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Master Plo Koon could not help but immediately notice the sharp and jagged juxtaposition in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.
He'd walked in, breathing in the fresh air and admiring the scenic gardenscapes. Vivid greens and reds from blooming plants reached towards him, their glow reflective in the clear surfaces of water. Sunlight, gradients of orange and marigold, shone like a fine mist above the fuzzy grass and moss encasing the ground. Songbirds chirped and trilled. They weaved between the vegetation with sharp precision, circling the air and flitting around the fountains.
But then Plo heard a sniffle and a hiccup.
He paused and listened. At first he assumed it was the gentle impact of water, but with the roaring waves of the Force tumbling clumsily into his shields, he knew it was a fellow Jedi. Plo opened his shields a crack, the chasm allowing the youngling's distress to seep through and for the lost to be found.
Over here! the Force sang, although lacking in its usual harmony.
Plo followed the beacon through golden, iridescent leaves. The path was already lit, and he just had to walk it.
Just a little closer!
He emerged into a small pocket of jungle, the natural light almost hidden away by the vines and leaves surrounding the hollowed area. Between the shadows, he spotted a small boy—tear tracks glowing on his freckled cheeks, tousled red hair, and a large purple bruise blooming across his jaw like the flowers he sat by.
"Hello, youngling."
The boy flinched. He looked up, eyes widening in alarm and recognition of the Jedi Master and Council member.
"Mind if I sit?" Plo asked, a small smile on his lips, though it didn't meet his eyes.
"Not at all, Master," the youngling murmured with a sniffle.
Plo sat, legs crossed and eyes never leaving the boy's fearful expression and darkening bruise.
He hid his concern as he asked, "What's your name?"
"Obi-Wan Kenobi."
Plo lifted a hand and held it out. The boy took it with shaky fingers and squeezed gently. His hands were warm but his bright blue eyes still anxious.
"Who did this to you, Obi?"
Immediately Obi-Wan's hands went cold and his head lowered. It didn't make a difference—Plo could still make out the blue and black and purple on his jaw, and his heart ached with the thrum of the Force, just the same.
Obi-Wan shrugged and muttered something so quiet he couldn't understand.
"You can tell me what's bothering you." Plo extended soft reassurance through the Force. "You're safe, Obi-Wan."
Finally, the boy looked up. There were tears pooling in his eyes, lips quivering.
"B-Bruck Chun did it," Obi-Wan exclaimed, wildness shining in his eyes beyond the tears Plo saw him blink away. "He pushed me earlier and I fell and—and no one believed me! The creche master even lectured me on lying. Everyone sees me as the black sheep of our class and Bruck as the golden boy."
"Not everyone, youngling."
Obi-Wan put a hand on the unbruised part of his chin while musing over the words. Plo couldn't help but secretly think him adorable.
"And," he continued after a moment, "you should know better than anyone in the entire galaxy that a Jedi does not lie."
The boy smiled.
Later as he switched off the light in his chambers and climbed into bed, Plo's good mood faded into a vision of the opposite. He drifted off, feeling uncommonly numb yet evocative in the Living Force.
A vivid flash of the council room, then a harsh and ghostly whisper of a name that would someday unknowingly haunt him:
Rako Hardeen.