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I had a thought, brief as it was, to ask him if he’d seen a ghost.
After all, why else would he be staring at me like that?
But, no. That wasn’t right. My body was solid. Whole. Sturdy, if getting a bit weaker at the knees from my years favoring Ataru despite my height and the many, many missions that took a turn from simple diplomacy to more adventurous pursuits. All this to say, I haven’t felt the creaking of my knees, the air flow through my nose and into my lungs and back out, in a very long time. Not since a glowing - screaming-crying-pain-pain-fear - blade plunged through the center of my chest in a reactor shaft on Naboo, Obi-Wan’s cry ringing throughout the space as I fell at the feet of the first Sith seen in centuries.
And yet.
“Master, are you quite alright?” a very familiar voice, if much younger than I remember, calls to me.
My eyes re-focus. Here and now, Jinn. Isn’t that what you are always telling Obi-Wan? I look down at the young man – no, young boy – standing before me in the temple hangar. He’s barely to my chest, auburn hair buzzed in that awful padawan cut Dooku had made me wear as a young boy – something about tradition – with his braid hanging from behind is right ear, shorter than I ever remember it being. What about the years in the deserts of Tattooine spent talking to ghosts, the sand wearing him down as it does all things, as he played sentinel to a boy almost as bright in the Force as his father before him.
Here and now, Jinn.
Obi-Wan shifted on his feet, his gaze flickering down and away, before meeting my gaze again.
Ah, I still haven’t answered. I open my mouth to respond when Obi-Wan states, a wobble in his voice that tells me he expects rebuke for what he’s about to say -
“I-I know Master Tahl means a lot to you. And I, as well – ahem – I only mean to say that -”
Tahl.
No, she’s been dead – no. I really take in Obi-Wan’s appearance, the length of his braid and the tell-tale scar from an electric collar only just beginning to fade that pokes from the neck of his too-loose tunic. He’s fourteen, if I had to guess; he’s been my padawan for barely a year.
I breathe in deeply through my nose, feeling unmoored, as uncertainty settles into place around me. The Force feels muddy as I reach out in some bid for guidance and grasp nothing but more questions. No matter.
I rest a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, aware that his too-keen eyes have spotted something in my gaze I had wished to hide, and say, “Let us not dwell on our anxieties, padawan. The Force will guide us, as it always does.”
Obi-Wan looks vaguely surprised by my words – why? I’ve said them enough times over the years – but appears mollified as he offers a shy smile before breaking eye contact. We’ll have to work on that, if he’s to become a diplomat.
The Negotiator.
I shake my head. Obi-Wan and I board the Jedi cruiser. As I follow my padawan up the ramp of the ship, I glance upwards. Perched on front window of the ship is a mint-green convor. I blink rapidly – surely not – and yet it remains. It cocks its head, something knowing in its green-eyed gaze, before it flies off, out of the temple hangar. My senses dull as I hear something hum in the Force, quiet but present and more clear than I would have expected; not good or bad. Just there, distant but closing in. A possibility. A choice that I perhaps had not taken before. I breathe deeply, returning to the present moment.
As I join Obi-Wan in the cockpit for the beginning of our flight, I glance at the navicomputer and see the route it has programmed. Obi-Wan has set a course for the Cadavine sector in the Outer Rim.
With the thrum of the ship’s engines, the hum in the Force returns, anticipation like the flutter of wings. We’re headed for Melida/Daan.