Part I
Usually, there would be the soft clatter of cups and plates in the cooking area, accompanied by the aroma of sweetened tea, garnished with herbal essences. Or, if neither of its occupants felt like pottering about with plates and saucers, the muted sounds of a soft cloth wiping across the slightly counter.
Usually, there would be a general air of settling down, bags being unpacked, doors opened and closed, window embrasures opened to let the air of Coruscant – however unclean it might be in the nether regions, one nearly always got some semblance of freshness on the upper levels – inside chambers locked up for weeks or even months.
Usually, either one voice – deep, rich and controlled would speak of something, both consequential and otherwise, with another voice – low, well-pitched, and tinged with the deep core accent polished individual always prized so much – and enjoy a conversation until the hours of bed approached.
Usually, there would be an aura of peace, sometimes, of a mission well accomplished. Or sometimes, apprehension and worry, if one or the other happened to be injured. Deep, involved discussions regarding the aftermath of a debriefing.
Usually.
This time, a deep, stifling silence pervaded their chambers.
Within his room, Obi-Wan Kenobi opened his small, space-saving case and put away his meagre belongings, tunics and legging and soft shoes. His hand hovered over his light-sabre, as though debating about whether he should remove this too, and then decided against it. He stood up from his bent posture, feeling his sore back give a twinge, and massaged the aching muscle. He put away his bag, looking forward to freshening up himself – it felt as though he had all of the Se'emarian plain's soil plastered onto him. If it felt this way for him, then he could barely imagine how it felt for Qui-Go—
He stopped midway, fingered his braid thoughtfully, feeling that it too, needed washing, and was about to walk out of his room when his com-link beeped.
For a moment, he thought it was Qui-Gon himself calling—this had been their almost only method of communication, as long as they had remained on planet—before remembering that Qui-Gon was in his chamber, just a door away from him, and would hardly use a com-link to speak with him.
On the other hand, one never knew exactly what Qui-Gon might do. He had certainly refused to contact his padawan through their bond for the past week, and whatever conversation they had had, had been brief, sporadic, and very much to the point.
He paused in mid stride, feeling the long-lost, familiar prickle of dread, coupled with a slightly sickening feeling of having disappointed Qui-Gon, and swiftly tried to banish it. Qui-Gon had never really railed at Obi-Wan regarding his doings on any mission, other than point out his errors in that cool, clear voice of his that made one want to cringe and retire into some deep dark hole forever. Even that had stopped of recent times as their bond grew in strength, and as both acclimatized to each other, understanding each others' strengths and weaknesses. He still felt a tiny thrill of pleasure when he remembered one or two missions when their thoughts and impulses had been identical.
There had been something deeply fulfilling about that oneness.
Over the five years that marked his apprenticeship with Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn, he had begun to look forward to those periods when his focus reached such clarity, such pinpoint precision that he seemed to see things well before they happened, and had acted before he thought. And those thoughts and actions had not been wilful, impulsive or haphazard, but had yielded the expected result.
The glint of approval in Qui-Gon's eyes had even removed the need for food and drink, sometimes. It had churned in him a desire to do better. To do more. To acquire Qui-Gon's respect. He thought he had won it… but it seemed he had not.
What had he done, this time?
The mission had, to all intents and purposes, been a success. Well, somewhat. They had relocated an entire primitive tribe of hills-men to a safer sanctuary, safe from their so-called civilized predators, who had promised them a better life – but had had no intention of doing so. He had stayed with the tribe, guarding them almost single-handedly, while Qui-Gon shunted back and forth between the plains and underground caverns, trying, until the last possible moment, to negotiate some semblance of peace. It had taken a small battle of sorts to finally drive the Jedi down to the caverns.
They had won … and yet, they had lost. They had protected the tribe they had sworn to guard … but they had failed to assure them of an equal place on their planet. It would take another mission. Another Jedi, perhaps, who was meant to achieve it.
It was when they were absolutely sure that there was no prospect of peace—at least for that time—that Obi-Wan had sensed the change in Qui-Gon. The Master's lips had thinned, his eyes had hardened into black ice, and a certain rigidity entered his posture.
It had not changed, thus far. They had returned home in almost near silence.
And now, he could hear muted sounds of his Master in his own room—the door must be slightly ajar, he thought absently—but a thick veil hung in between them. Obi-Wan had found, much to his dismay and some apprehension, that he could be quite as stubborn as Qui-Gon was: he would not break the silence until the Master did.
This was not very Jedi-like, he mused. In fact, it smacked of a—
Bee-ee-ee-eep.
He came to himself with a little start and looked down at the com-link trilling away at his waist, surprised that he had actually managed to ignore it for a good few minutes. He looked at the blinking light, debating about opening the little display panel that would indicate to him the identity of the caller. The Council had recently decreed the issue of customised com-units that included tiny vid-panels: they were inordinately expensive, even by Jedi standards, since they contained a variety of other tools not found in the usual unit. It had been issued only to a few teams in the Order; Obi-wan had discovered, much later, that theirs had been one.
He touched a pink button—why pink, of all colours?—opening the communication channel, and opening his own door, as he did.
"Padawan Kenobi?"
"Yes?" Oh, he recognized this voice. He had not heard it in a long while, now.
"I trust thy journey was pleasant."
A bittersweet smile touched his face. Pleasant.
"It is good to hear from you, Master," he said formally. "Yes, our journey was uneventful."
"It was decided that a meeting might not be remiss, this even, at the hour of the songbird." His smile grew. Really, the Master's words grew formal with every passing moment—but he knew that he would not have it any other way.
"Indeed."
"Thy presence would be most welcome, if thou can but attend."
"It would be an honour," he said quietly.
A moment later, he ended the conversation, to see Qui-Gon standing in front of him.
It could not be said that the journey back to Coruscant and the subsequent interlude in their own quarters had been of much benefit to Qui-Gon's peace of mind. It was usual for him to chase around details of their mission for some time after it ended—this was only natural, despite his instinct for rooting himself in the present.
Idly, he remembered that this was not the advice he gave his padawan: Obi-Wan was always to keep his focus in the here and now. Mulling over the past would achieve nothing; it was already over and done with. Thinking about the future meant nothing as well, for the Force dictated the future, and a Jedi had very little part to play in it except perform his own duty.
He held up a long sleep tunic in his mind, discarding his own, very sound advice and allowing his thoughts to creep back to the past.
It hadn't worked. Nothing had worked, it seemed; he had been at his persuasive best to instil some reason into Mah Hoakdai—but the man had not seemed swayed by his arguments, insisting that the tribals were beings who were only just barely sentient. Even that, he thought wryly, had been a concession.
He had felt the same, heavy weight descend into the pit of his stomach that he had felt, on numerous occasions when he had faced the similar prospect of unyielding beings, who more or less clung to their own self-conceived prejudices. A thousand times had he faced them; a thousand times had he confronted their arguments.
Then why did he feel, this time, that he had accomplished nothing?
He was a Jedi Master, he had acquired enough mastery over himself to complete whatever remained on hand, regardless of what his misgivings were. And he had. It had been a compromise, but he had ensured some safety.
Perhaps, had he been accompanied by another Jedi, another seasoned negotiator, another who was as well-versed as he was in mediation … perhaps that might have eased the situation.
Obi-Wan.
He compressed his lips. Had he truly taught his padawan well? Did he have it in him to become a master negotiator? It was not much being a warrior; proper training and skill would ensure that. Wars fought weren't important; it was the wars that were prevented from happening that mattered.
Had he had a Jedi other than Obi-Wan beside him, would anything have changed? Perhaps… for the better?
He stopped abruptly, gazing unseeingly at the shelves in his room. Half of his mind processed this new turn of thought in a detached manner; the other half considered him with some shock.
Obi-Wan had been at his side for five years now. His trusted aide, his padawan; the apprentice he sought to train. Were he to make mistakes, it would still be forgiven, for he was yet a novice.
Even so, Obi-Wan had yet to make such a huge mistake that jeopardized whole missions. To be sure, there were one or two incidents—but he had meditated upon them, and had come to the conclusion that nothing could have changed the outcome. He had even been proud of how his padawan had extricated himself out of some delicate situations, he remembered.
And yet…
He folded the tunic slowly, still surprised, and rather worried about a mind that had suddenly begun, it seemed, to doubt the skills of his apprentice. The way he had handled the hoarding of the tribe—could there have been another way out? Could there…
Long forgotten questions arose again, and he rubbed his temples, tired. Enough, he chided himself. You think too much.
Obi-Wan had done everything that could be humanly done. He had been the perfect padawan. Well-trained, obedient, almost a machine, in the way he had conducted himself, effacing himself into the background, and offering Qui-Gon all the support he needed, while removing as many of his worries as he could.
A sinking feeling appeared in his heart and he analyzed it, dismayed. Why was he worried? There was no need to be. Obi-Wan, it appeared, was the perfect Jedi. Withdrawn, efficient, controlled.
Perhaps that was all there was. Perhaps he had taught the boy everything. Perhaps Obi-Wan was one of those exceptional learners who became knights at a ridiculously young age—Force knew there had been knights and even masters at twenty-six or seven …
He clenched his fist, feeling a sudden spurt of anger. Irrational, unnecessary. He thought of that serene face, with its jewelled eyes, and guileless expression. Yes, Master. No Master. As you wish, Master.
Master.
He had a sudden impulse to catch Obi-Wan by the boy's slender neck and shake the life out of—
He knelt on the bed, breathing deeply, massaging his temples. No. No. No.
It was as he was attempting to sink into some kind of meditation that he heard Obi-Wan's low voice, speaking to someone—who? They had been back at the Temple for barely a few hours.
It seemed as though Obi-Wan did not wish his Master to hear the conversation. He spoke in an even more low tone, if possible, in the com-unit with that ridiculous pink button—
His lips pressed together again and he rose slowly, rather gracelessly, meditation forgotten. For that matter, even his clothes remained in his bag, unpacked. He strode out of his chambers and stood in front of Obi-Wan, who had switched off his com-unit just that instant, and was now looking at him, startled.
They remained this way for some time, each surprised, and waiting, it seemed, for the other to speak.
It was Qui-Gon who broke the silence first. "We are required to be present before the Council at the eleventh hour."
Obi-Wan looked down briefly, before replying. "I believe that is tomorrow." He watched Qui-Gon's fingers clench, and then release themselves. "Is there anything you wish me to do?"
"No." There was a pause. Qui-Gon was looking at the couch in the common area, his eyes strangely unfocussed. "There's nothing."
For a fleeting second, the veil shutting off their bond was uncovered, and Obi-Wan sensed the fine layer of weariness that seemed to coat the Master. The skin around Qui-Gon's eyes were dark, and he looked exhausted. It was as though a long closed door had been opened, affording him a brief glimpse, and he drew a quick breath, eyes widening. As quickly as it had opened, though, the door slammed shut again.
Suddenly, his apprehension vanished. A strange exultation arose within. "I have been asked by Master Ada Areilein to attend a meeting at the hour of the songbird, this evening."
Qui-Gon seemed to turn his attention away from the couch with some difficulty. "Yes?" he questioned mechanically. Then, his attention appeared to refocus. "The crèche master?"
"Yes."
"What meeting is this?"
"Ten or fifteen more masters may attend, perhaps," Obi-Wan said slowly. "Sometimes knights attend too. Anyone is welcome."
"Ten or fifteen masters?" Qui-Gon asked. "Is it a sparring session?"
Obi-Wan's lips curved into a smile. "Hardly."
To Qui-Gon, he seemed to taunt the master, challenging him to guess something that might have been easy for a crecheling. Abruptly, a surge of anger rose, startling even himself.
Obi-Wan seemed to have guessed this. "Perhaps you would like to come?" His tone was low and deferential, again.
"I must prepare my report for the Council. And so must you."
Obi-Wan bowed, pursing his lips. "I have promised master Ada…" His voice trailed away.
"You are of an age to determine your priorities," came Qui-Gon's voice, clipped. "Remember your duties, padawan, whatever else you may be inclined to pursue."
For the first time, a look of hurt flickered through Obi-Wan's features, and he regretted his tone at once. The boy had done nothing to deserve it.
"I request your permission to attend, Master." His padawan's words were at their formal best.
"As you wish." A wave of weakness assailed him and he turned away, feeling drained and weary. It had been a long time since he had felt this way, without a severe injury to mark him.
Perhaps he was growing old. Soon, he would outlive his usefulness. Perhaps, assigned to a duty within the Temple's confines, where he could nurse his weariness at length and recuperate for months. His missions would pass into legends…
Obi-Wan watched, as Qui-Gon made his way back slowly, into his chambers.
An hour later, resting in his room, or attempting to do so, at any rate, Qui-Gon heard the soft swish of a door opening and closing, and knew that Obi-Wan had left.
He considered again, this strange meeting with crèche masters. When had Obi-Wan developed a taste for caring for younglings? So far, he had shown no marked inclination for it—though he was, in fact, welcomed with enthusiasm when he chose to go among them.
He went through every word Obi-Wan had, analysing it as though it were a coded message. Master Ada. Creche. Meeting. Ten or Fifteen knights. The hour of the—
He sat up suddenly, intrigued. Could it be? It could. One never knew. And yet…
He rose, threw a cloak around himself, and walked out.
(tbc...)