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One moment the banquet had been proceeding as rowdily and normally as could be expected. The next, the prime minister was clutching at his throat and gasping. The short, wet, ragged breaths lingered on in Obi-Wan’s ears for hours after. Now he lay awake, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, listening to a man die.
He should have anticipated it. He should have known—he should have at least done something—
Obi-Wan had looked on in mute horror, utterly frozen.
The guards had taken care of the shooter in any case, and Qui-Gon had caught the prime minister and carefully lowered him to the ground, summoning a medic. He hadn’t spared a moment to check on his Padawan, for which Obi-Wan was grateful, truly. Obi-Wan had been utterly useless. Even if he’d failed to protect the prime minister, at least he might’ve managed something as basic as crowd control. But no, he’d been useless there as well.
Obi-Wan’s stomach roiled, and his pulse fluttered in his throat. He shifted uncomfortably on his pallet, and swallowed, trying to push the feeling down. Deep breaths, for all that he forced himself to follow a meditative cadence, did nothing to calm his racing heartbeat.
With a frustrated sigh, he raised himself up on his elbows. He felt ill, but so long as he moved slowly and deliberately, it didn’t seem to get any worse. Obi-Wan lowered his feet to the floor and pushed himself upright. He tried not to make any noise, careful not to wake his Master as he crept to the kitchen.
He’d just drink a glass of water. That should help. Maybe then he’d be able to sleep.
The water was cool and sweet. Obi-Wan kept trying to catch his breath, but his lungs would not fill—he felt as though his ribs had been wrapped up in bandages. The more he tried to inhale, the shallower each breath seemed.
He didn’t even realise at what point his consternation gave way to fear. He was only trying to force down one last sip of water when a dark figure appeared on the kitchen threshold.
“Obi-Wan? Is everything all right?”
All Obi-Wan could think was that something must be wrong with him. His thoughts sank through his fingers like silt, sluggish and disjointed and grainy-uncomfortable. His stomach was unsettled, so much that he was afraid to open his mouth. His pulse rabbited away in his throat.
“Padawan!”
Startled, Obi-Wan looked up at his Master. The sharp movement upset the rather delicate balance he’d been clinging to, and his jaw clenched reflexively against the urge to gag.
The look in his Master’s eyes bothered him. It was too sharp. Too much like anger. Too much like—
"You must choose, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon told him quietly. "You can go with me now, or stay. Know that if you stay, you are no longer a Jedi."
Of course. He had failed, hadn’t he?
Obi-Wan swallowed, with difficulty, and looked down at his feet. “I am sorry, Master.”
“For what?”
His Master sounded—confused. Master Qui-Gon should never sound confused, Obi-Wan thought.
“Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan!”
Obi-Wan wrenched himself back to consciousness with an effort. His skin felt cold and clammy, but his Master’s voice was shot through with worry.
He’d lost time. He was sure of it: nothing else explained the fact that he was in his Master's arms, half-sprawled on the floor. Qui-Gon was kneeling, holding him up, one hand nervously fluttering from his brow to his neck, checking him for a fever, checking his pulse.
“Breathe, Padawan.”
The order was firm and impossible to ignore or disobey. Obi-Wan was grateful for it. It forced him to take a deep breath in, allowed him to fight the constriction in the muscles around his rib cage. He held it for a count of four, like a crèchling, and then slowly let the breath out. And then inhaled again.
Master Qui-Gon coaxed him through the rhythm of it.
“I’m—” Obi-Wan gasped eventually, “I’m sorry, M-master. I failed, failed—”
“Hush,” Master Qui-Gon said. His voice was strangely gentle. “Just breathe, Obi-Wan, breathe with me…”
Obi-Wan’s Master shifted them carefully, slowly, until Obi-Wan’s back rested against his chest, and Qui-Gon’s hand lay over his sternum. Obi-Wan tried to match his breathing pattern. Master Qui-Gon was a warm and steady soft glow in the Force. In his arms, Obi-Wan felt his shivering ease, muscles relaxing.
He was unworthy of it—this gentle attention. Obi-Wan hiccuped, once, twice, and then something cracked open within him. To his horror and great shame, he felt tears gathering in his eyes.
“Shh,” the Jedi Master whispered in his ear, “let it go, Obi-Wan. Let go.”
Obi-Wan resisted for as long as he could, but his Master’s voice was softer than he’d ever heard it, meditation chant rumbling in Obi-Wan’s ear. It was almost as if a stranger had taken over Master Jinn’s form. The Jedi Master Obi-Wan remembered had never been so gentle, never done more than squeeze his shoulder with a broad hand. This was something else entirely.
Obi-Wan hadn’t the strength to hold on anymore, so in the end he let go.
The pale morning light crept in through the window. Qui-Gon sighed, and smoothed a hand over his Padawan’s brow again. Obi-Wan was sleeping, at last, exhausted. The boy had wept a long time, small body shaking with the strength of his gasping sobs. Qui-Gon had seen him take injuries without tears. Even on Bandomeer, Obi-Wan had not wept—not even when Qui-Gon had insisted that he would not take the boy as his student. He might've crushed Obi-Wan's dreams underfoot in that moment, and still the boy had carried on, head held high.
Qui-Gon wasn’t sure he could remember how to be gentle. He hadn’t been, not for a long time. And yet, Qui-Gon had taken the quaking body into his arms and held him, coaxing Obi-Wan’s breath into an even rhythm. He’d done it without thought, purely on instinct. Obi-Wan’s hunger for that touch, laced as it was with confusion at his Master’s behaviour, had cut at the small, soft places in Qui-Gon’s heart.
Leaving his Padawan behind on Melidaan had not been a gentle thing. Even returning for the boy when Obi-Wan requested assistance for the peace talks—it was not gentleness that had rebuilt their bond, but the will of the Force itself. They were meant to be together, it was an inescapable truth.
He’d turned away from his Padawan, left him behind on a hostile planet for more than a month. Abandoned him.
Qui-Gon shut his eyes and breathed in slowly, willing away the ache in his chest. It was true: for all that Obi-Wan had declared that he would stay and help the Young, in the end it was Qui-Gon who had abandoned Obi-Wan on a war-torn world. Even Dooku would have been horrified and incensed by his decision, Qui-Gon was now certain.
Truly, Qui-Gon hadn’t made his decision with a clear and calm mind, either. He’d been thinking of Tahl.
Obi-Wan, for his part, had survived.
Qui-Gon sighed, and settled back into the chair he’d dragged up to the boy’s bedside, and watched him. Obi-Wan’s face was pinched in sleep, though Qui-Gon sensed no dreams troubling him.
“What happened to you?” he whispered. Where was that sun-bright, earnest flame in the Force? Obi-Wan’s light had been muted since Qui-Gon had seen him again.
Something had happened, on Melidaan. Something had happened, and Qui-Gon had missed it. His Padawan had gone more than a month without backup or support, and had somehow brought the Young and the Old to the negotiation table. Qui-Gon hadn’t truly considered what it might have cost him until this moment—another one of his failures as a Master. He should have thought of it before.
Earlier that evening, Obi-Wan had gone awfully quiet both in person and in the Force, just after the attack on the prime minister. Qui-Gon had thought it was simply the boy’s first brush with such a thing—an ugly, bloody attempt at a political assassination in the midst of an otherwise calm evening banquet. He hadn’t thought to do anything more than check on the boy with a perfunctory, “Are you all right?”
This, though. This was something else.
I’m sorry, M-master. I failed, failed—
He remembered those words, wrenched out of Obi-Wan’s control. The boy’s guilt had all but swamped their little kitchen. Qui-Gon also remembered catching a fleeting impression of himself—a great, towering figure, as if the boy had only been two feet tall—telling Obi-Wan to choose between the Order and the Young.
Qui-Gon sighed. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he reached for his young apprentice and brushed a few stray soft hairs away from his brow. The furrow between his eyebrows relaxed, just a little, and Qui-Gon felt a sad little smile tugging at his lips. He stroked a careful thumb over that furrow, smoothing it away.
Obi-Wan deserved a better Master, but the Force had given him Qui-Gon Jinn.
And, though he knew it was irrational, the thought still occurred to him: that by leaving, Qui-Gon had condemned the boy to some horrible suffering. That, if he’d stayed, Obi-Wan might have been spared that horror, whatever it was.
Irrational, and utterly self-centered. The Force didn’t work like that; the whole universe didn’t revolve around the actions of one Qui-Gon Jinn. A Jedi’s life was a hard one, and one way or another, there would come a time when Obi-Wan would see death and loss and violence. And yet...
“It is I who failed you, Padawan,” Qui-Gon murmured.
Almost immediately, the pinched look was back—as if Obi-Wan could hear him. Qui-Gon squeezed the boy’s hand. “Rest, little one.”
The boy stirred with a faint, fretful noise, his entire Force presence seeming to reach.
Qui-Gon huffed a soft laugh. “Contrary little thing,” he muttered. “I won’t leave you, not anymore.”
Then, quieter, so quiet he could hardly admit it to himself: “I promise.”
Obi-Wan relaxed back into the bunched up covers and the thin, squashy pillow. Still, a questioning thread of his presence hovered between them in the training bond.
Such a deep-seated need for reassurance, in this boy. Qui-Gon winced. After all, he was in no small part responsible for that need. With a sigh, he reached back, twining mental fingers with Obi-Wan’s.
In the Force, the boy’s presence settled into a warm, though muted, glow.
Obi-Wan awoke to the smell of sapir. Though he hadn’t been Qui-Gon’s apprentice for very long, in that time Obi-Wan had already acquired certain habits and associations. On Melidaan, he’d missed this scent. The scent of sapir meant warmth and safety to him now, and the watchful eye of his Master.
At the thought of Master Jinn, Obi-Wan stiffened. He couldn’t help it. He wished he could pretend to be asleep, sink back into the thin mattress and hide in the covers.
But there would be no hiding from his Master—for however long Qui-Gon still considered Obi-Wan his Padawan, at least.
“Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan blinked his eyes open.
His Master looked exhausted. That was the first thing Obi-Wan noticed: Master Qui-Gon’s eyes were heavy and tired, but alert. He sat slouched in a chair that looked too small for him.
Obi-Wan swallowed, a little unnerved by having his Master’s complete attention. “Master.”
“How are you feeling?”
Obi-Wan considered this. “Okay,” he said eventually.
Qui-Gon considered him for a moment. “Tea?”
Obi-Wan nodded carefully. He shifted, but a murmured instruction of “Don’t get up” stopped him. Master Qui-Gon himself rose and padded away to the kitchen. He moved silently, Obi-Wan noticed—far more quietly than a man of his size should. Obi-Wan heard quiet clinking in the kitchen—a cup being set down on the counter, the whisper of hot water.
Moments later, Qui-Gon reappeared, steaming cup in hand. He passed it to Obi-Wan and sat back down in the undersized chair.
Qui-Gon didn’t speak, at first. Obi-Wan sipped at his tea slowly, slightly bewildered.
“Last night…” Qui-Gon began. He didn’t seem to know how to continue.
“I wasn’t feeling well, Master,” Obi-Wan felt compelled to explain. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I would just get a glass of water.”
His Master’s brows drew together. “And then?”
Obi-Wan’s throat tightened. He sipped at the tea, not knowing how to answer.
“If you don’t tell me what happened, I can’t help you,” Master Qui-Gon said. His voice was surprisingly gentle.
The trouble was, Obi-Wan wasn’t actually sure what had happened, himself. He stared at the steaming surface of the tea, wanting to answer and not knowing how.
His Master sighed softly. “Obi-Wan, look at me.”
Unwilling as he was to bare his struggles to his Master—yet another failure—Obi-Wan raised his head. But there was no judgement in his Master’s face, no disapproval.
“What do you think you did wrong?” Master Qui-Gon asked him.
Obi-Wan frowned before he could stop himself. “I didn’t—I should have been able to help,” he said. “I could’ve gotten the crowd out, or gone after the assassin. I could’ve gotten a medic—I just… I froze up.”
Master Qui-Gon nodded. “That is not an unusual reaction, you know, for a Padawan without a great deal of experience with these things. Even Knights put into an unusual situation might react as you had that first time. It is of great credit to you that you were able to consider what you should have done, but I would not expect you to be able to do it all at once. Certainly not upon witnessing your first political assassination.”
Obi-Wan looked down at the tea again. “But it’s not my first one.”
“Ah,” he heard, very softly. Then, “can you tell me about it?”
Obi-Wan shook his head slowly, unsure of how to even begin. Beside him, his Master sighed heavily and shifted in his seat, but he didn’t leave.
“She was a friend,” Obi-Wan said at last. “Cerasi. She spoke for the Young. But then a sniper… I didn’t get to her in time.”
The memory was a raw one. He’d left the Order because he wanted to help—because he thought he would be able to help. Instead, he’d failed to protect his friend. All the accusations Nield could throw at him were nothing against what he already knew: he’d failed the Young, he’d failed his Master and the Order.
“I’m sorry, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said softly. “The friendships you make on such missions can be some of the most powerful. Losing those people is extremely difficult.”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “I should have been there.”
Master Qui-Gon sighed. “Padawan, listen to me now.”
Obi-Wan looked up again, and found himself pinned by a deep blue gaze. “Yes, Master.”
“Melidaan was a lesson for us both in this at least: we cannot be everywhere at once. I could not choose between staying with you and getting Master Tahl the help she needed. Nor should I have made you choose between the Order and the Young.”
Obi-Wan blinked. Slowly, astonishment took the place of the grief and shame. “Master, no—I betrayed everything the Order stood for when I chose as I did.”
“Not at all,” Master Qui-Gon said—with calm certainty in his voice. “You negotiated a ceasefire, Padawan, and were instrumental in structuring their peace agreement. That is the furthest thing from failure. And it is the furthest thing from a betrayal of what the Order stands for.”
Obi-Wan could only stare at his Master, stunned.
“I was wrong to leave you there, my Padawan,” Master Qui-Gon said softly. “It is another failure in my own string of many, as your Master.”
“But—”
Qui-Gon raised a hand, stopping him. “The most profound thing you can do, Obi-Wan, is promise to improve, and let go of the past. Grief is a natural part of our lives; regret, if unchecked, leads to guilt and self-blame.”
Obi-Wan sat very still, barely breathing, barely able to keep eye contact with his Master. This was not the Master Jinn he remembered from Bandomeer or Melidaan.
This Master Jinn reached for him, warm, dry hand curling around Obi-Wan’s. “I will not leave you again, Padawan. You deserve a far better Master than I, I’ve known it from the beginning. But I will do my best for you.”
Obi-Wan stared at him, flummoxed. “Master… you already do more for me than I am worthy of. You took me on when no other Master would. And then I turned away from the Jedi, and still you took me back. I do not deserve—”
“Obi-Wan.” Master Qui-Gon’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “We should all be so fortunate as to make choices that we can reconsider later. Now, listen to me: I know of no youngling more deserving.”
Obi-Wan tilted his head, watching his Master. Certainly there was utter conviction in Master Jinn’s voice, and in his eyes.
A little smile curled up the corner of Master Qui-Gon’s mouth. Obi-Wan secretly treasured that smile—a rare, playful thing, accompanied by the glint of humour in the Jedi Master’s eye.
“Don’t believe it yet?”
Obi-Wan shook his head slowly.
The smile widened a fraction. “Take it on faith, then, Padawan.”