighed, disappointed.

“When we return to the Temple, what are your plans, Obi-Wan? After we visit the Halls of Healing, of course,”

Was he- was he smiling? Obi-Wan couldn’t tell. The light was doing funny things and his throbbing head was making it difficult to interpret. Maybe not a full blown smile, but he was smirking, at the very least. It was a joke. The Halls of- Qui-Gon was making a joke. It certainly threw Obi-Wan for a loop, who thought he was either going to burst into tears or laugh hysterically. However, neither would do very well for his image, so he retained a handle on his emotions and offered only a smirk in return.

“I will speak with the Council and... I-I...” he trailed off. Suddenly, he felt his throat closing off. Here it was, the question he’d been wanting to ask. It was such a dangerous thing, putting all of his hopes out on the line for Qui-Gon to swing at, Should he so choose. “I want to be a Jedi again,”

Qui-Gon hummed in response. “Hm. Good,”

Proud! The Jedi sounded proud! Obi-Wan’s heart was beating a mile-a-minute. He could hear it thudding in his ears. This! This was the moment of truth! Perhaps he had been wrong! Perhaps Qui-Gon wanted him back after all! The former- the soon-to-be-redeemed padawan thought his chest was going to implode from the sheer weight of the emotion he carried.

“Master Jinn, will- you- will you be my master one again?” the boy asked. His hands were shaking. His head was spinning. He was tripping over his words like a giddy idiot. And, Force Dammit, he was a giddy idiot! The giddiest of idiots!

Except, Master Qui-Gon wasn’t saying anything.

Obi-Wan’s breath caught in his throat and his tongue dried out faster than a flower in a desert. “M-Master?” He croaked out. “I know I am meant to be a Jedi,” he practically plead.

“I know you are meant to be a Jedi, too,” Qui-Gon said at last. “But whether or not you are meant to be my padawan is still unclear.”

Oh.

Okay.

That was fine.

Everything was fine.

Except, actually, nothing was fine. Everything was terrible and the world was falling apart. Who else was there, besides Qui-Gon? Who would ever take in Obi-Wan? Especially after he just up and left the Order? Especially now that he couldn’t see. Nobody, that’s who. Nobody would ever take in the wayward padawan, they’d have to be out of their minds!

And it wasn’t like it mattered, anyways. Obi-Wan has grown attached to his old master (yet another point added to the list of reasons why he didn’t deserve to be a Jedi.) He wanted Qui-Gon to train him.

The pain that Obi-Wan felt at Qui-Gon’s rejection of him, was difficult to describe. It was a ubiquitous, all-encompassing, all-consuming shattering, that started in the pricks of his sightless eyes and splinted downwards. He felt like all of his organs had suddenly fused together. He felt like he was going to vomit.

Mostly, (and, not to be dramatic, or anything) he just wanted to die.

“Yes, mas- yes sir,” he corrected, and didn’t wince as he finally allowed his aching eyes to unfocus, and he ducked his head away from the light.

He thought he saw Qui-Gon wince, however, and the Jedi rose to his feet and disappeared into a doorway that felt too far away for the boy to follow. “How well can you see?” The Jedi called out.

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly and tried to remind himself that this question meant nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to hope anymore. “I can see just fine,” he called back his voice ragged and tired.

Qui-Gon would have to be an absolute idiot to believe such an obvious lie. However, he didn’t respond or press his pad- the boy he was escorting to the temple, any further. He returned with a roll of bandages. “Sit up,” he instructed and carefully wound the gauze around the boy’s eyes.

Obi-Wan, for his part, didn’t fight it. He was lost, far away in his own thoughts, pondering the future.

“I imagine the light is making your head hurt. This will help. And it will keep you from picking at it,” Qui-Gon explained as he tied the gauze off. He didn’t speak much after that and Obi-Wan didn’t either. With the heavy silence and the oppressive darkness, it wasn’t hard for Obi-Wan to pretend like he was totally alone, drifting aimlessly in space.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan’s hand tightened around Bant’s and he pressed his face against her shoulder. “I hate it here,” he grumbled and Bant only laughed.

“Obi-Wan, you’ve only been here for a day. Master Che says she wants you here for a least a week for observation,” Bant giggled.

“Don’t remind me,” Obi-Wan groaned dramatically, fighting against the smile that kept climbing up his face. “It’s hardly fair, I think. ‘Observation’ is only supposed to be a night, right? Never a week. I think its stupid,”

“She wants you to rest, Obi. And she knows that as soon as you get out of here, you’ll be doing anything but resting,” Bant released his hand and drew her knees up to her chest. Shifting weight, she turned to the side and wrapped her arms around him. Obi-Wan couldn’t have been more grateful for Bant. She’d spent every moment she could with him, sitting beside him on his cot, holding his hand. Force knew he needed it.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Bant said softly, her voice starting to break. “I was so worried I’d never see you again,”

From behind the tightly wound bandages, his eyes began to prickle with unshed tears, spilling over and soaking up into the bacta-slathered gauze. His arms tightened around her, his throat constricting painfully. “Me too,” was all he managed to choke out.

“Where did you go?” Bant demanded, harshness creeping into her voice. Obi-Wan would’ve flinched but he knew he deserved it, even if his cause was just. If Bant were ever to disappear, as he had, it would hurt him terribly. He could only imagine how she felt. “Why did you leave?” Bant reiterated, and Obi-Wan shifted and sat up, craning his head to face her direction.

“Master Jinn didn’t tell you?” he asked, his face twisting up in confusion while anxiety crept into his ribcage and constricted around his heart and lungs like a venomous snake.

“No, not really,” Bant said vaguely, sliding off the cot and shrugging.

An irrational fear surged through Obi-Wan as he felt the mattress decompress beside him and the warmth of her skin faded from his fingertips. “Bant!” he cried out, reaching out for her, suddenly panicked because he couldn’t see her and she was gone and what if she was going to leave him alone?

Bant closed the distance between them, her hand returning to his. She didn’t say anything, not for a moment, but he could feel her deep worry bleeding into his side of their clan bond. His stomach twisted up with guilt and he felt his ears heat up, scorched red with shame. Recoiling, he weaseled his hand away from hers—a surprisingly difficult task because she kept grabbing it back.

“I apologize. I… don’t know what came over me,” he said, trying to sound stoic as he sat up straight and faced forward.

“You know,” Bant began, her tone effortlessly light. Obi-Wan craned back towards her, the confusion twisting back onto his expression as he felt the cot depress against her weight, down by his feet. She sounded amused. “When you’re embarrassed, your ears turn totally red and you do this thing where you sit up straight and you get all calm and stoic, like you’re trying to pretend to be Master Jinn. Come to think of it, you’ve only really been doing it since coming back from Bandomeer,”

“I do not!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, his spine stiffening as his ears only continued to darken. He was unable to hide the smile from his face, however, relieved as he was to give into her teasing.

Unfortunately, the lightness of the moment didn’t last. He felt Bant’s energy pool and coalesce at the base of her side of their bond. He heard her take in a heavy breath and exhale.

“No, Master Jinn didn’t say anything,” Ah. So they were back to this conversation. “He only said that you betrayed the Order,”

It felt as someone had buried a knife in his gut. He knew that he had, in no uncertain terms, betrayed the Order. He had broken the oath he’d taken when he’d become a padawan. However, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the decision he’d made. For all the suffer, all the pain that Melida/Daan had caused, he couldn’t find himself to regret leaving the Order to fight with the Young. They’d needed help and he’d helped them. Wasn’t that the whole purpose of being a Jedi? Defend the peace and protect those who cannot protect themselves?

And he knew how his former master had seen his alignment with the young: to Qui-Gon, it had been nothing short of betrayal. Still, it hurt in an inexplicable way, knowing that Master Jinn had traipsed around the Temple, telling anyone within earshot that Obi-Wan Kenobi was a good-for-nothing-padawan who’d betrayed the Jedi Order at the first chance he got.

“That’s not what he said,” Bant huffed, her fingers curling around his and prying them away from where they were digging into and tugging at the bandages around his eyes.  

Kriff. He really did need to work on his shielding, Qui-Gon was right.

“I-I… sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate-“

“You’re doing it again,” Bant cut in, teasing as she reached up and tugged on his maroon-shaded ear. “Lookit. If you try to sit up any straighter, you’re spine’s going to crack,”

Obi-Wan ducked his head and purposefully hunched over, resisting the urge to tug at his bandages again. “Oh… oh kriff off,”  he whispered, equally teasing. He heard Eerin gasp, and he couldn’t keep himself from grinning.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi! The mouth on you! Not in my temple!” she exclaimed dramatically, tugging on his nerf tail.

“Ow, stop!” he laughed, swatting her hand away from his head and carefully readjusting the little tuft of hair she’d mussed up. “Just because you’ve never heard me curse, doesn’t mean I don’t do it all the time. Back when I was an Initiate, I used to teach the younglings in the creche curses, all the time,”

“No you didn’t,” Bant shot back, slyly tugging on his nerf tail one last time after he’d finished redoing it. “When we were Initiates, you were the biggest goodie-two-shoes I’d ever met,”

“I was not!” Obi-Wan protested, only to withdraw as he felt Bant’s energy pool up once again.

“Yes you were,” she said, firmer, her voice heavy, sadder. “That’s how I know you didn’t really betray the Order. You’d never do something like that. So… where did you go? Where were you?” Her voice was tight and full of pain. He knew what she was really trying to ask: What was so important that you couldn’t even say goodbye?

Obi-Wan’s mouth suddenly felt incredibly dry, painfully so. “Bant… there- there was this war. It was this big civil war and everybody was killing each other. And… and the only people who wanted the war to stop was this group of kids. I mean… kids Bant. They were just younglings. It was this shabby army of younglings and people were- people were killing them. Can you image that, Bant? Can you a war so vile, so disgusting, that people haplessly slaughter younglings, left and right, and nobody thinks twice about it?” His voice was thick with emotion, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of his blanket.

“Bant, there was so much suffering. I asked- I asked Master Jinn to say. We’re Jedi! We needed to stay and fight, we needed to help! That’s what we do, we help! But he said no, because it wasn’t our mission,” Obi-Wan turned away, almost violently. “He didn’t even care, Bant. He didn’t care about the younglings or the war, or even about me. All he cared about was Master Tahl,” he spat. “He talks so much about avoiding attachments and being a good Jedi and- and- and the Living Force! The here and now! He’s always talking about following promptings and being receptive of the Will of the Force. And I was! The Force was screaming, Bant! It was begging us to stay and help those kids! And he wouldn’t listen to it! He didn’t care!

“Then he comes back to the Temple and accuses me of betraying the Order. I didn’t betray anybody! He’s the one who- he’s the one who- I-I needed him there- I didn’t- I only wanted to help, Bant, I-I-I did what he asked, and I-I listened to the Living Force and he- h-he just-!!! He went away and he didn’t come back! I didn’t- I didn’t think he’d come back… I was so- It was cold and I was so hungry all the time and they- Bant, Cerasi… it was my fault- I-I couldn’t…” Obi-Wan’s voice broke apart like a fragmenting sheet of ice, caught in a rough patch of sea. He bowed his head and the breath caught up in his throat and tripped up over ragged, heavy sobs. Bant didn’t say anything, but he felt her arms around her and that was good enough for him. He felt safe, for the first time in months, in the arms of his agemate, and finally gave into the torrent of emotions and let them ravage over him.

He didn’t feel Qui-Gon’s presence in the doorway, where the foolish old master stood helplessly and listened. As he cracked apart, he was vaguely aware of a second pair of heavy arms resting on his back, though he couldn’t identify whose they were. Distantly, he could hear the erratic beeping of his heart monitor. Somewhere else, Master Che was yelling something that Obi-Wan couldn’t understand. The weights and warmths and arms beside him shifted. Then the Force was there, lulling him into a soft sleep. He found he lacked the energy to resist its call.

-           -           -

 The next several days passed mostly without incident. Bant visited often. She stayed with him and they talked and joked and laughed like they used to. Master Che often threatened to remove her, accusing her of ‘disrupting other patients.’ However, she never followed through on those threats—Bant’s presence had done wonders for soothing Obi-Wan’s panic and new-found anxieties.

Master Jinn never visited, at least, not that Obi-Wan was aware of. Then again, Obi-Wan didn’t really expect Master Jinn visit, why would he? The ex-padawan knew where he stood in the master’s eyes. Members of the council passed by every once and a while—mostly to hear Obi-Wan’s report of the Melida/Daan incident. However, they all seemed genuinely pleased that Obi-Wan had returned to the fold, as it were.

Master Plo Koon seemed to take a special interest in Obi-Wan and the young man couldn’t deny, it made him incredibly happy. He’d spend the flight back to Coruscant worried that everybody was going to hate him, and that the Jedi Council would reject him immediately. It was more than relieving to discover that those fears were mostly unfounded.

Even better, Master Che was confident that, in time and with extensive healing and therapy, most of Obi-Wan’s vision could be restored.  It was unlikely that the restoration would ever be complete—Obi-Wan would need to learn to rely more heavily on the Force and on his other senses, but the point was: there was hope.

However, he was becoming more and more aware that something was happening in the Temple, something bad. The Force was charged with energy, electric and pulled taut like a hide over a tanning frame. He asked about it, and nobody had any answers for him.

Then, a day and a half before his release from the Halls of Healing, everything went pear-shaped.

Bant had left for classes, Master Che had just finished changing the bandages around his eyes, and Obi-Wan was settling in for a nap. He turned onto his side and buried his face against the pillow and exhaled, allowing any remaining tension to drift off into the Force when suddenly the pressure in the Force, that had been building for the past several days, reached its breaking point and shattered.

Obi-Wan sat up with a gasp, clutching at his chest. He threw the blankets off of his legs and let his bare toes touch the cool flooring. “What’s happening? What’s going on?” he called out, panting, feeling his way along the wall as he attempted to escape the unseemly labyrinth that was the Halls of Healing.

“Master Che!” he called out, and received no answer. Then, suddenly, there was a heavy hand on his shoulder and he yelped.

“Quiet, young one,” Master Jinn whispered and ushered him out into the hallway.

“What are you doing here? What’s happening?” Obi-Wan demanded, feeling indignation well up in his chest. He was furious with Qui-Gon for disappearing for so long, abandoning him (Obi-Wan was starting to sense a pattern) in the Halls of Healing without so much as a passing conversation, only to reappear, nearly a week later, and, without a single word of explanation, expect his former apprentice to follow him blindly and obediently?

“There isn’t time,” Qui-Gon ground out and Obi-Wan grit his teeth, digging his heels into the ground in defiance.

“Master Jinn, what’s going on?” the apprentice asked sharply, his tone making it very clear that he intended to go nowhere without an explanation.

“Obi-Wan, there isn’t time!” Qui-Gon reiterated, shouting.

Suddenly, the young man was back on Melida/Daan, watching as children were needlessly slaughtered while Master Jinn escorted Master Tahl aboard their ship and made no indication he had any plans of staying to help the Young.

Master, they’re dying! Obi-Wan had protested. We have to do something!

Obi-Wan, there isn’t time! Qui-Gon had said.

Qui-Gon began, once again, attempting to usher the injured apprentice somewhere else, without a word of explanation. “Hurry, Obi-Wan, we must hurry! There isn’t time to dwaddle and talk!” he barked, though Obi-Wan didn’t miss the note of worry in his voice.

Obi-Wan clenched his jaw. “There never is there?” he spat out, his face heating up with an anger that he knew was inappropriate. “Never time for me, never time for the Young, never time for anything except what you deem worthy of your attention!” the boy shouted, and balked backwards, instantly regretting his outburst.

Just as Bant had said, he found his ears heating up and his back straightening. He felt terribly vulnerable, out in the open, and stepped backwards, pressing his back flush against a wall. “Master Jinn. I apologize. I-“

“Xanatos has infiltrated the Temple. I fear he may wish to harm you. I want to bring you to a safer place,” Qui-Gon interrupted, crouching down to be at Obi-Wan’s height.

Obi-Wan had wanted an explanation, and there it was. He gawked, his jaw unhinged and hanging open like a snake. “What concern is that of yours?” he asked, without really thinking.

Qui-Gon exhaled in what was obvious frustration. “Obi-Wan, contrary to popular belief, I do not wish you see harm befall you!” he snapped.

Obi-Wan’s heart was hammering. He no longer had any idea what to think. He still held so much anger and mistrust towards his ex-master (both of which were feeling Master Che encouraged him to work through and release—anger after trauma was, apparently, a natural part of the grieving process.) However, there was still a very real part of him that desperately longed for Qui-Gon’s approval, an the affirmation that, no, Qui-Gon didn’t hate him, filled the apprentice with more hope than he was willing to feel. It was uncomfortable. He didn’t know how to react. So, instead, he allowed himself to be pushed along, taken where ever it was that Qui-Gon was heading.

In the back of Obi-Wan’s mind, the Force began prodding. It was a warning. But what of, he couldn’t decipher. There was something very, very, very wrong. It was a queasy, slimy sensation, accompanied by the feeling that he’d forgotten something.

“How did Xanatos get in?” Obi-Wan asked, still riffling, uncertain, through his amalgamation of undefined emotions.

“Your friend Bruck Chun let him in. I don’t know why. He’s always seemed a bit seedy to me, that Bruck. I only regret not noticing it sooner,” Qui-Gon said, curtly, offhandedly.

And all at once, whatever barrier in his mind prevented him from understanding, came collapsing down with an almighty crash, and horrible realization came flooding over his senses.

“Bant! Where’s Bant!” Obi-Wan cried, tugging himself violently away from Qui-Gon’s hold. His chest was tight with fear. He couldn’t seem to draw in enough breath to thing straight. Trembling fingers carefully unwound the bandage from around the head. Light. He needed light. He didn’t care how damaged his eyes were, he didn’t care about whatever tongue-lashing Master Che would give him for not protecting his eyes, he need to find Bant and to do that, he needed to see.

“Obi-Wan stop! We need to- Obi-Wan! Stop!” Master Jinn ordered, trying to pry the youth’s hands away from his face, but Obi-Wan resisted, struggling backwards until his eyes were finally free.

He gasped in pain and shrunk away when the light came flooding into his sensitive eyes. Immediately, his head started to pound and the room started to spin. None of the shapes or greyed-out colors were enough to decipher his surroundings. However, the Force seemed more than happy to compensate and fill in the gaps.

“He’s got Bant! Can’t you feel it? He’s got her! I’ve got to find her,” he said, urgency rising in his voice as he stumbled in the direction the Force seemed to be guiding him towards.

“Obi-Wan, she is fine, I’m sure but I don’t have time to stand here and argue with you!” Qui-Gon’s voice was rising and Obi-Wan was sure his temper was also rising to match it.

“Then go on and leave! If I’m taking up too much of your precious time, then leave!” the disheveled young man shouted and twisted away, sprinting madly down the hall.

“Obi-Wan!” Master Jinn shouted after him, but Obi-Wan offered no response.

-           -           -

Obi-Wan’s blind faith in the Force lead him to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. His heart was hammering, his breathing was ragged. Wherever Bant was, she was awake now. He could feel her fear pulsating powerfully along their bond.

The Force, normally so light and freeing in that sacred room, was dark and oppressive, heavy with the weight of whatever atrocity Xanatos and Bruck were planning to commit.

Where are you? I’ll find you, tell me where you are! Obi-Wan begged, reaching out to her in the Force.

The response he received was chaotic and incoherent. Wherever she was, she’d been drugged or hit in the head or something. The mere idea of it sent rage surging through Obi-Wan’s veins. It was a dangerous kind of anger. The Dark Side loomed heavily in the air. It was close, tantalizingly so. It offered power, the power to save the people he loved. The power to prove to his former Master that he was worthy of being a Jedi.

Obi-Wan clutched at his head and sunk to his knees. “No, no! I can’t!” he cried, startled by just how tempting that sort of power was.

He’d held Cerasi in his arms while she died. He couldn’t let the same thing happen to Bant.

“It’s tempting, isn’t it?” a voice called from somewhere high up and far away.

Obi-Wan’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, though his eyes were unable to register much of anything. A blurry, shapeless splotch was moving back and forth on top of one of the many waterfalls. It was Bruck, he recognize the voice and the force signature.

“Why are you doing this?” Obi-Wan called out, rising up to his feet once more. He reached, instinctively, to his hip. Kark. He had no blaster. He had no lightsaber. He had no hope for winning any kind of fight. “Where is Bant?” he demanded.

“What, kind find her? Clearly you didn’t look hard enough. Then again, look at your kriffing face, Kenobi! No wonder you can’t find her. I bet you couldn’t even see your own hand in front of your face!” he jeered.

“Bruck! Tell me where she is!” Obi-Wan demanded. His blood pressure had easily tripled in the last five minutes from the stress alone. He was staving off a major panic attack: the energy in the room reminded him far too much of Melida/Daan. Every cell in his body was screaming at him, telling him that there was danger, telling him to run.

So, Obi-Wan ran.

He ran headlong towards the wet cliff face and began to climb. He couldn’t give into his instincts. Not yet.

“That’s it! There he is! For a moment, I thought you were going to run away. The Obi-Wan I know would never run away from a fight. I’m glad to see your little vacation didn’t do too much to change your personality,” Bruck licked his lips and readied his lightsaber.

“Oh, shut up!” Kenobi retorted dryly. “I don’t want to fight you, Bruck! I only want to save my friend!” He grit his teeth as he slowly pulled himself higher and higher. Farther up, Bruck seemed to grow impatient and began descending, intent on meeting him halfway. The waterfall beside him roared in his ear. He felt for the next handhold and carefully pulled himself up.

“Where’s your lightsaber, Kenobi?” Chun asked, his lips curled halfway between a sneer, a smirk, and a snarl.

“I didn’t bring it. I told you, I don’t want to fight,” Obi-Wan said with a shrug. He reached out into the Force, still searching for Bant. She was close, he could feel it. But where? “Why are you doing this?” he demanded once more. He was on high alert. He expected Bruck to lunge at any moment.

“Don’t you get it, Kenobi? This isn’t about me. I’m only here following my master because, unlike you, I’m a good apprentice,”

Obi-Wan wished, he wished so badly, that the muscles in his eyes were strong enough to allow him to roll them. Because if any situation deserved a good, old-fashioned eye roll, this one did. He opened his mouth and was about to say something rude and sarcastic when the realization dawned on him. “No, no, no. Bruck! No! Xanatos, he’s not your master! You can’t- he’d Dark!”

“And what’s wrong with that, Kenobi? You felt it, the power the Dark Side has to offer. I’ll be a stronger Jedi than you could ever imagine,” Bruck’s voice was even and level and Obi-Wan hated it.

He felt as if the whole world was falling apart. No, he’d really never liked Bruck, Bruck was a bully. But he never thought Bruck was capable of this! “Then why Bant? She never did anything wrong?”

“It’s not about Bant, it’s about you! I want to hurt you! I want to see you suffer and break- I want the whole Temple to see you break!” Bruck screamed, his temper cracking open.

“Why? Why? I’ve never done anything!” Obi-Wan cried.

“Because I’m better than you! I’ve always been better than you! But nobody sees it! You never should’ve been a padawan, Obi-Wan! Qui-Gon should’ve picked me! He should’ve picked me!”

“You weren’t ready!” Obi-Wan’s hands were shaking. His robes and hair were soaked from the roaring waterfall. He continued reaching out for Bant. It didn’t matter what happened to him, here, as long as he could find her and save her.

“No, maybe I wasn’t. But I am now, and still! Still he can’t see it! You betray the Order and still! Still he talks about taking you back as his apprentice!” Bruck’s face was red. His temper had reached it’s climax and was beginning to splinter.

Blood was pounding in Obi-Wan’s ears. “Wh-what?” he choked out. Master Jinn? Master Jinn had been talking about taking him back? When? To who?

No. Stop. It didn’t matter. Not right now. He had to find Bant. Where was she? The spray from the waterfall irritated his eyes. It was hard to keep them open. Its roar made it hard to concentrate. He had to fight past it. He had to be fast. He had to reach out, pushing through it, just far enough to- to- to-

“Bant!” he screamed, and whirled around, casting his useless eyes towards the deep pool of water below. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her. She was down there, chained to something heavy. She couldn’t get air.

She was going to drown.

Obi-Wan heard a lightsaber ignite behind him. Inhaling sharply, he whirled around as Bruck charged and managed to step aside just in time. His opponent twisted around and grit his teeth.

“Obi-Wan!” A voice called from somewhere far below.

Master Jinn. The Force whispered in his ear.

Forced to choose between going after Xanatos or going after Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon Jinn had chosen Obi-Wan Kenobi, just as he had on Bandomeer.

Obi-Wan felt like he could sob in relief. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to emote. Squinting furiously to try and see, he used the Force to leap over Bruck’s head. He hit the ground and stumbled, scraping his knee, but recovered quickly.  “Master!” he called out. “Bant! She’s in the pool! She’s in the-“ his response was cut short by an urgent warning in the Force as Bruck swung again.

Relief surged through Obi-Wan as he heard a loud splash in the water below. Bruck howled in fury and Obi-Wan reached out, grasping the back of his tunic and yanking him backwards before he had the chance to dive into the water, as well. Bruck stumbled backwards and hit the wet, slippery ground. The lightsaber slipped out of his hands, Obi-Wan heard the metallic ring as it clattered to the ground and skittered off. Immediately, he dropped to his knees, feeling along the ground for it. There was movement beside him. He grabbed the lightsaber and pulled it to his chest, just as Bruck’s boot connected with his face.

Obi-Wan slipped backwards, gasping and holding his bleeding nose. He reached out into the Force and the lightsaber flew out of Bruck’s hands and into his. He ignited it, waving it back and forth, a warning to stay away.

“It’s over, Bruck!” he shouted. Unfortunately, Bruck didn’t seemed to agree, and charged.

Below them, something burst out of the water and slapped against the ground. Somebody was gasping.

Both Bruck and Obi-Wan grappled for the lightsaber, inching closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. The bright, red light of the saber burned into Obi-Wan’s eyes, making his head spin. Bruck wasn’t much bigger than he was, they were fairly evenly matched.

Bruck tugged hard on the lightsaber and Obi-Wan lost his footing. He cried out in fear as the ground beneath him slipped away and he nearly pitched over the side of the cliff, only to catch himself at the last minute. “Bruck! Bruck stop!” he cried, regaining his height and tightening his hold on the lightsaber.

“No! Let go!” Bruck shouted.

“No, Bruck, I don’t want to fight you!” Obi-Wan plead.

Bruck’s only response was to violently jerk the lightsaber backwards. Obi-Wan, not wanting to lose his footing again, released his hold on the hilt. The sudden loss of counterbalance caused Bruck’s footing to fail. The lightsaber was tossed aside as he reached out, trying to find something to hold onto.

“Bruck! No!” Obi-Wan shouted and reached out, grasping his Clanmate’s wrist just as Bruck careened over the edge.

The solid ground beneath Obi-Wan’s feet slid lose. He gasped in horror as he, too, followed behind Bruck and toppled over the edge of the cliff. He reached out, desperate to find something to hold onto, but there was nothing there.

“Obi-Wan!” Qui-Gon cried and reached out for his apprentice, but it was too late.

Both boys hit the rocky ground beneath them with a sickening crack.

Chapter Text

The first thing Obi-Wan became aware of was the pain in his hands—specifically his pinkies, middle, and fourth finger. It felt like someone was sitting on his chest and his legs felt... it was hard to describe. The joints of his hips ached. He could feel them, they tingled, but there felt lightweight, like they’d float away from him if the weight of his bones weren’t holding them down. He felt like his legs were at half opacity.

He tried to speak, but no sound came out. The air that came up was rough against his dry throat. It took a long time to pry his eyes open but, when he thought they were, there was still only darkness. Was there something wrapped around his eyes? He tried to reach up, but his arm wouldn’t move. He tried to make his fingers twitch, and instantly regretted the decision: radiating pain went shooting up his arm. He made a sound halfway between a dry gurgle and a sharp cry of pain, his head rolling over to the side.

“Easy, my padawan. You’ve been asleep for a long time. Take it slowly,” a deep, strong voice rumbled beside him, a heavy calloused hand resting on his forehead.

He turned his head lamely towards the sound of the voice, leaning into the touch as if he hadn’t been touched or held in years. He tried to speak again but no sound came out.

“You must be thirsty,” the man mused. “I should imagine so. You’ve been in the bacta tank for nearly a week, and unconscious for a week after that,”

Obi-Wan heard water rolling into a glass. He licked his split lips in anticipation.

“A terrible thing to do, to worry your master so,” the voice said again and Obi-Wan’s face twisted up in incomprehension.

There was a long, painful silence. “That is...” the voice cleared his throat. “If you will take me as your master again. I... understand if you think me unworthy,”

A strong arm wormed it’s way behind his back and hoisted him upright. The padawan whimpered—pain sparking down his back like volts of electricity.

The strong arm held him upright and his head fell, uselessly, against the foreign shoulder. He could’ve lifted it if he’d wanted to, but he was far too tired.

He felt cool glass pressed against his lips and he fought through the pain, out of sheer desperation, and lifted his arms to meet it. Only one of them obeyed, but his fingers wouldn’t listen and failed to curl around the glass. The strong hand was still wrapped around the glass, so instead of grasping himself, Obi-Wan merely pushed it, more forcefully, against his lips. He drank greedily, and the voice rumbled in sympathetic amusement:

“Not all at once,” it urged, but didn’t pull the glass away. When the water was gone, the glass was taken away and set aside, and the arm carefully deposited him back against the pillows.

“I understand if it isn’t a decision you want to make right now. I understand that so much has happened,”

There was a heavy, thick sadness in the force. Obi-Wan felt he ought to comfort the voice and opened his mouth but no sound came out once more.

His head was starting to hurt. Nothing made sense.

“Obi-Wan?” The voice asked, the worry doubling like heaps of fabric, all folded over onto itself.

The padawan’s eyes slid closed as he tried to knit his thoughts together. He could feel his own breath rattling heavy in his chest, and it reminded him, horrifically, of the heavy, masked Sith from his visions as a youngling.

The hand was back on his forehead. “It’s alright, take your time,” the voice urged. He heard the sound of a light switch being flipped on,—perhaps it had simply been too dark in the room to see?

Obi-Wan’s eyes opened again, and instead of blackness, there was an inky, toneless, all encompassing grey.

Gauze. It must’ve been gauze.

He licked his lips and cleared his throat—the aching already beginning to subside, and finally managed to put forth his first question: “Where is Master Urzire?” His voice was rough and croaky, but the sound was clear and didn’t shake.

“Master Ur- the Creche Master?”
the voice asked, sputtering in confusion. “Obi-Wan, why would you need the Creche Master?”

Now, it was Obi-Wan’s turn to be confused. “Why wouldn’t I?” He asked, slowly, haltingly, unsure. “He’s... he’s in charge of me, isn’t he?”

There was a surge of blind anger in the Force, tight and restricting, the feeling of abandonment, heavy in the air.

“So... that is your choice? Returning to the Creche? You will not have me for your master?” the voice asked sharply and Obi-Wan recoiled, though, deep down, he could feel that the aggression was coming from a deep place of hurt.

Obi-Wan could sympathize.

Still, it made it no less frightening.

The man recoiled himself, seeming to realize his mistake, and Obi-Wan felt the anger release into the Force. “I do understand,” the voice said, sounding more defeated than Obi-Wan was expecting.

But Obi-Wan didn’t have the energy to reply anymore. He was so, so very confused, and there were so many questions he wanted to ask but was unable to. He sagged against the bed and his eyes fell shut. The voice tugged the blankets up to his chest and the action made the padawan feel like bursting into tears, though he couldn’t explain the reasoning behind it.

“Rest, Young one,” the voice instructed and Obi-Wan was so, so tempted to drift away into sleep. He resisted, however, just long enough to ask the one question that was starting to bore away at his mind and burn:

“Did I ever get my crystal?”

The tension in the air seemed to shatter and the man in the chair beside him seemed to freeze.

“What?” He demanded, likely harsher than he’d intended but Obi-Wan didn’t flinch this time.

“My kyber Crystal. Did I get it?” Obi-Wan reiterated, beginning to feel jittery and upset.

“Obi-Wan... how much do you remember?” the man asked slowly.

Obi-Wan fell silent as he fought to remember. He remember Ilum. He remembered the cold and the fear and the failure of searching and searching and being unable to find his crystal. He remembered his clanmates and his classes with Master Urzire and the other teachers. He remembered Bruck’s teasing and Bant teaching him to swim, helping him keep his head out of the water and laughing at his panic when he though he was going to drown because Obi-Wan just stand up! The water’s only three feet deep! and he remembered warm meals in the cafeteria and training with his wooden training lightsaber (and only just the other day a duel with Bruck got too intense and they both would up in the halls of healing...) he remembered... he remembered...

Pain blasters blood dust screaming —the heavy weight if somebody he loved held tightly in his arms—his oath, the retreating figure of somebody he loved and- and- and a waterfall! He remembered a glowing red lightsaber that he couldn’t see properly and the smell of algae and the spray of water and flying without wings (falling! Helpless!) and panicpanicpanicpanicpanic-

Those memory didn’t belong with the others. It was wrong. Everything was wrong! Force, it made his head hurt—he half expected it to split open. He whimpered and managed to get both arms up to his face (though they shook terribly and the pain shooting through them was nearly enough drive the headache away) and his jerking hands half curled (they mostly refused the action) into frustrated, malformed fists, which he pressed against his bandaged eyes.

Except: there were no bandages.

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped opened and he reached out blindly, horrified, clawing at the air around him. “I-I can’t see! Why can’t I see!” he cried out.

Those same, strong, large hands wrapped around his wrists and help them tight. He was panting, his chest aching from the exertion. “What do you remember?” The voice demanded , perhaps more harshly than intended.

Obi-Wan’s panic was only mounting. “I-I don’t know! I don’t know! I was falling! I remembering falling- we were on Ilum I’m the cave and my crystal was so high up and I was scared but I reached for it and the ice gave way and I fell and I thought I was going to die trapped behind the ice and I thought nobody would come for me and I’d never be a Jedi and I-“ He was sobbing now, shaking so badly that he was starting to feel dizzy. He tried to pull his hands away but the man holding them was too strong.

“Qui-Gon Jinn! What in Sith Hells are you doing!” Another voice screeched—this one, Obi-Wa recognizes as master Che. “He needs rest! I told you that you were only allowed in here if you didn’t cause him any distress!” She shouted.

The man—Master Jinn (Force! Why would the Jedi Master be sitting with Obi-Wan?)—recoiled once more.

There were memories that sat just behind the greyness in Obi-Wan’s broken vision—memories that he knew existed but couldn’t recall in completion—like hazy, fragmented dreams.

Master Jinn’s hand was pried away from Obi-Wan’s wrist and there was a sudden silence—time passed, time in which Master Jinn must’ve been escorted out of the room, but Obi-Wan wasn’t quite aware. Everything was hurting again and the stony greyness was spinning and didn’t settle until there was a soft hand (smaller than Master Jinn’s) that settles on his shoulder.

“And how do you feel, Obi-Wan?” Master Che asked. “I feel I should apologize for his behavior, though I’m sure you understand how he is,”

“Why should I?” Obi-Wan croaked, feeling tears of frustration prickling at his eyes because he had a terrible feeling he knew exactly what Master Che was talking about.

That Master Healer exhaled softly. “Memory loss isn’t uncommon with your types of injuries,” she said.

“What kind?”

“Head trauma, spinal trauma—all the sort you get when you fall from a great height,”

“I do remember falling,” Obi-Wan said, picking at his bedsheets—or trying to, at least. His thumbs and pointer fingers were just fine but the others wouldn’t cooperate at all. “I was at Ilum. Getting my kyber crystal,” the boy looked up suddenly, his head snapping in her direction. “Did I get it?”

“You got it, Obi-Wan,” Master Che assured and there was such kindness in her voice that he almost wanted to cry, once again.

“Im glad you remember that. I remember it too. You gave us all quite a scare—reckless, foolish youngling,” She chided gentle and placed something in his shaking, fragile, damaged hands. It was cool and cylindrical and so, so familiar. It made Obi-Wan’s heart sing to touch. It felt like years and years and years since he’d last held it—

(And vague memories of war and death and blaster came flooding in, a place he had gone and suffered for a long time.)

“My lightsaber!” He squeaked, his whole face lighting up in delight. It darkened slowly, as the realization dawned on him. “But I was just... I was just in Ilum, I haven’t even crafted it yet. I don’t-“ he cut off with a painful grunt and doubled over, his head splitting apart once more.

Master Che placed a hand on his back and removed the lightsaber from his hands, placing it on the bedside table. There was peace in the force and the pain began to dissipate.

“Peace, Young one. That was a long time ago,”

“How long?” Obi-Wan asked timidly, when he finally found his voice.

“Four years ago, nearly,” Che said, simply. “Many things have happened since then,”

“Master Jinn became my master,” Obi-Wan said, his brows furrowed together. “But he... he acted like- I remember him taking me on, kind of. It’s sort of hazy. I remember swearing my oath. But why... why did he act like I wasn’t his? He kept saying stuff like: I want to be your master again, ‘if you’ll take me.’ Why?” He asked, the tears prickling once again. He knew the answer to that question. He knew it.

In the back of his mind he could see the fleeting image of a brown Jedi robe and the feeling of a bond shattered by betrayal.

Swallowing thickly, Obi-Wan answered his own question: “I... I betrayed him, didn’t I?”

A second presence swept into the room like a soft wind. “Let me,” a new voice whispered, and Obi-Wan immediately perked up.

“Master Tahl!” He exclaimed facing in the direction of her voice. He reached out towards her, his arms tingling and prickling and shooting stabbing pain all the way down to his fingertips, but quickly remember that he wasn’t, apparently, a Crecheling anymore and his arms snapped back to his sides, the pain receding the second his arm returned to a neutral position.

There was, judging from the energy in the Force, a silent battle between the two women before Master Tahl won and Master Che’s signature swept away like an ocean wave, muttering a soft warning under her breath: “Don’t distress him...!”

“It’s me, Obi-Wan. It’s good to be with you again,” she said.

Obi-Wan remembered Tahl. He remember how kind she was and gentle she was. He felt like he hadn’t been with her in a long time, and when he tried to remember why, he could only conjure up images of that war and those kids and that billowing Jedi robe disappearing into a ship and that pain pain pain pain stabbing in his heart.

He felt the bed dip and felt her warmth beside him and had to physically resist the urge to curl up against her side like a child. She, however, was one step ahead of him, and wrapped and arm around him, pulling him close. He practically melted into her touch and found himself, despite his wantings, curling in on himself and pressing up against her, desperate for any comfort that was offering to him. The urge to cry was rising again and becoming hard and harder to squish down.

“You’re safe,” he observed. “You were hurt,”

“I was,” Tahl praised, seemingly pleased that he could remember the event. “But Im alright now, thanks to you and Qui-Gon,”

Obi-Wan swallowed hard and squeezed his (sightless?) eyes shut. “He wants to be my master again,” he said, his voice as smooth and level as he could make it.

“He does! I heard him make his request to the council. They were... hesitant, given the circumstances. But he fought for you. I was proud of him. I think he’d realized how badly he’s hurt you,” she said.

Obi-Wan’s head was reeling and he was starting to feel ill as the fragmented memories fell into place. “He... he didn’t want me,” Obi-Wan breathed.

“In the beginning? ...no. But... that wasn’t because of you. Xanatos-“

“No, I don’t think he wanted me, ever,” Obi-Wan chokes out. “I remember... I remember that... Sometimes... sometimes he would look at me like he wished I was somebody else,”

Xanatos. That name left a horrible feeling in Obi-Wan’s mouth—halfway between fear and resentment.

“Qui-Gon is a hurting man, and deeply flawed,” Tahl admitted with a heavy sigh and Obi-Wan immediately pushed away from her, sitting up right.

“He’s just fine!” The defense of his Master (former master?) came almost instinctually. The memories were half-charged and mostly useless, but the feelings were strong. Affection, attachment—Obi-Wan loved his master: the sort of traumatic, one-sided love that comes with bonding to a parent that never wanted you and cannot be pleased.

(All of which were feelings condemned by the Order he served; perhaps it was better that Qui-Gon not mentor him, he was a terrible, terrible Jedi.)

There were tears welling up once more. His shaking hands wouldn’t cooperate will enough to wipe them away. He ended up only smacking himself in the face.

“Nobody else would’ve chosen me,” he said, flashes of Bandomeer sparking up in the void behind the sightless grey. “He tried his best. It was me that wasn’t good enough. I was the one who-“ his voice froze, choked halfway in his throat.

I was the one who abandoned him.

And he renounced me.

He could hear blaster fire in his ears. He could taste dirt and blood and salt in his mouth. His skin was so, so dirty. His clothes were soaked with blood but it wasn’t his.

“Cerasi...” the name came tumbling out of his lips followed by an onslaught of memories and emotions that he wasn’t equipped to deal with.

His shattered memories were coalescing together like dew in a puddle of clean water, telling Obi-Wan a story that he didn’t know how to deal with. There was an active tally of sin and wrongdoing that was rapidly building up in his head the more the story formed:

• He’d failed badly enough that Master Yoda sent him to Bandomeer several months before the cutoff date that was his thirteenth birthday
• Master Jinn refused him, consistently, because he was... too violent? Too angry? Too passionate?
• Master Jinn only accepted him as a padawan after he’d, essentially, attempted suicide by pulling a stunt with a slave collar
• He’d betrayed the Jedi order and karked up an entire planet
• He’d failed to protect his best friend and held her while she died in his arms-

Force.

Oh Force.

“Bant!” He cried, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He collapsed to the ground immediately—his legs wouldn’t hold any weight. “Bant! Where is Bant! Is she okay?” He demanded, struggling, frantically to get back up onto his feet, but his legs were functioning even worse than his arms were. He couldn’t even remember what it was that had happened to Bant—only that it was something terrible.

Tahl swept off the bed and gathered him into her arms in an instance. “Obi-Wan, it’s alright. Take a deep breath. Everything’s okay. Bant is safe,” Her fingers threaded through his hair and he had to physically stave off the tears by biting hard into his cheek.

It was wrong to want the comfort he so desperately craved.

“Master Jinn rescued her while you fought with Bruck. It was very honorable of you, that fight. Oh, Obi-Wan- it’s okay. You don’t have to cry,”

Crying was so un-Jedi-like. Surely, he could spare them from that failure—but the emotions were overwhelming. The relief, the grief, the horror... there was so much, it was almost incomprehensible. 

“Sh, Sh, don’t push it,” she mused. “Your memories will come back, but it’ll be slow. Tell me, what can you remember?” Her voice was soft and slow and grounding. He squeezed his eyes shut and latched onto the knife-like pain spiking up his arms as he curled his fingers into fists. 

“The Kyber Crystal,” Obi-Wan stuttered out through a halting breath. “I fell—“

“After that,” Tahl urged.

“I... fought with Bruck. He wound up in the Halls of Healing and nobody... nobody wanted me because I was bad,” Force, that sounded so childish. "I was violent. And angry. Unworthy of being a Jedi," he corrected. 

“They were stuck up old pricks, Obi-Wan. They didn’t deserve you,” Tahl assured, placing a hand on the flat of Obi-Wan’s back and he sucked in a sharp, shuttering breath.

The desire for physical comfort and affection was wrong. It was wrong. Everything about him was wrong. 

He needed to push it all aside and focus on the here and now.

(That sounded like Qui-Gon.)

“Yoda sent me away. I-I don’t know why because I wasn’t supposed to age out for a couple of months why did he-“ he grit his teeth and forced the hurt feelings away, resisting the urge to wriggle out of Tahl’s hold.

Force, his spine ached.

“I tried to kill myself on Bandomeer. N-not because I was- I wanted to die... it just felt like the only way to get everybody else out alive,” he said at last, sounding defeated. “It would’ve been so much better that way. I’ve only ever been a burden to Qui-Gon. He wouldn’t been happier if I’d-“

This time, he did physically recoil away from Tahl and clamber up onto his bed. She didn’t follow him. It was all becoming too much. His legs were still mush but the pain in his mangled hands spurred him on. He settled on the bed and, though the cold air of the Halls sent goose bumps across his skin, he couldn't find the energy within him to crawl under the covers. 

Tahl didn't saw anything so he continued: “Then you were hurt and the war on the planet and those kids-“ He was choking up again, the sound wasn’t coming out. He half-clenched his fists again, just to feel the pain shooting up his arms. The pain was grounding. It got his head back in the right place.

“Somebody died. I held her,” Obi-Wan let his head fall to one side. What was her name? He'd said it before, but now he couldn't remember it. Frustration bubbled up inside of him once more. Useless. His stupid, fat, broken head was utterly useless. 

He really should've died on Bandomeer. That would've made everyone's lives easier. 

Tahl’s hand came down, once more, to rest on his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault,”

“You don’t know. You weren’t there,” he bit back.

That was, it seemed, where Obi-Wan’s train of thought ran out, so he switched the subject quickly, if only to spare his cowardice from facing his own suicidal ideation: “He fought for me?” He asked. That was a good question. It was likely to appease her. He could sense her uneasiness and it made him want to crawl out of his skin. His hips ached and his head was starting to hurt again. Why can't this conversation just end already?

“Because he does care for you, Obi-Wan. Even if he has a fickle way of showing it,” Tahl chided.

Obi-Wan shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. You said the council was thinking about not letting me come back to the Temple,” Obi-Wan said and completely deflated.

“Only because you took quite a fall. You’re hurt, Obi-Wan,”

“I fell?” He echoed. “But you said the Kyber crystal was-“

“A long time ago, yes. You fell again. you were in the room of a Thousand Fountains fighting Bruck,”

“Bruck!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, horror creeping Into his features as he struggling to repress that memory. Please.. he didn’t want to remember that. Not yet.

“He turned dark. He was working with-“

“Xanatos- I know- I know!” He exclaimed, clamping his hands childishly over his ears. He didn’t want to do this anymore, didn’t want to remember. His arms weren't obedient and he accidentally hit his head harder than he meant to. Pain flooded down from his fingertips, bleeding across his shoulder and down his spine, settling in his hips. He tried, desperately, to force the thoughts away, but the memories came back anyways.

He remembered fighting Bruck over a lightsaber at the top of a slippery cliff. He remembered searching for Bant, pleading with the Force—he remembered feeling her through the bond the shared. She was stuck underwater somewhere, distantly afraid. He remembered the proxy feeling off water gushing into her lungs as she took a too-desperate breath underwater, and the pain and panic that radiated from her.

He pitched himself forwards, trying to force his legs to work so he could, once again, scramble off the bed. His functionless fingers twitched uselessly against his eyes as he tried to pry off whatever bandage was causing him such greyness. The whole world was coming apart and he couldn’t breath.

“Bant!” He cried, and didn’t even make it off the bed before his tired spine refused to hold him upright any longer and he collapsed, sideways.

It was Tahl’s arms that caught him, that pulled him into her lap. She held him close whispering to him things that he didn't deserve to hear because he was a terrible, terrible person and so many people had died because of him. (Almost including Bant.)

Distantly, muted as if he were lost somewhere beneath a sheet of ice, he felt Master Che’s presence thunder into the room. Obi-Wan clung to Tahl, afraid Master Che might take her away (it would've been a much-needed lesson on non-attachment), but the healer seemed to sense Obi-Wan’s distress through his tattered shields, and let them be.

After a long time, his helpless weeping stopped (he couldn't even remember when it had started) and Tahl pulled away and took his hands in hers, prying them away from his eyes and pressed a soft kiss to them before running one of her fingers though his hair. “Bant was chained to the bottom of the pool. Qui-Gon saved her while you fought Bruck,” she said. “Bant is safe."

Obi-Wan’s head lifted sluggishly, as if the movement required great effort or caused great pain. He was exhausted. The memories were painful and he didn't want them. He wanted Master Tahl to shut up and stop talking and leave him in blissful ignorance, though he couldn't seem to find the willpower to vocalize the feelings. 

Distantly, he realized that Master Tahl had mentioned Qui-Gon saving Bant once before. However, now, he found himself surprised and his mouth began to move of its own accord. “He didn’t go after Xanatos?” He asked in disbelief. “He didn’t go after Xanatos, he came back for me, instead. I-I dont... I don’t remember that at all. I though for sure she would drown. I though-“

Obi-Wan froze completely and reached out into the Force, meticulously checking all of his bonds.

Bant was there, safe and sound. You’re awake! She whispered against his mind;

His bond with Qui-Gon was still mutilated, but the Master’s end (much to Obi-Was surprise) was beginning to knit itself back together and reach out towards him;

He could feel his bond with Master Yoda, strong as ever;

Master Tahl was alright (obviously);

Master Jocasta Nu was hard at work in the Archives (Obi-Wan has always loved both the Archives and their Master);

His bonds with Master Plo (who was always kind to him, and used to sneak him extra helpings of cake in the cafeteria) and Master Windu (who sparred with him and praised him and had taught him the basics of Soresu) both seemed fine;

His bond with Master Urzire, though faded with time, was still tensile;

He reached out to Siri and felt her reach back, elated that he was awake and alright;

His extension out to Quinlan was met with the same ecstatic, reckless, wild abandon that Obi-Wan always came to expect from Quinlan—you’re awake! You’re okay! I’m so happy! Immediately followed by a litany of all of the reckless, stupid, self-endangering things they would do together;

Then finally, he reached out to Bruck and... and...

“Where is Bruck?” He asked, his voice shot halfway between sheepishly timid and utter boiling panic. “You said Bant was okay but where is Bruck? I-I... the cliff. I remember the cliff and he fell and I caught him, then I fell and- and - What h-happened?” Obi-Wan was panting again, well on the way towards hyperventilation. “I can’t feel him! My bond with him, it’s all—“

It was like Cerasi’s bond: one clean break right down the middle.

The tension in the Force fell still. Obi-Wan felt like he was choking on it.

“I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan,” Tahl said softly and Obi-Wan understood exactly what had happened.

He didn’t cry. It didn’t seem real enough to want to cry. And, Force, he was so sick of crying. It was pathetic and demeaning and he'd already done enough of it for one life time, all on poor Master Tahl's shoulder. Later, when he was finally put-together enough to process shame, he'd apologize to her and never be able to look her in the eyes again. 

(He'd never be able to look at anything again.)

Just yesterday, it seemed, Bruck had given him that awful nickname and they’d fought about it. And the day before that, they were squabbling over coloring materials! His karked up memories made him want to scream. Would anything ever make sense again?

His relationship with Bruck had always been rocky—neither of them liked each other. But he certainly never wanted Bruck to die!

“There was too much spinal damage. He was dead on impact. It was quick, Obi-Wan. It’s not your fault. You did everything you could,” she assured but Obi-Want was completely unresponsive. He slouched back against the pillows, all life completely drained from him.

“Ah." he began, nodding in spite of the pain it caused. "And that’s why the Council is hesitant to take me,” he surmised. “Because I murdered my clanmate,” He turned away, the movement causing a rippling pain that began at the base of his hips and worked upwards.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, no! You did not murder that boy. It was an accident. You cannot allow yourself to believe that you were responsible for his death!” She exclaimed and, when Obi-Wan offered no response, she sighed heavily.

Obi-Wan has turned away from her, curled as tight of a ball as he seemed physically capable of doing with the amount of damage one to his back. His convulsing hands tried to curl around his blankets for comfort, but were unsuccessful. His heart felt like it was being torn apart. Bruck was dead now, and it was his fault. Bruck was dead because they fought- there was a direct correlation between Obi-Wan's actions and Bruck's death. Wasn't that the textbook definition of murder?

Then again, Obi-Wan Kenobi, at age thirteen, was already a murderer. He'd taken his first life in the war on Melida/Daan.

“The council knows of your innocence, Obi-Wan. He attacked you and you defended yourself. You said this yourself: he fell from the cliff and you tried to catch him,” she explained gently. “You fell too. It was an accident. You cannot be blame,”

Obi-Wan merely rolled his head to the side, listlessly.

“So, why doesn’t the Council want me to be a Jedi?” he asked pointedly.

“That’s not what I said,” Tahl cut him, firmly.

“They’re hesitant to let me back in, then. That’s what you said,” obi-Wan corrected.

“They’re hesitant, because they’re worried about you, about the extent of your injuries,”

Tahl trailed off and fell silent. Obi-Wan felt her shift weight on the bed as she struggled to phrase it all correctly.

“Your eyes were damaged before, do you remember?” She asked carefully, and continued when she received a tentative nod from the boy. “When you fell, you hit your head. There’s a- in humans, there’s a nerve that connects the brain to the eyes,”

“The optic nerve, I know. I took Galactic Anatomy as part of my health curriculum,” he grumbled. He knew where this story was going and he didn’t like the ending. He wanted over up his ears but the pain that spread across his back was too great to attempt the action and he was far too tired.

“Obi-Wan, please,” Tahl plead and, hearing the desperation in her voice, the child immediately felt guilty, dipping his head as an apology.

“It’s alright, I understand,” came Tahl’s forgiveness, as she tentatively moved closer to him and put a hand on his back.

She sucked in a sharp breath and exhaled. “The optic nerve was torn when you hit the ground. When your brain began to bleed, the swelling put too much pressure on it and- I’m so, so sorry Obi-Wan,”

Obi-Wan pressed his face into the pillow, feeling hot tears burn against his cheeks. He knew exactly where this was headed:

“The blindness is complete, and irreversible,”

Obi-Wan merely nodded, listlessly. He didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of her or anybody else. Not ever again. That would be undignified and he'd already shamed himself enough for one lifetime. 

“Is that why my legs feel so stupid?” He choked out, intentionally facing away from her.

“You hurt your spine pretty badly, Young one,” Tahl’s voice was heavy with heartbreak of her own. “Master Che said you should be able to walk and run normally again in no time. Your legs are just a little haywire right now,”

“But why does it hurt when I use my arms or move my back too much?” Obi-Wan demanded, finding it harder and harder to push back against the crushing defeat.

“Obi-Wan the pain will go away with time. Your nerves are bruised and still healing. The muscles are still figuring out what they’re supposed to be doing. It will go away,” she assured, but Obi-Wan wasn’t having it.

“And my hands?”

Tahl exhaled and didn’t respond.

Obi-Wan’s breathing hitched, his whole body trembling from the exertion of actively trying to repress his feelings. He couldn’t cry. Not yet. Not here. Not anymore.

“I don’t know,” Tahl said at last.

And the defeat sat on Obi-Wan’s chest like a pile of boulders. He pushed himself upright and bowed his head, hopefully in a better position to stave off the tears.

“Master Che mentioned your fine motor control might be damaged. There are options—surgeries and meditations and therapies to help you regain back some control—“

“How will I ever be a Jedi if I can’t even hold a lightsaber?” Obi-Wan demanded pointedly, anger and frustration and hopelessness building up in his chest like a pipe bomb.

“You will learn,” Tahl assured.

Tears dribbled freely down his cheeks and it only added to his frustration: he couldn’t lift his arms to wipe them away. He'd moved too much and now his body was pointedly refusing him. 

“But I cant see, either!” he shouted. “You can’t be a Jedi if you can’t see!”

“Really?” Tahl asked, sounding amused. “I’m doing just fine,”

The sound dried up in Obi-Wan’s throat and his head snapped towards her, his blood running to ice.

He could remember, vaguely, that when they found her on that... that planet with those kids (Melida/Daan. He knew that name. He knew it.) she was injured. He remembered how Qui-Gon fretted over her while Obi-Wan begged them to stay and help those dying kids.

This was the first time he’d been with her since they’d rescued her from that awful, awful planet. He had no idea that the extent of the damage had left her...

“You’re not blind,” he croaked, desperately, pleading.

Not her, too. Please, Force, not her, too. She doesn’t deserve that. She’s so good!

Obi-Wan, at least, had the benefit of deserving the misfortune he received. Tahl didn’t.

“I am,” She began. Then, sensing his distress, she continued, “But it’s alright, Obi-Wan. I’m learning to cope with it. The Force guides me every day. I no longer see it as a weakness,” she said.

So that’s why Master Jinn had wanted to get off of that planet so quickly—to save Master Tahl’s eyes.

A whole new guilt swallowed up over Obi-Wan. Perhaps, if he had obeyed his master, if he hadn’t spent so much time arguing about the fate of those kids, her eyes could’ve been saved.

(But was one woman’s eyesight worth the lives of so many kids?)

(Then again, they died anyways. It was terribly unclear.)

“I could teach you,” Tahl offered, snapping Obi-Wan out of his reviere.

At the very least, he could understand why Qui-Gon hated him so much.

“No thank you,” Obi-Wan croaked out.

Concern swept through the Force like a wildfire but Obi-Wan couldn’t feel it. Suddenly, he knew how it felt to burn without being burnt.

“You Look exhausted,” Tahl said, realizing that the conversation was going nowhere. “You get some rest,”

She drew the blankets up around his shoulders and pressed a motherly kiss to the top of his head before disappearing.

Nothing felt real. Obi-Wan wondered if anything would ever feel real ever again. He felt like he was still an Initiate—he remember Bruck and Siri and Bant and Quinlan and Master Urzire; He remembered sparring and whispering to each other through Forcebonds and sneaking food and holonovels into the dorms well after their bedtime; he remember watching masters and padawan’s with awe and eagerly awaiting his turn to be selected; he remembered practically vibrating with excitement as he and his friends boarded the ship to Ilum. He remembered the cold and fear as time ticked on without finding his crystal. He remembered the excitement of spotting it so high up, the rush of climbing; he remembered using his teeth to pry his glove off and carefully wrapping his fingers around the crystal; he remembered the cracking of ice, the rush of wind through his hair, the pain as his back connected with the ground.

Up to that point, his memories were coherent. The story made sense. Everything after that felt wrong, like he was watching somebody else’s story though somebody else’s eyes.

He could see himself constructing the lightsaber; saw himself shipped off to Bandomeer; watched as Qui-Gon rejected him and rejected him until nearly blowing himself to bits made the Master reconsider; he watched himself take the Oath and watched himself break the oath only a few months later; he watched himself survive war and famine and illness and torture; watched himself fail to save Cerasi and fail to save Bruck—

Nothing felt right. Nothing felt real.

Was that the sort of Jedi he was destined to become? One so reckless, one so foolish that nobody wanted him? And with good reason: how many people had died because of him? How many more people would be lead to their deaths? How many more people would he love so dearly and lose because he had failed?

(Memories of his visions sounded in his ears:'I hate you!' His skin crawled and he wanted to vomit.)

Qui-Gon had been with him, earlier. Master Jinn claimed to have wanted him back.

A surge of anger swelled up in Obi-Wan’s chest. But Qui-Gon had already abandoned him once!

No, no, no. It felt wrong to blame Qui-Gon like that. Qui-Gon was, after all, the only person willing to take him on as an apprentice, the only person willing to see past his flaws and accept him as a padawan. It was hardly fair to blame Qui-Gon, so Obi-Wan turned the anger in, towards himself. That felt better, somehow. That felt more just.

Perhaps it was the heavy grief of all he had lost or his own unwillingness to accept that, yes, there was hope! But Obi-Wan came to a conclusion and quickly decided on his next plan of action: he grasped for his lightsaber on the bedside table and carefully slid off the bed. His legs wobbled and almost gave out but he kept himself upright by holding tightly onto the bed frame.

He would’ve made a terrible Jedi, anyways.

Leaning heavily against the mattress, he unscrewed his lightsaber, picking it apart, piece by piece with his shaking thumb and forefinger (as the rest were utterly useless) and carefully grasped the crystal within. Setting it aside, he struggled to put the lightsaber back together (it was a real disaster: he couldn’t see, his fingers didn’t work, and he didn’t dare use for Force for this task) until he got frustrated and gave up, leaving a little pile of lightsaber scraps on the bedside table. Then, he reverently set the crystal beside the scraps and carefully (but none-too-gently) tore the braid from his head.

It probably should’ve hurt more, but it was, at the very least a nice distraction from his self-loathing.

The braid was laid beside the scraps and the crystal, telling one very coherent story of shame and humiliation: I am not worthy of being a Jedi.

He practically flung himself against the opposite wall, leaning on it heavily, scooting down it until he was able to slip out of the Halls of Healing where he then disappeared, off into his new life of shame and exile.

- - -

Hours passed. A sleepless night bled into a dreary, grey morning. 

Qui-Gon Jinn gathered up the remains of his tattered pride as he approached the Halls of Healing. He needed to be with Obi-Wan. He needed to be with his padawan. He needed to rectify the mistakes he had made so heavy-handedly.

Memory loss. Tahl said he was suffering from memory loss. That would explain his desire to reach out to Master Urzire. Of course he hadn’t wanted to go back to the creche! Qui-Gon felt so terribly foolish for reaching at such a jump in logic. Returning to the creche wasn’t even an option for Obi-Wan. Did he really believe the boy was actually suggesting such a foolish thing?

Qui-Gon berated himself endlessly.

He’d snapped and Obi-Wan had been so frightened. He’d never intended to frighten the boy. It was horrible- the expression on Obi-Wan’s face was etched just behind his eyelids—Qui-Gon doubted that he’d ever be able to forget it.

He doubted he’d ever be able to forgive himself for the distress he’d caused to Obi-Wan since Day One of their partnership.

He’d been so caught up in his own hurt, his own anger, his own emotions, he hadn’t seen that he had done to Obi-Wan, exactly what Xanatos had done to him: abandon him.

There was a very real, very childish part of himself that wanted to continue to run away and hide behind stupid, stupid excuses: He had no idea how in Sith Hells he was supposed to be a good master! He blamed Dooku for that lack of knowledge.

But, he was a Jedi Master. He would rectify his mistakes by any means possible. 

Besides, Xanatos had yet to be caught. Even if he couldn't bring himself to speak to the boy, at least he could stand guard. 

No, no. That would never do. They had to talk. 

Qui-Gon sucked in a deep breath as he stood before door into the Halls of Healing. He found himself unable to enter, too caught up in shame and fear. What was he supposed to say to the boy? How was he supposed to apologize for everything?

Sighing, Qui-Gon rested his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he saw Obi-Wan’s broken, mangled body, bent and twisted over the body of his friend… He couldn’t get the image out of his mind.

When Obi-Wan was first placed in the bacta-tanks, just after the fall, his chances of survival were slim. Qui-Gon had sat with him for days on end. It was the very least he could do—ensure that his padawan didn’t die alone. It was then that the Master realized how gaunt the boy had become—thin and malnourished.

That was Qui-Gon’s doing. Qui-Gon had been the one to abandon him on that Force-forsaken planet. Obi-Wan was so very young, and had suffered so much all at his master’s negligent hands.

Qui-Gon’s eyes snapped open and his hand ghosted over the sensor to open the door. Now, the boy was blind. Vokara Che told him that, though the boy’s legs would recover, it would take time. He might not ever regain complete use of his hands.

All of that. All of that!

The boy wasn’t even fourteen years old. He hadn’t been the child’s master for even a year and look at how badly the boy was damaged—twisted and broken and malnourished and hurt. The Council wanted to send the boy away—off somewhere distant, where he could live a peaceful, happy life. But Qui-Gon knew the boy dreamed of becoming a Jedi knight. He wouldn’t allow the Council to take that away from him when the child had already lost so much.

Once or twice, while sitting beside the child’s bacta tank, Qui-Gon allowed his mind to wander towards thoughts of his previous padawans: Feemor, who had died, and Xanatos, who had betrayed him. Qui-Gon had loved them both so much. He had loved them with his whole heart. What if it had been one of them in the bacta tank? Or one of them who had lost their eyes or hands? One of them who had suffered, abandoned, in the middle of a war? He would’ve felt horrible, anxious, sick with worry. He would’ve torn the whole Galaxy apart to protect them, to see them safe, to make things right.

But Obi-Wan?

Qui-Gon had realize, with mounting horror, that he felt completely ambivalent towards the suffering young man who floated in the bacta tank, teetering dangerously towards death. He felt nothing towards the child. Nothing except, perhaps, for the fading echoes of resentment.

How did that happened?

When had he become so calloused and cold and cruel that he could stand by and watch as a child died slowly, painfully, and think distantly to himself: It serves you right for what you did to me.

And what had Obi-Wan done? Try to protect and aid a suffering people? Was such a desire so wrong that the child deserved to die for it?

A grief, a regret, a sorrow so intense, so volatile had washed over the stupid, stupid master and threatened to consume him in that moment. He had sworn then, on the Force, on the Order, on his sacred oath as a Jedi Knight that he would train the boy and he would right the wrongs he had inflicted so injustly.

Then, Obi-Wan had woken up, said something ridiculous in the haze of drugs and trauma-based amnesia, and what had Qui-Gon done? He’d gotten angry and broken the oath he’d made only a few days prior.

He deserves a better master than someone so foolish as me. Qui-Gon thought to himself bitterly.

You say that only because you are afraid, Master. A voice brushed up against the back of Qui-Gon’s mind. It reminded him all too much of his beloved Feemor. To leave him now would only hurt him further.

I have already hurt him so much. Qui-Gon fought back, petulantly. I have tried to change and failed already and hurt him once more in the process.

You will try and you will fail. So you must try again. You will fail again, but you will fail better. Change takes time. The boy will be patient with you if you will only love him as you had loved me.

Qui-Gon straightened up and released his emotions—his fear, his sorrow, his regret, his shame—into the Force. There was something at stake that was far more important than his pride.

“Obi-Wan?” he called gently as he finally opened up the door and wandered into the Halls of Healing. He close his eyes and reached out towards their tattered bond, trying to mend it just enough to send a wave of compassion down it.

He was met with a wall of iron on Obi-Wan’s side.

Panic gripped Qui-Gon’s stomach. This was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Obi-Wan, I came to apologize. For everything. If you will allow me to explain myself, I can-“ the words dried out on Qui-Gon’s tongue.

There, on the beside table, was a loose pile of scraps, a kyber crystal, and a mangy padawan braid.

Qui-Gon knew exactly what this meant.

The boy had run away.

He took a halting step forward and collapsed on the bed, which had grown cold. He reached for the little padawan braid and held it reverently in his palm, as if it was something sacred. He had to find the boy.

As his fingers curled around the woven, torn bundle of hair, time went strange. The earth stopped turning and the stars went dark.

Chapter Text

“Qui-Gon, stop. Take a deep breath and think,” Tahl said firmly, crossing her arms loosely across her midsection. “You saw the state he’s in. He couldn’t have gotten far,” 

“He’s stubborn,” Qui-Gon retaliated, bowing his head, and wrapping his hands around the metal baseboard of Obi-Wan’s empty infirmary bed. 

“His legs!” Tahl argued.

“He’s stubborn.” Qui-Gon reiterated. 

“Well then, how far do you think he’s gone?” Tahl demanded, her patience beginning to fizzle out.

Qui-Gon moved to the side of the empty bed and palmed the blue Kyber Crystal, resisting the urge to throw it in frustration. “He could be anywhere, Tahl. He could be on the other side of Coruscant- he could be off planet by now,” he growled lowly. He turned back to face her, rising to his feet, and straightening up to his full height. He watched as she, with some effort, rolled her sightless eyes. 

“You mean to tell me that you honestly believe a thirteen-year-old boy not only escaped the Temple unnoticed, but somehow found his way outside and meandered off to some shady flight depot where he then climbed onto a ship—all in less than, what, six hours—and now he is off exploring the cosmos?” Tahl demanded, growing increasingly exasperated by Qui-Gon’s imaginative jumps in logic. 

When Qui-Gon opened his mouth, Tahl was quick to cut him off. “Not to mention!” she continued. “This child has only just woken up from an extensive coma. He’s blind, underweight, and suffering from rather extensive nerve damage,”

“Tahl-“ Qui-Gon began but, once again, she cut him off.

The Jedi dropped her head and closed her eyes, allowing the Force to wash over her, praying for patience. “We need to go and look for him,” she urged. 

“Tahl, there isn’t any point,” Qui-Gon snapped. “We have no idea where he’s gone. Searching for him without any leads would only be a waste of time,” 

“Then we will find a lead. Reach out to him across your bond. What does the Force tell you? You’ve tried checking your bond, haven’t you?” Tahl asked, and when her question was met with only silence, she narrowed her eyes. “Haven’t you?” 

“There isn’t any point in it! There’s nothing to check!” Qui-Gon shouted, hurling the crystal across the room like a tantruming child. 

The crystal clattered lifelessly against the wall, cast aside, and rejected just as violently as its owner had been, by the same man. Guilt pooled in Qui-Gon’s stomach and the tension in the air around him told him that both Tahl and the Force were disappointed in him.

He was just as disappointed in himself. 

Wearily, he leaned against the wall beside the bed and ran a hand down his face. “I have failed him, Tahl. When did I become this man? This man who could stand by and watch children suffer...” he mourned. He long to collect the abandoned Crystal, to gather it in the palm of his hand and make sure it was unharmed. He was, however, rooted to the spot, so bound by shame that he was unable to move. He couldn’t even bring himself to look up at his oldest friend. “My own padawan has been damaged irrevocably because of my negligence,” 

“His lack of sight hardly makes him damaged, Qui-Gon,” Tahl scolded trepidatiously, as if she were treading around a great slumbering bear, afraid to wake it and incur its wrath. 

Unfortunately, for all her apprehension, she poked the bear, and the bear woke up. 

“I’m not talking about his eyes!” Qui-Gon shouted, fire and vemon spewing across the room with such vehemence and impetuosity that the Force around him trembled, teetering a delicate glass ornament on the edge of a table: one wrong move and it would fall and shatter. 

Tahl stared in his general direction unflinchingly, unimpressed, and unamused—the sort of expression a long-suffering mother might wear after discovering her ten-year-old son was in the garage trying to hot-wire the lawnmower. She was not afraid of him; she had no reason to be. 

“I... I apologize,” Qui-Gon said slowly, recoiling, recollecting himself. Shouting, throwing things… here he was, a Jedi Master, behaving like a toddler. He sat on the bed and stared down at his hands. “I am not myself,” 

“No... You’re not,” Tahl agreed.

Qui-Gon remained firmly on the bed, his jaw clamped shut.

 “You are truly unwilling to search for him?” Tahl asked softly, struggling to mask her growing disappointment.

“It seems pointless,” Qui-Gon explained. 

Tall pressed her lips together it a tight line and nodded curtly. “Then, I will tell Master Yoda that the boy is as good as dead,” she said and turned away. 

Now it was Qui-Gon who began to grow restless and irritated. “No, Tahl- that isn’t- that isn’t what I meant!”

“Then what is it that you meant, Qui-Gon?” Tahl spat, whirling around. “What is it that you want? To go merrily on your way, pretending like Obi-Wan Kenobi never existed? I don’t understand! The Council wanted to send him away, but you refused them. You fought for him! You re-claimed him! You wanted to train him! So, is that what you want, Qui-Gon? To train him? To redeem yourself? If so, then why won’t you search for him?” 

Qui-Gon set his jaw and fixed his gaze steadfastly on the floor. He made a show of bolting up his end of their bond, tossing up his shields just to show her that he had no intention of answering. 

“You won’t go after him because you don’t actually know what you want, do you?” Tahl asked, her voice hardly above a whisper. “Why?” she asked, moving closer, her voice beginning to fray and break around the edges. “Why won’t you go searching for him?”

Again, Qui-Gon didn’t answer.

Tahl’s shoulders dropped, her expression falling in disillusionment. “You still don’t forgive him, do you?”

There was a lump in the old master’s throat, and he swallowed around it. “You are ashamed of me,” he diverted, finally lifting his head to meet her face. 

He watched as Tahl’s face hardened, her glassy eyes cooling like magma into stone. 

“I am,” was all she said. 

Qui-Gon shook his head. Somewhere, behind the ringing in his ears, he was distantly aware of the way his heart twisted. His affection for Tahl was forbidden, however, his grand knowledge of the do’s and don’t’s of the Jedi code did nothing to alleviate his pain in knowing he had disappointed her so thoroughly. 

“Do you want my honesty?” Tahl asked, her voice level and calm.

“Always,” Qui-Gon croaked out. 

Tahl nodded curtly, reverently, and folded her hands into the sleeves of her cloak. “Then know that I have been ashamed of you since we first returned from Melida/Daan. I could understand your reluctance in taking on a new padawan and I still think it was wrong for Master Yoda to force him onto you—there were other masters who wanted to train him and you needed to grieve. I understand that. But you took an oath, Qui-Gon. You took an oath. And to listen to you try to justify the abandonment of a thirteen-year-old boy... to hear you so callously explain to Bant Erin that, no, her closest friend wasn’t ever coming home because you deemed him unworthy of being a Jedi...” Tahl exhaled slowly and Qui-Gon felt her signature reach into the Force once more, grounding herself—

(and he was caught up in the strangest sensation of pride, despite his shrieking, shattered heart, which she had so easily cast aside and strewn across the floor of the infirmary—) 

“I felt as if you had traded my life for his,” she said. “And it was a terrible feeling. My life is not worth his. And to know that even now, after everything, you still cannot forgive him… What do you want me to say to you?”

Qui-Gon couldn’t stand to listen anymore. He shook his head in defiance, feeling a blind fury climbing in his chest, grasping at his ribs until the bone gave way. The anger pushed up past his vocal cord and the Master wanted to scream, but all that came out was a listless, hollow sigh. He hunched over and the feeling dissipated into an empty regret.

“You took an oath, Qui-Gon. Your attachment to me is misguided and misplaced. Your padawan should have been your priority. Not me. Now, there is a child, roaming the halls of the Temple, who needs the support of his master to overcome the tragedy he has faced. And if you cannot step up and be a master, then I will.” Tahl must’ve decided that she’d had enough, because she swept past him, moving to the opposite end of the room. She knelt beside the wall and searched the along the floor until she found the abandoned Kyber Crystal, which she pocketed. She brushed past him once more, feeling along the walls until she found the door, and slipped outside, only to stop a few feet outside of the infirmary, her energy gone.

Qui-Gon, hearing her footsteps suddenly grow silent, sucked in steadying breath, and followed her out. His mind was tumultuous, wracked with a heavy, violent deluge of ‘meanwhiles’ and ‘never-were’s’. He never should’ve left Obi-Wan on that planet. He was a better man than that. He met Tahl in the hall and watched as her head bowed and her shoulders sagged. 

“If you are unwilling to take him, I will speak to Master Yoda and I will train him myself,” Tahl explained. The expression on Tahl’s face was strange and she straightened up stepped forward once more: a warning that she was prepared to flee to the Council’s Chambers as soon as Qui-Gon gave the word. 

Qui-Gon straightened up as well and folded his arms into the sleeves of his cloak. So, that was her choice. He reached into the Living Force and felt the way her signature lapped, like the waves of an ocean, at the shores of some distant beach—sad, disappointed—as if contemplating or grieving over a path that was long since lost. Realization dawned like twin suns on a dusty planet, as it occurred to Qui-Gon that Tahl’s interest in Obi-Wan well beyond that of a Jedi concerned for her friend’s padawan. These were, of course, special circumstances, but even before the nightmare had begun, she had an interest in Obi-Wan. She asked about his progress; she assisted Qui-Gon in training him when she could; she went out of her way to praise him for his efforts and achievements.

“You wanted to train him,” Qui-Gon said, stunned.

Tahl’s fingers balled up and, once again, her lips pressed into a tight line. For a moment, Qui-Gon wasn’t sure if she would respond at all. 

“I did,” she said at last. “He’s bright and kind,” 

“He’s angry, passionate, and impulsive,” Qui-Gon huffed, once again wrestling with forgiveness.

“And he will be a better Jedi than all of us,” said Tahl, sharply. 

There was a dry silence that hung in the air as both masters stood listlessly in the hallway, neither sure how to proceed. Both parties knew that with every second that passed, the injured boy was getting farther and farther away. However, neither seemed willing to move and risk offending the others. The tension was so tangible, a lightsaber could’ve cut it.

It was Tahl who moved first, taking a few cautious steps down the hallways in the direction of the Room of a Thousand Fountains—it was incredibly unlikely that it would yield any information on Obi-Wan’s whereabouts, but a start was a start and hopefully the Force would guide them from there. 

Qui-Gon followed behind her and, to his slight dismay, he felt her great surprise in the Force. 

“For how long had you wanted to train him?” he asked, fully aware that he was opening a can of worms. 

Tahl sighed long-sufferingly but took the bait nonetheless: “If you must know, it’s been years,” she began stiffly. “I was accompanying Master Windu’s padawan, Depa, as she chaperoned the boy and his age-mates to Ilum for their crystals. He was eight at the time, I believe. He was the last one out of the cave, just before the entrance froze over. Depa and I were worried he wouldn’t make it. Did he tell you the story?” she asked and Qui-Gon merely shook his head. 

“He did not,”

“He fell from a great height while trying to reach his crystal. He didn’t tell us until after he’d crafted his lightsaber. Master Huyang noticed him limping and inquired about it. Depa, I recall, was distressed by his recklessness. But when Master Huyang asked about his great risk, he explain that he ‘couldn’t be a Jedi without a lightsaber and couldn’t help people if he wasn’t a Jedi’,”

Qui-Gon hummed, a low chuckle tumbling from his chest. “That does sound like him, doesn’t it?” 

Tahl pressed forward with the story: “Huyang explained to him that his lightsaber was ‘just a thing’ and that ‘things can be replaced but lives cannot’ and Obi-Wan latched onto the idea that ‘lives cannot be replaced’ and it only spurred him on further. I could feel the Cosmic Force around him like nothing I’d ever felt, Qui-Gon. He burned like a star with the desire to just... help people. Though, at the time, I had the funniest feeling he was going to get himself needlessly killed if someone didn’t teach him that his life was also important. I made the formal request to train many times and Master Yoda turned me down each time,”

Tahl then closed her eyes and exhaled, wearily. “It pained me greatly to hear you had abandoned him so thoughtlessly,” 

Qui-Gon’s hands fell to his sides. “It was a mistake,” he agreed. 

“And yet, you still cannot forgive him,” Tahl observed.

The silence that followed was dense and seemed to permeate through Qui-Gon’s walls and shields, exposing him for what he truly was: a clown in Jedi’s robes; a foolish, childish buffoon hiding behind many layers of falsehood. He was no master Jedi. He was nothing more than a callous, bitter old man. 

He shuttered, trying to shrug off the painful, vulnerable sensation of being so open and exposed to the Force—and to Tahl. 

“The thing that you feel, Qui-Gon, is called shame,” Tahl offered, her voice gentle and certain. “Perhaps you should listen to it. Like physical pain, emotion pain serves to tell us when we’ve done something that we shouldn’t have,” 

“I have failed him, Tahl,” Qui-Gon whispered, stopping dead in his tracks. His hands were shaking. 

Tahl turned around and slowly, her hands found his and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Then we will find him, and you can make it up to him,” 

“I am unworthy of being his master,” Qui-Gon said bitterly. 

“Then become worthy,” 

“Tahl...” 

“It’s meant to be. Can’t you feel that?” A little smile quirked at her lips. “You’re both so similar. Look at you—both believing yourselves to unworthy of having the other in your life; both believing you’ve made mistakes that deem you unforgivable. There can never be peace, Qui-Gon, unless both parties are willing to forgive. I thought you of all people would know that, oh master Negotiator,” she teased and Qui-Gon managed a small smile.

“What he did, the choice he made on Melida/Daan... that hurt you, Qui-Gon. You felt that he had betrayed you and, in some ways, perhaps he had. But you won’t be able to move forward unless you can forgive him. Can you forgive him, Qui-Gon, for betraying you?”

And there it was again, that old anger, bubbling up to the surface, hot and volatile. “My Master never would have forgiven me for such a thing,” he replied coldly and tried to tug his hands away, but Tahl held them firm. 

“Then be better than Dooku,” Tahl said simply, shrugging. 

Qui-Gon stared at her, almost startled, before bowing his head and chuckling listlessly.

“You are very wise. Have I ever told you?” he asked wearily. 

She smirked and released his hands. “You could serve to tell me more often,”

Qui-Gon merely rolled his eyes. 

It was a short walk to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Qui-Gon found himself hesitating at the doorway, the image of his broken padawan still fresh in his mind. 

“You can’t be serious. Tahl, he’s not here,” he rebutted, if only to save himself the pain of forgiving. He knew what Tahl wanted, but he was growing more and more uncertain as to whether or not he was strong enough to follow through with it.

“I know that,” Tahl said and crossed her arms. “But I think you should meditate. Try and reach out to him,” 

Qui-Gon hesitated, tempted to refute her request. He was beginning to realize just how difficult redemption was going to be—he was going to have to be very diligent and work very hard. “You’re right,” he said, acquiescing. “That’s a good idea,” 

-         -         -        

Obi-Wan was panting—his breath came in painful, ragged bursts. Everywhere was cold. Everywhere was in pain. He curled up as tight as he could, pressing himself against the cool, brick wall, and cried out as pain volted through his spine. 

“Sith Hells...!” he cursed and finally opened his eyes. 

It was dark. 

Where was he?

He pressed the heels of his shaking palms against his eyes and rubbed them vigorously, but it did nothing to dispel the darkness. 

Whimpering, he tried to stand up, only to go crashing back down. His legs were wobbly; he couldn’t put any weight on them. 

“Hello?” Obi-Wan called out hoarsely. “Is anyone there? I... I can’t walk. Can anyone hear me?” 

Nobody answered. 

Force, he wanted to cry.

Where the hell was he? How did he get there? Why was it so dark? 

...Oh yeah. 

Blind. 

He looked around experimentally and swallowed the ever-growing lump in his throat. He covered his eyes with his hands once more. “Maybe Master Che was just… maybe she was joking,” he told himself, as if speaking it would make it fact. But when he uncovered his eyes, it was still dark. It really wasn’t a joke, was it. He really was blind, forever and ever.

“Master Qui-Gon?” he called out because, if memory served, Qui-Gon wanted to be his master again, right? Maybe that had all been a dream, it felt very hazy. His head was pounding, but the memories were easier to collect. He remembered Melida/Daan and Bandomeer and Cerasi and Bruck. 

A hot lump formed in his throat, and his eyes burned. Master Tahl had been with him. She’d mentioned that Bruck was... Bruck was dead. Shame settled like an icy weight in his stomach. That had been his fault. He remembered, distinctively, falling from that slippery cliff. He remembered the sickening crack and pain blooming across the back of his head as his body struck the ground. 

Gritting his teeth, Obi-Wan tried to stand up, again. He hardly made it halfway upright before his legs gave out once more. He smacked his hands against the stony ground in frustration.

“Oh, Force… please… please tell me this isn’t real,” he whispered. “Hello!” he called out once again, swallowing his feelings of panic and desperation. 

It all brought him back to the same question: where the hell was he? Why wasn’t he back in the Halls of Healing?

He ran his trembling hands down his face, ignoring the way pain shot up his arms when he lifted his hands too high, and curled up, defeated, on the ground. 

What if I die here?

Obi-Wan shook his head vehemently. Don’t be ridiculous, of course I won’t die here. Somebody will find me. 

Unfortunately, his thoughts were cruel: Who’s looking? 

Of course, Obi-Wan had faith: Master Qui-Gon will find me. 

But the cold tendrils of reality were quick to draw themselves around Obi-Wan’s mind and squeeze the hope out of him: I don’t think he’s coming. He already abandoned me once, why shouldn’t he do it again?

The ground was cold and dusty. It irritated his lung and made him cough and shiver, so he pushed himself upright once more. The cold from the ground seemed to seep up into Obi-Wan’s bones, and he couldn’t escape it. He tucked his disobedient hands into his armpits and didn’t think about whether or not anybody had noticed his absence.

Because it was very unlikely anybody even cared that he was gone and the thought of it made him sad. 

Why had he left, anyways?

Vaguely, he recalled picking apart his lightsaber. Why had he done that? It had felt right in the moment, but now, he wasn’t so sure. It felt a little foolish if he was being honest with himself. 

Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes and reached out into the Force. There were lots of people—lots of Jedi—close by. He could feel the aura of the Temple itself still wrapped in the air around him. He was still in the Temple then, that was relieving. 

I’m stuck! Somebody help me, I don’t know where I am, and I can’t move! He called out into the Force, along any channel that was receptive. He waited for a response, the breath caught in his throat, but to his dismay, he received no response. 

Perhaps nobody was listening to him?

He felt a cry rising in his throat by squashed it instantly. Hesitantly, he reached out into the Force once more. He fell easily into the complexity of the Cosmic Force—he had to take great care not to lose himself. He could feel the expansiveness of the galaxy, of the universe. He felt, beneath him, space without limits rushing off to the corners of creation. The Cosmic Force took him into its arms and comforted him. 

You are not lost. 

You are not abandoned. 

It strengthened him, steadied his shaking hands. The Force was with him. 

From the Fringes of the Cosmic Force, he dipped his toes into his master‘s beloved Living Force, trying to sense the energy of the Jedi, wanting to understand why nobody was answering him. He saw himself: small and far away like a mouse trapped in a shoebox in somebody’s closet. Nobody answered him because nobody could hear him. He was too weak. 

Instantly, Obi-Wan became panicked. The feeling was strong enough that it pitched him from the throes of his meditative trance with such impetuosity that he nearly got whiplash.

“Come back!” he cried, reaching out again for the comfort of the Force, but the Force has receded. 

Obi-Wan bowed his head, tempted to give into the pain and panic and weep. 

“Why am I so stupid?” he whispered to no one. “I... I want to be a Jedi. I want to be a Jedi! I shouldn’t have left... I shouldn’t have-“ 

He swallowed thickly and rolled his head to the side. “No. No. Alright, Kenobi. It’s not over yet,” he assured himself, steading his resolve. “It’s okay... It’s okay... Nobody’s noticed. I’ll... I’ll go back and put my lightsaber back together and I’ll apologize to Master Qui-Gon and he’ll take me back. I can still be a Jedi. I can still... I can still help people,” 

Traitorous tears began to trickle down his cheeks. “I... I only ever wanted to help people...” he whispered choking on air as it stuttered past his lips. “Was that too much to ask?” The question was utterly genuine. Was his passion to help people really so wrong, really so evil, that it merited this sort of punishment?

Perhaps the universe was less merciful than anybody ever realized.

He lifted his arms to wipe his tears, but they had only barely left his sides before falling back down uselessly. He tried to stand, but his legs didn’t move at all. His body was tired. Fear gripped Obi-Wan as he tried to move again, only to be met with a ripping, all-encompassing agony as his weary muscles protested against the abuse. 

“No, no, no!” he whimpered, trying, and failing once again to pick himself up. The panic clawed at his throat: his own body had become a prison and he was trapped. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, he was utterly helpless. 

“Stop… stop… stop…” Obi-Wan ordered himself. “Panicking won’t help anyone. It’s not over yet. There’s still hope,”

Closing his eyes (not that it mattered) he steadied his breath and reached out into the Force with no small amount of uncertainty. It had already abandoned him once, what if it abandoned him again? 

“Please... help me,” he prayed. “I don’t have anything else left to give...” 

The world seemed to fall away, everything still and quiet. Distantly, as if watching from the perspective of somebody far away, he observed the tattered, broken bond he used to share with his master. In his mind’s eye, he could see it all. It was faded and watery, like watching a dream through kaleidoscope lenses, but he could see it nonetheless and, Force, it made him miss seeing. He approached the broken bond tentatively, and gathered up the grey, torn, lifeless material, suddenly overcome with a powerful wave of grief.

Standing at the edge of the void, he stared out into the empty space where Qui-Gon’s half of the bond used to be. 

He said he wanted to be my master again...

Steeling his resolve, he curled his fingers around the least damaged portion of their former bond and he let the rest fall away. 

The Force is with me. He reminded himself. Trust in the Force.

Please, Master... 

Shutting his eyes, he tossed his end of the bond into the void. If his master was receptive, the bond would catch and take hold, joining the two again. If not, it would fall uselessly to the ground. 

Obi-Wan held his breath, not daring to open his eyes. 

There was a certain feeling that always accompanied the formation of a bond—a radiant, glowing warmth. 

Obi-Wan felt no such warmth. 

Peaking his eyes open, Obi-Wan’s heart clattered lifelessly to the ground as he observed the bond, dead and forgotten on the floor. 

Qui-Gon Jinn has not been receptive. He had rejected the bond. 

Obi-Wan felt tears pricking at his eyes and bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut to stave off the tears that threatened to spill at this fresh, new wave of rejection. It was when he next opened his eyes, however, that he noticed it: a single, glowing, golden thread pulled taut and connecting Obi-Wan to the void beyond him. 

Qui-Gon had not rejected him after all. 

Obi-Wan nearly choked on a sob of relief but withheld, afraid that any intense emotion might toss him out of his meditation as it had before. 

The bond connecting master and padawan was thin and frail, but it was there, nonetheless. Before Melida/Daan, Obi-Wan would’ve been ashamed of such a sorry excuse for a teaching bond. Now, however, it meant the world to him. Delicately, he took ahold of the newly formed bond and reached out to his master. 

Master!

There was silence for a long time and Obi-Wan was almost afraid that he was still too weak to be heard. 

Then, at long last, the silence was broken.

Obi-Wan?

The voice was soft, distant, barely audible. Obi-Wan was still so, so weak. But Qui-Gon was there, nonetheless. 

I’m here! He called out into the darkness. 

Where? The intensity of Qui-Gon’s emotion was muted by the weakness of the receiving end of the bond. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan could feel his master’s concern. Obi-Wan, Tahl and I are coming to get you. Where are you?

The Temple, Master. I... I don’t know where. I can’t see or move and I-I... I’m so tired. The Force was draining the boy, whose figure began to collapse, his consciousness wavering. It’s dark... I’m cold. 

There was another presence. The padawan could sense it in the Force growing nearer and nearer. It reminded him so much of Qui-Gon, but it was so much darker. 

“He didn’t go after Xanatos, Obi-Wan. He went after you,” Tahl had said to him last night. 

Stay awake. Qui-Gon ordered.

The presence drew nearer. Obi-Wan was losing consciousness and slowly slipping out of meditation. Master... I’m so sorry. I abandoned you. I shouldn’t have left the infirmary, I don’t know why I did, I can’t remember. I feel so foolish for it…

He was laying on his side now, his vision returned to that useless, blind greyness. 

I shouldn’t have stayed on Melida/Daan. 

Tears trickled down his cheeks once more and he was completely unable to stop them from falling.

I’m so sorry, Master.

As the grey faded into black, Obi-Wan was met with silence. He feared, distantly, somewhere in the back of his fleeting mind, that Qui-Gon was gone, that their little bond was severed forever. 

Then, as the last lights faded away, he felt a wave of compassion and heard a voice reverberate along their bond: 

Padawan-mine, I forgive you. 

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan awoke when he felt lithe, slender fingers wrap around his throat.

“Ah... so you’re my master’s newest apprentice, are you?” a cold voice asked and Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped open.

There was nothing to see, of course, but Obi-Wan was getting used to that.

There was a man in front of him, choking him. His Force signature was heavy in the Dark Side and Obi-Wan found himself squirming, trying to escape the man’s grasp.

“Tell me, boy, how is my master? Does he ever speak of me?” the man asked, pressing down on Obi-Wan’s throat for a second more, just to hear him choke, before releasing his hold.

Obi-Wan gasped sharply, his hands flying to his throat, and pressed himself against the wall. He had a horrible feeling he knew exactly who this man was.

Xanatos.

“Though... from what I hear, he’s not your master anymore,” he said slyly and Obi-Wan scowled, gritting his teeth.

“My... my master does speak of you,” Obi-Wan began defiantly, his voice steady. “Mostly disappointing things,” he smirked.

Xanatos slapped him.

The hand connected with his cheek and Obi-Wan gasped, his sightless eyes wide with shock.

“Watch your tongue,” Xanatos spat but Obi-Wan didn’t back down.

“What do you want?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this?”

Xanatos’s hand returned to Obi-Wan’s throat and he heard a lightsaber kick on. His eyes widened in horror and he struggled, but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate. He forced his breathing to remain even. He wouldn’t give into fear.

“I want to see my master suffer,” Xanatos growled. “And what better way to hurt him, than to hurt you? And when he finally comes to fetch you... I’ll kill him,”

Obi-Wan could practically feel the smirk radiating off of Xanatos face. The lightsaber turned off once more and relief flooded through him.

“It-It’s not going to work,” the boy spat, when Xanatos released his throat. “Master Qui-Gon isn’t that stupid, and he certainly won’t be killed by the likes of you,”

Xanatos slapped him again.

Something in Obi-Wan’s mouth was knocked lose and he rolled his head to the side and spat. This was fine. He could deal with this. It was no different than when he’d been tortured on Melida/Daan and he’d survived that. Could this really be any worse?

“Get up,” Xanatos growled.

“I hate to disappoint, but I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Obi-Wan said dryly, but tried Anyways to push himself up off the ground. His legs still ached and protested, but much to his surprise, he was able to get himself upright. However, to maintain stability, he leaned heavily on the wall and he knew, without even having to try, that walking was impossible.

“Move. Let’s go,” Xanatos demanded once more.

Obi-Wan’s tired legs were already starting to falter. He certainly would be able to remain upright for very long.

“Again, hate to break it to you, but that’s really not possible,” Obi-Wan said with a frown, though his expression changed quickly to a tiny little smirk. “Though, I suppose, if you wanted to carry me, I wouldn’t be opposed,” he quipped, reaching an arm out blindly. Xanatos could beat him or burn him, but he’d never be able to take Obi-Wan’s dry sass.

The lightsaber kicked on once again and abruptly connected with Obi-Wan’s face, leaving a deep, cauterized burn across his jaw. He cried out in pain and went tumbling to the floor, where he scrambled backwards and pressed himself against the wall. He reached up with a shaking hand and gingerly touched the burning wound.

“Xanatos, Stop! That is enough. You wanted me, now here I am,” a voice boomed from somewhere off to the left and Obi-Wan’s head snapped upright.

“Master!” he cried. “Master no, it’s a trap!” There was really no need for panic, and he knew this, but the adrenaline was running high and he found himself struggling to control it.

From across their fragile, broken bond, a wave of comfort pushed its way into Obi-Wan’s heart. “At ease, young one. I am aware,”

“Ah! So the master returns to collect that which he had discarded,” Xanatos snarled. “I see you’ve failed yet another padawan,”

Discomfort loomed heavy in the air—a myriad of emotions that Obi-Wan had never felt from Qui-Gon before: frustration, regret, resignation, hope. Truth be told, the boy had never felt much of anything from his master before, and sensation was somewhat jarring. Had his master lowered his shields? Unlikely. So perhaps then, in lieu of sight, Obi-Wan had grown stronger in the Force.

“Perhaps I have,” Qui-Gon admitted. “But I will not fail him again,” Such am admission sent sparks jolting through Obi-Wan’s veins. The boy almost couldn’t comprehend it. Surely it was he who had failed his master and not the other way around.

Slender arms wrapped his shoulders and he immediately recognized Tahl’s Force presence. “Master Tahl! I’m sorry... I’m so sorry..” he whimpered against her shoulder as her arms tightened around him.

She ran her fingers through his hair. “I know. It’s alright now. It’s alright, now,”

“I don’t know why I- I was foolish,” the boy admitted and he felt Tahl’s presence grow brighter—comforting or placating.

“You were frightened and grieving. It was a foolish, stupid thing to do, yes, but you have learned,” she appeased and he nodded, solemnly.

From somewhere out in the darkness, he could hear Master Jinn and Xanatos sparring and his heart clenched. There was very little he had to offer, but he found himself pushing away from Tahl regardless.

“Please, there must be something I can do,” he pled with Tahl when her hold tightened on him.

“Your master is strong, young one. Trust in him. Trust in the Force,” was her consolation as she looped an arm beneath his legs and hoisted him up.

Immediately, his arms wrapped around his neck to stabilize himself, but he couldn’t find it within himself to hold his tongue. “Master Tahl, no! Please, I need to stay here, I need to help him!” he protested.

“Enough, Obi-Wan,” she rebuked. “What you need is medical attention. Trust in your master,” she reiterated. “Trust in-“

Suddenly, Obi-Wan went sprawling out of her arms as Tahl went flying backwards. He heard her connect with the wall just after he hit the floor.

“No!” Xanatos screeched. “Not yet! You don’t leave without my permission!”

His rage burned hot and bright and red in the Force like magma. It reminded Obi-Wan of his terrible, terrible visions and, for a moment, he wondered if this is what the Force had been warming him about all his life.

‘I hate you!’ The visions screamed. And Xanatos hated. He hated so strongly, so passionately, it filled the air with smoke and ash.

“Xanatos, no! Stop!” Qui-Gon shouted, and Obi-Wan heard his master scramble to his feet. His voice sounded farther off than Xanatos’ had. He must’ve been pushed back, too.

Bravely, putting all of his weight against the wall, Obi-Wan struggled to his feet. He reached to his belt for his lightsaber, but there was none. Obviously. With no weapon to defend him, he held his hands out in front of himself and squeezed his eyes shut, praying that the Force would protect him.

“I am one with the Force, the Force is with me,” he whispered to assure himself as he heard Xanatos charge—his footsteps storming through the darkness and reverberating against the heavy stone walls. He could hear the whirring of a lightsaber as it streamed through the air.

Kill! Kill! Kill! The Force shrieked, radiating off of Xanatos in waves.

The Dark Jedi only wanted one thing: to hurt his former master. And what better way than to kill his master’s current student?

“Xanatos, no!” Qui-Gon screamed and, from the sound of it, he was running too.

Obi-Wan held his arms above his head to protect himself as he felt Xanatos’ oppressive Force draw nearer and nearer, then suddenly—a lightsaber kicked on—Obi-Wan heard it connect with flesh, piercing—a strangled, gargled cry tore from his throat—his knees gave out and he collapsed into the dirt—his hands flew to his chest searching for the wound, for the injury—

There was none.

Obi-Wan wasn’t the one who had been struck.

“Master?” Xanatos asked, horrified, betrayed. Obi-Wan didn’t see how the bright green, glowing blade bloomed from Xanatos’ chest; didn’t see the way Qui-Gon’s face was twisted up in grief. There was mercy in that.

“Forgive me, my padawan,” Qui-Gon whispered, his voice heavy with grief, with regret as the lightsaber switched off. Xanatos fell backwards into Qui-Gon’s arms, and the old master lowered him gently to the ground.

Tahl scrambled to her feet and Obi-Wan felt her arms around him once more, though he couldn’t bring himself to speak, to move. He blinked owlishly, longing to see, but the Force was merciful and left him blind.

“Wh-Why?” Xanatos asked, and Obi-Wan found himself hiding his face against Tahl’s arm.

Xanatos’ life force was fading rapidly, and Obi-Wan no longer wished to see.

“I have sworn an oath to protect my padawan,” Qui-Gon said, whispered, mourned. “And I will not fail him again. Forgive me, my fallen son,”

Obi-Wan didn’t see how Qui-Gon leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the young man’s forehead, but he felt the sorrow, felt the pain flow freely through the Force.

They stayed like that for a long time, the former apprentice dying in the master’s arms. When the time finally came, Obi-Wan didn’t feel Xanatos’ life force flicker out and disappear—it happened so quietly, so briefly, the boy only noticed when its presence was absent.

Qui-Gon moved away from Xanatos’ side and knelt beside Tahl, taking Obi-Wan from her arms.

“Go on ahead. Tell the Council what has happened here,” Qui-Gon urged. “I will take young Obi-Wan back to the Halls of Healing.

Obi-Wan’s heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be left alone with Qui-Gon, the thought of it made him anxious.

“Qui-Gon...” Tahl began, but the old master cut her off.

“Please Tahl. Let me be alone with my padawan. There is much we need to discuss,”

Obi-Wan could feel Talh’s presence flickering anxiously in the Force. She was hesitating, unsure what the correct answer was. But eventually, she relented and went on her way.

The padawan swallowed thickly. “Master, I can walk. You haven’t got to carry me,” he said quickly, trying to appease his master, afraid that this would only be another problem, another burden, slung on top of the insurmountable pile of burdens he had already caused.

“No, young one,” Master Jinn said heavily. “I don’t think that you can,” There was nothing accusatory, nothing rebuking in his tone. He sounded hollow and empty and for Obi-Wan, that was almost worse.

The boy squeezed his sightless eyes shut and, for a moment, he felt as if he were drowning—careful snares of ifs and shoulds and coulds pulled him steadily downward beneath an ocean of guilt.

This was his fault. All of it was his fault.

If he had been less foolish stayed in the infirmary, he never would’ve come across Xanatos—And Master Jinn never would’ve had to kill his former apprentice.

If he’d stayed on Melida/Daan, Bruck never would’ve died.

If he’d blown himself up in the slave mines on Bandomeer, Cerasi would still be alive.

If he’d accepted his fate and bowed his head and accepted his place in the AgriCorps, Qui-Gon Jinn would never have suffered the burden of knowing him.

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon mused. “But I never would’ve have the joy of knowing you, either,”

Obi-Wan’s face burned red with embarrassment. He desperately needed to work on his shields. And what was worse, he couldn’t tell if his master was being serious, or cruelly sarcastic.

“Please, master,” he begged, unable to bear the shame of it any longer. “Set me down. Let me walk. I can do it, I promise you,”

Qui-Gon hesitated, and Obi-Wan could sense his master’s trepidation. But eventually, he acquiesced and carefully set Obi-Wan on the ground.

“Lean on me,” he said firmly, and wrapped one Obi-Wan’s arms around his torso.

Obi-Wan did what was asked—his legs were uncooperative and unable to support most of his weight anyways. They walked twice as slowly, with Obi-Wan shambling along, hardly able to get his feet to step out in front of each other.

Obi-Wan’s guilt only continued to deepen. He was ashamed of being carried, yes, but this was taking far too long. He desperately didn’t want to cause anymore problems and ducked his head. “I apologize, master. I... don’t wish to slow us down. I am willing to be carried if that will be easier for you,”

Qui-Gon stopped abruptly and, for a moment, Obi-Wan couldn’t read him and was afraid he might’ve upset his master once more.

“Is that what you wish, to be carried?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice steady and neutral.

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to shrink away. No, he really didn’t want it, but it was easier. “I wish whatever is easiest,” he said simply, and now he could definitely feel Qui-Gon’s disappointment radiating in the Force. Nevertheless, the pair carried on. Qui-Gon didn’t speak, nor did he carry Obi-Wan, so their slow pace continued.

Finally, when Obi-Wan could no longer bear the tension, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Master, about Xanatos,”

The Force churned violently around Qui-Gon, a whirlwind of emotions that moved too quickly for Obi-Wan to pick out. The boy resisted the urge to flinch away when Qui-Gon stopped and suddenly knelt down. Much to Obi-Wan’s surprise, Qui-Gon pulled him into a tight hug.

“I am sorry too, young one,”

Then, he moved his arms beneath Obi-Wan’s knees and lifted him once more. Despite the promise of conversation (there were many things they needed to discuss, as Qui-Gon had told Tahl) the pair continued their journey in silence.

Qui-Gon returned Obi-Wan to the Halls of Healing and dutifully sat beside him until the Council sent for him.

After that, it was three days before Obi-Wan saw his master again.

-    -    -

Obi-Wan awoke to a gentle, heavy hand on his shoulder. The situation was familiar to him—he vaguely recalled distant memories of hands around his throat—and he sat upright, startled.

“At ease, padawan mine,” Qui-Gon rumbled, his voice kind and soft.

“Master Jinn?” Obi-Wan asked and rubbed his eyes. His hands and fingers still struggled to obey even the simplest of commands, but it was becoming easier to lift his arms. With practice, rubbing his eyes had become a simple feat.

His memories came back in ways that were distorted and lopsided. Yesterday, for example, he’d woken up and furiously demanded to know who had dismantled his lightsaber. He had, of course, but the memory came in wrong. The day before, he’d panicked because he couldn’t see anything. Now, he struggled to recall why Master Jinn was there. Had he always been there? When was the last time he’d seen his master? He remembered somebody had died, but couldn’t quite remember who.

“How are you here? Didn’t you die?” Obi-Wan asked, and he could feel his master’s surprise in the Force.

“No, of course not,” Qui-Gon mused.

Ah, so wasn’t Jinn who had died. That was relieving.

“They tell me you’ve been having trouble with your memory,” Qui-Gon continued, and Obi-Wan slouched, just a little, feeling rather embarrassed.

“A little yes. But... it’s getting better. I’ve got daily appointments with a mind-healer for that. And twice-daily appointments with a regular healer for my nerve damage,” Obi-Wan explained, and struggled to understand why he felt so... resentful? about his master being there.

“I’ve scheduled some an appointment of my own with the mind-healer,” Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan could hear him lean back in the chair. “Recent events have... convinced me that maybe it would be in my best interest—both of our best interests—if, perhaps, I worked through some of my issues,”

Obi-Wan sat up straight once more, and something snapped into place inside of his head.

Xanatos.

Oh Force, Xanatos.

“Why are you here?” Obi-Wan asked, and his tone was harsher than he intended it to be.

“Am I not allowed to visit my padawan?” Jinn asked.

“Well, you haven’t for three days, so I figured you must want something,” There was bitterness in Obi-Wan’s tone.

“Ah, yes. I... hadn’t intended to spend so long a away from you. There were things that needed to be attended to. Xanatos’ funeral, reports to the council...”

Obi-Wan sagged in his bed, closing his eyes. He shouldn’t have felt disappointed, and he knew this. Master Jinn was a Jedi. And as a Jedi, he had certain responsibilities to attend to. And apparently Obi-Wan wasn’t one of those responsibilities-

No. That wasn’t fair.

“You’re upset with me,” Qui-Gon observed.

For a moment, Obi-Wan considered lying. It would be easier that way, and he didn’t want to be a burden. Besides he knew his place.

However, Qui-Gon was very wise and very observant. He would know if Obi-Wan lied.

“It’s just...” Obi-Wan said slowly. “I didn’t know if you were going to come back,”

“Ah,”

Both parties were silent as Qui-Gon struggled to think of something to say.

“That’s... very valid, I suppose, given our history,” Qui-Gon hadn’t intended to sound as disappointed as he did, and Obi-Wan recoiled, much to Qui-Gon’s dismay.

But who could blame him, really?

“You are right. I did come here with a purpose,” Qui-Gon admitted, a touch of shame gracing his Force signature. “I have done... a lot of thinking, over these past three days, Obi-Wan. And... I feel that perhaps I owe you an apology. Many apologies,”

Obi-Wan’s head snapped up, he almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Surely Qui-Gon had no reason to apologize. It had been Obi-Wan’s doing, hadn’t it? All of the pain and suffering... all of the death could’ve been avoided if Obi-Wan hadn’t been there.

“I can sense your guilt, young one. But your shields are improving. I can’t read your mind, so you’ll have to use your words,” Jinn’s tone was light and teasing, almost parental in a way.

Obi-Wan didn’t speak. He couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he lowered his head and curled his fists into his blanket, contemplating.

“Padawan, please,” Qui-Gon urged, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s back.

“I have failed, master,” Obi-Wan admitted. “I have failed so many times, and I know you have said that failures are all just a pet of learning, but my failures are different. My failures have cost people their lives,” Obi-Wan buried his face in his trembling hands, as if he wished he could hide himself away somewhere he would never be found. “I question my worth, Master,” Obi-Wan admitted. He knew, fully well that these were not things he should discuss with his master—these were Dark thoughts, and he was worried he’d be punished for them, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He’d carried them alone for so long...

“Of being a Jedi? Obi-Wan, these things make you no less-“

“Of being alive,” Obi-Wan cut in, living his head proudly, defiantly, angrily. “Why should I live if my life only causes pain and suffering and death wherever I go?”

Qui-Gon’s heartbreak echoed across the Force so loudly, he feared every Jedi in the Galaxy could feel it.

“I fear that is my doing, padawan,” he admitted shamefully.

“What?” The anger and the bitterness dropped out of Obi-Wan quickly. “Master, these faults are my own, you couldn’t have-“

“My oath as your master, Obi-Wan, is to protect you, to nurture you. I have failed this on many accounts, but I hadn’t realized how deeply my failure had run,” Qui-Gon shook his head, then, after a long moment of hesitation, gingerly took ahold of Obi-Wan’s hands and continued, “The choices and mistakes and faults of other people are not your burdens to carry, Obi-Wan. I do not hold you accountable for the death of my former apprentice. He made his choice and I made mine. And if it were to happen again, I would make the same choice in a heartbeat.

“Bruck’s death was an accident, and he had only himself to blame. Bant, however, is alive because of you,” Qui-Gon praised, moving to sit beside Obi-Wan on the bed.

Obi-Wan turned his head away from his master, but he didn’t move away.

“As for my own mistakes... I have been foolish. I should not have left you on Melida/Daan. You have suffered, needlessly, for the mistakes of others and that isn’t fair. I have been... perhaps so blinded by grief that I didn’t see how I was hurting you, my apprentice. And I am sorry, truly,”

Obi-Wan was silent for a long time, running the apology through his head, trying to understand it, trying to accept it. These things take time, and he knew this. But he was still afraid that if he didn’t say something, Qui-Gon would leave him again, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted that.

“Master...?” He asked, sounding timid. “Will you... stay with me? Just for a little while?”

Qui-Gon hummed. “My padawan, I will stay with you for as long as you need,”

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The ship that took my mother to Ellis Island 
Eighty-three years ago was named "The Mercy." 
She remembers trying to eat a banana 
without first peeling it and seeing her first orange 
in the hands of a young Scot, a seaman 
who gave her a bite and wiped her mouth for her 
with a red bandana and taught her the word, 
"orange," saying it patiently over and over. 
A long autumn voyage, the days darkening 
with the black waters calming as night came on, 
then nothing as far as her eyes could see and space 
without limit rushing off to the corners 
of creation. She prayed in Russian and Yiddish 
to find her family in New York, prayers 
unheard or misunderstood or perhaps ignored 
by all the powers that swept the waves of darkness 
before she woke, that kept "The Mercy" afloat 
while smallpox raged among the passengers 
and crew until the dead were buried at sea 
with strange prayers in a tongue she could not fathom. 
"The Mercy," I read on the yellowing pages of a book 
I located in a windowless room of the library 
on 42nd Street, sat thirty-one days 
offshore in quarantine before the passengers 
disembarked. There a story ends. Other ships 
arrived, "Tancred" out of Glasgow, "The Neptune" 
registered as Danish, "Umberto IV," 
the list goes on for pages, November gives 
way to winter, the sea pounds this alien shore. 
Italian miners from Piemonte dig 
under towns in western Pennsylvania 
only to rediscover the same nightmare 
they left at home. 
A nine-year-old girl travels 
all night by train with one suitcase and an orange. 
She learns that mercy is something you can eat 
again and again while the juice spills over 
your chin, you can wipe it away with the back 
of your hands and you can never get enough.

- “The Mercy” by Philip Levine