Shades of Gray

Chapter 10

The world oozed and congealed back into tentative wholeness, slurred bands of color and drifting sound, a yielding solidity beneath his aching limbs. A deep tympanum note of pain shuddered through the confused medley of sensation, beating a slow dirge of longing for something…something missing…something better, wonderful…

"Master, I think he's coming round."

That voice was young and unfamiliar. There was a soft scent in the air, the echo of incense. Feet pattered away and then returned. Another voice joined the first, an older female one, slightly accented – the characteristic Twi'Lek huskiness present there beneath the Basic syllables. Vokara Che, the Temple's tyrannical senior healer.

What was she doing here?

"Thank the Force," she muttered, sotto voce. "I was beginning to wonder…"

Obi Wan stirred, and instantly regretted his audacity. Headache erupted behind his eyes and set his teeth on edge. The insistent whine of need opened like a dark chasm, until it was an abyss of insatiable longing. Spice, and the oblivion of kaleidoscopic illusion. He wanted it. More than life. More than the Force. "No," he gritted out. That was wrong. He thrashed, struggling against the cloying bonds of desire that seemed to coil about his every nerve, his every thought. He was polluted, with spice and the Dark and this foreign and twisted want. It was inside him, inside his hammering pulse, leaking through his pores in rivulets of spice-stained sweat, cramping his muscles into taut cords of spice-saturated agony.

"Master? I don't understand…what's?"

"It's to be expected," Vokara Che barked out, curt and efficient. "Don't panic, Ji Sho."

Don't panic? But panic was the only thing left to do…and Ji Sho's childish flare of confusion and distress was a spark set to waiting timber. On cue, frothing anxiety exploded into bright panic, into clawing nameless dread, into horror. The future coalesced into the present, into the now, a weird carnival of faces and keening howls. The demon, the thing, which had assaulted him earlier! Where was it? It was near, approaching, lurking just around a corner, or over the world's darkening horizon. The incense in the air smelled of spice; he could taste it in the back of his throat, feel it burning on his tongue. The thing was Darkness and spice, and – and-

"Anakin!" he screamed.

The muttering voices multiplied, his panic stirring them as cold wind whips at dried leaves. More footfalls, more voices, hands grasping at him, pushing and holding him down. Somewhere in the blur of assailants, Mace's baritone rumbled, the Force rippling golden about his voice, warring with the floating veil of spice.

He had to save Anakin. There wasn't any time – the hells were already reaching for him, he was already half-consumed, his innards eaten alive by yearning for oblivion, for obliterating illusion. "Anakin!" Somehow he found the strength to throw off his captors, desperately calling upon the bright sparks of Light dancing around Mace. Bodies hit the floor, he surged upward, through a wall of agony and shifting color. The world spun treacherously.

"Fierfek," the Korun Jedi cursed beneath his breath. "Obi Wan!"

"Anakin!" he shouted, voice cracking. They had to save Anakin, they should let him go, let him sink into nothingness, into destruction, just save Anakin stop the demon stop the nightmare stop the disintegrating cosmos, the burning crimson fire kindling black within the Force itself…

"Somebody get Skywalker in here!"

Mace understood. Gratitude flooded through him. And he let the grasping, imperious hands push and pull at him and knead and soothe and stroke. How many star-forsaken healers did they think it took? He only needed Anakin, and then he could die and cheat spice of its victory. If Anakin were safe.

An eternity later, Anakin finally arrived. "Master."

It was difficult to focus. His eyes and his mind drifted away, again and again, heavy with some new and unwelcome weight, a ponderous suggestion of sleep. Blast the conniving healers… but at last he managed to weld striating light and color into a coherent image. Anakin. Not a charred skull beribboned with its own gore, brow not alight with malice. Just Anakin, whole and sound and intact. His Padawan who had been ripped away by the war and made a Knight too soon. He grabbed Anakin's wrist. "Stay," he ordered.

"I'm here," Anakin said, suddenly biting his own lip hard. Why did he look so pained?

"Stay," Obi Wan repeated. Stay here, by my side, in the Temple, in the Order, in the Light. Don't ever leave. Just stay. You must. You don't understand.

The Force around Anakin was a blazing hearthfire, heat radiating from a young star, a life-giving, soporific heat in which even the invasive siren-call of spice shriveled and fluttered into ash…like sound and vision…like thought itself...

The Council chamber was a broken circle without Obi Wan's presence. Anakin felt the gaze of the assembled masters – a few via hologram – rest on him in accusing silence. Their disapproval slid off the ebony folds of his cloak and pooled in the blue-grey shadows at his feet. His head was held high.

"We have put this off as long as possible," Mace Windu stated, dark eyes boring into the young Jedi standing in the floor's center. "These last two days have been trying."

Anakin remained silent. Fury ebbed and flowed with his blood, a tidal pulse waiting for a dam to break, to unleash itself on these waiting shores. He held it back. "I agree," he said curtly. Watching Obi Wan suffer through acute withdrawal from a near-fatal overdose of ixetal cilena could be described as "trying." If obscene understatement qualified as truth. Not that the Jedi Council cared about things like that, of course.

"You requested leave to go on a meditative retreat, Skywalker. But instead of returning directly to the Temple, you proceeded to Hojo Lenn's private residence. Why?"

Mace Windu had the unique ability to use bluntness as an edged weapon. "Obi Wan needed me," Anakin retorted. "That much is obvious."

The disrespect garnered him a few indrawn breaths. Mace's fingers arranged themselves into a mirrored steeple. "Master Kenobi was under cover on a delicate assignment. One which had grave ramifications for the Republic. One which failed."

No, really. "He could have died."

"That is not the point, Skywalker!"

Anakin felt the dam crack ominously. "With respect, my masters," –he included the entire Council in a scathing and ironic glance – "You sent him into that nightmare. And I rescued him."

"Hojo Lenn was killed in an aircar accident the night before he was due to sign a vital agreement with the Republic Senate – one affecting military finance. I do not believe such an event could be a coincidence. Because of your interference, Master Kenobi was unable to prevent that assassination."

Anakin clamped his jaw shut. His interference? If they only knew… but they couldn't know. Not ever. "He wasn't in a condition to stop anything," Anakin retorted, hotly. "That mission was insane. It was a trap. And this Council didn't care who was sacrificed, so long as the Senate got its drug money." He was shaking, the walls of his reserve crumbling to ruin. Rage dribbled over the edges of his control.

Yoda intervened, thrusting his gimer stick out in warning. "Accuse the Council of corruption, do you?"

Cold fire swept through his veins. "No," he spat out. No... he didn't accuse the Council of anything. He knew it. He lived it.

Mace leaned back in his chair. "You stand censured for interfering in another Jedi's mission without consulting the Council or seeking permission of any kind. That's the second time you have needlessly endangered a covert operation through reckless action, Skywalker. It must not happen again."

They were censuring him? He ground his teeth and lifted his chin. Heat roiled off his skin, set the shadows on the mosaic floor into flickering unrest, seared through the Force like a hot rain. The Councilors stirred, frowned at him. With an immense act of will, he bowed, his gritted teeth holding back his bubbling molten wrath, the volcanic flow of hot resentment. It ran scarlet over his vision, across his mind, burned in his gut and welled up in a thick torrent, a hard fountain of anger rising in his throat. Damn the arrogant Council and their lies and their hubris!

Without apology or dismissal, he swept round and stalked out the door, his black cloak billowing at his feet, a shadow frolicking at its master's heels.

To be awake was to be torn asunder, stretched on a rack between the Force and the irrepressible longing for spice. It was… unpleasant. But then, this was an improvement. So he was told, and part of him agreed, for surely inner conflict was a sign that the despotism of the spice was losing its absolute sway, its hold on him slipping fractionally with each passing hour. Yes, improvement.

He preferred sleep. Sleep was uncomplicated and blessedly free of headache, nausea, and the tension of opposites, the stalemate playing itself out within his every cell. But one could not sleep all the time, not with the healers always prowling about.

"Master Kenobi?"

He was coming to know Ji Sho, the apprentice healer, quite well. The poor boy had nearly – but not completely- recovered from the physical shock of being Force-pushed across the room during their initial encounter. He was nearly- but not quite – recovered from the emotional shock of seeing a vaunted Council member reduced to such pathetic straits. The poor creature would likely carry the bruises for some time yet. Obi Wan felt responsible for him.

"I'm still here, Ji Sho." He heard the boy's feet patter in, hesitant. "Unfortunately."

"I'm supposed to make you eat."

He rolled over – painful, not a good idea, on top of the still tender place where somebody had crushed his rib into fragments- and squinted at the Padawan balefully. "You should surrender now. Master Che has sent you on a mission doomed to failure."

Ji Sho paled a bit, twisting his fingers together beneath the wide sleeve hems of his tunic.

Obi Wan managed a thin smile.. "Bring in the blasted food. And then you can eat it for me. You are sworn to alleviate suffering, I might point out."

"Oh. Uh…" He could hear the poor apprentice healer swallow, puzzling this over.

Ji Sho reminded him of a much younger Anakin, a confused and sometimes endearingly obtuse ex-slave trying to pretend he was a Jedi master, trying to live up to a title foisted upon him by unhappy fate and Qui Gon Jinn's premature announcement to the Council, trying to please and defy Obi Wan all at once, trying to simply…grow up. Faster than he should have.

"Are you…all right, master?"

"No." He closed his eyes, gingerly shifted to his back again. No, he was not all right. Emotion such as that was not all right, it was a distraction and a danger to self and others. He was not all right – he wanted the peace and serenity of contemplation, and he simultaneously wanted to be impaled by another vibrant hallucinatory knife, a rending thrust straight through his burdened heart…No. He just wanted to sleep, really. A long, long time. Until the war was over. That would be good.

"So…..the food?" Ji Sho asked hopefully.

"No." He would simply vomit it up anyway, and that was dreadfully uncivilized. Much better to sleep.

Eventually the obstinate Padawan got the message and trudged off to report his failure to Vokara Che. Hopefully he would not be chastised too severely. He was a good boy. And he was a healer…unlikely to be sent undercover on mission after harrowing mission, forced to choke down murder and filth and spice and moral compromise in the name of peace. Unlikely to be a General charged with sending thousands to their death in the name of justice. Unlikely to sit on the Council, struggling to navigate a labyrinth of dilemmas in which every turning was a dead end leading to utter ruin. No, Ji Sho was good, and did not deserve such a fate.

Such shadow realms were reserved for others. For those who volunteered. For those who lied, even to themselves.

He slid back into a restless sleep.

The Supreme Chancellor greeted him with the same welcoming smile and sympathetic gaze that he always did. He offered no censure.

"Anakin, my boy. It is good to see you after all this time. I trust you are well...I must say, rumor has it that your friend Master Kenobi is, ah, recovering from injury?"

He shrugged, and wandered over to the window. Coruscant sprawled below, oblivious to the lies and deceptions that maintained its precarious balance at the center of the galaxy. "He'll be fine. He's ... strong in the Force."

Palpatine's mouth thinned. "Yes, yes, I suppose he is. But my goodness...the Council does seem to throw their best and brightest into the most compromising situations. It makes me shudder to think of the risks they take. But then, it is always in such a worthy cause."

Anakin's spine stiffened. He barely suppressed a snort of disgust. "They were protecting Hojo Lenn. Lenn. That foul murdering filth. Did you know that, Chancellor?"

Palpatine's blue eyes widened, and then dropped to the ground sadly. "For money," he said, tightly. "That is the way of things. The Senate will do anything to fund this war...and I'm afraid the Jedi will do anything the Senate asks of them. It is a very unstable arrangement, wouldn't you agree?"

He turned. "The Jedi have been the guardians of peace for thousands of years. What do you mean?"

"Anakin, Anakin. I am the last one to criticize the Jedi. Indeed, I might be their only real supporter. The Senate only wants them as tools and pawns in a power game. No, the Jedi Council is the flower of the Republic. It needs to be preserved from corruption in this time of war. I think...well...I wish there were some way to provide support. From my personal office."

Anakin frowned. "I don't understand."

But Palpatine waved the thought aside. "I shall think upon it, my boy. Moral compromise is the true enemy of the Republic. And none of us are immune from it. Even the Jedi, as I'm sure you have observed."

Anakin didn't want to think about that right now. "What about the Senate agreement with Lenn? What will happen to Lenn's spice mines?"

The Chancellor sat down heavily in his chair. "Alas, I fear that they wil be easy prey for Separatist raids. Dooku will not fail to capitalize on such an opening. And we cannot afford to launch another campaign to stop him, not without the extra funds promised by Lenn." A deep sigh. "It sometimes seems that the universe itself conspires against us, Anakin."

The thought was chilling.

"We must hold to the few people we can trust," Palpatine continued. "That is the important thing, my boy: know who your true friends are."

Anakin nodded, feeling the cold penetrate to his very core. He only wished he knew - for certain- who those true frineds might be.

Yoda's cane tapped softly against the floor as he entered. A snuff of irritation and a long grumbling imprecation, issued under the grand Master's breath in an incomprehensible garble, signalled that his mood was not a happy one.

"Obi Wan," he grunted, planting himself firmly in the center of the room.

"You received my message, master."

The pointed ears quirked upward and then drooped. "Denied is your request."

"What?" Exhausted as he was, such a ridiculous statement quickened his long-dormant temper.

"Heard me, you did. Considered the matter this morning, the Council did. Out-voted eleven to one, you are. Submit to our judgement you must."

"You cannot make me-"

The gimer stick slammed into the hard tile with an earsplitting crack. "Enough, youngling." Yoda's green-gold eyes slatted with hard authority. "Under care of healers you are. Declare you mentally unfit, Vokara Che will if ask her I do. Your decision it is not."

Oh really? "I shall simply resubmit my petition when they release me," he argued.

"Then escape here, will you never," Yoda countered, his tiny snub nose wrinkling with impish obstinacy, his gimlet eyes hardening into implacable slits.

Obi Wan closed his eyes, feeling vexation shift inexplicably to heartache, to a barely healed exhaustion lingering too close to the surface. Perhaps he wasn't fit to make decisions after all. But that had been his point. It was irksome to have the fact turned back against him.

"Tired you are," Yoda observed, not unkindly. "Too much, have you shouldered lately."

"I don't think -"

"Yes!" Yoda did not like being contradicted by anyone less than a tenth of his own age. "Zygerria. Hardeen. This last mission. Too much, even for Jedi. Rash, the Council has been. Rash, you have been."

He stared. "The war hardly permits us the luxury of caution, master. Or of conscience."

Yoda sighed heavily. "Know this I do. Trust it I do not. The war itself...problematic it is. Into lies and deception has it led us. Young Skywalker: his accusation not without truth, is."

"His accusation?"

"Hmmmph. Accused Council of failing morals, he did. Censured he was for interfering in your mission. Too emotional the boy is. Unpredictable."

Except Anakin was all too predictable. But he couldn't say that to Yoda. Not now, not when his control was so compromised. "Then we must strive to prove that accusation unfounded." It was their only hope. If the Council could be seduced into shadow...it was the end. "And...may I suggest...Anakin and I should be assigned as a team, from now on - so far as possible. For many reasons."

The ancient Jedi nodded solemnly. "Understand I do. Discuss it the Council will, when fully recovered you are." A tap of the cane emphasized this last statement.

"Yes, master."

Yoda harrumphed one last time. "Better," he grunted. "And in the meantime, speak with Skywalker you must. Dangerous, his distrust is. Make amends you must, Obi Wan."

Anakin watched the sparring match with unbecoming envy. Or jealousy. Or both. It should be him, and not Mace Windu, trouncing an entire class of senior Padawans, cutting them all down in one continuous blaze of light as he moved fluidly across the dojo floor. It should be him, and not Mace, who earned the admiring stare on Ahsoka Tano's face and the approving nods and murmurs of the other masters gathered in the observation balcony across the way. It should be him -

A hand settled upon his shoulder and he nearly jumped. "Master."

Obi Wan still looked pale, a bit drawn and tired. And rough around the edges. His beard had finally begun to grow back in, a scruff of auburn and alarming, uninvited grey along his jawline. Vokara Che had grown weary of her irritable and restless patient and released - or inflicted - him upon the Temple at large, though with a strident warning that he was still officially under medical supervision.

"I sense an inappropriate lust for savage combat in you, Anakin."

He wasn't in the mood for jesting. "Kriff off."

The Force tightened between them. "You're angry."

"Yeah. Spare me the lecture. I'm angry, and you're a lying hypocrite. You fake your own death, you consort with scum, you protect foul murderers and lie to your own best friend. You're a model Jedi, Obi Wan."

He could feel every nuance of pain this accusation inflcited - and it felt good. Obi Wan moved to stand beside him, gripped the railing until his knuckles were white.

"I don't wish to lecture you. I wish to...apologize."

Damn it, Obi Wan never made things easy. Anakin shifted, clinging to his anger. He had a right to be angry; Obi Wan should not cheat him out of it like this.

"Do you remember anything about that last night at Lenn's apartment?" he demanded.

"No." The older mans' eyes met his, an unfamiliar vulnerability in their depths. "Do I want to?"

"No," Anakin decided. It was better that way. He wished he could forget. "I broke your rib. You attacked me. It was ugly."

"Yes...we've made a habit of that lately." Obi Wan pretended to be absorbed in the display of technical skill below. "Anakin, I'm sorry. About Hardeen. And this mission. There is little more I can say. And nothing I can do to change what has transpired."

That was it? "What about the Council?" he hissed. "Are they sorry too? For using me? For using you?"

Obi Wan shook his head. "Anakin...I tried to resign from the Council. But they refused to allow it."

"What?" That was the stupidest thing obi Wan had ever said or done. He must really, really be tired. Not himself. Anakin gaped and studied his friend closely, feeling the stress points threading through his Firce signature, the thousandfold faultlines in the mask of calm. He waited.

Silence. Obi Wan was trying to tell him something, something important, something personal. Anakin didn't understand it at all. But he recognized the gesture. His anger coiled back, into the dark places in his soul, leaving aching scars behind. He shook his head, confused.

"And I have requested that we be assigned as a team, from now on."

"What about Ahsoka?" The question covered his momentary shock.

"She'll have to endure our company."

They grinned, the first genuine flare of shared pleasure in a long, long time. A small tendril of hope uncoiled somewhere in the Force. Anakin's wrath subsided, gentled into old well-worn channels, paths smoothed by time and custom. "Just don't do any deathsticks in front of her. You're a bad influence on the younger generation."

"Yes, well."

"And you can't afford to lose any more years off your expected life span. You're getting old fast."

"That, my young friend, has nothing to do with deathsticks. That's all your fault."

Anakin grinned, even wider. It was possible that he did know who his true friends were, after all. And the Chancellor had said to hold fast to those people. He glanced sideways, watched Obi Wan critically and detachedly watching the swordplay below, watched the other masters in the opposite balcony watch him and Obi Wan together. He reached out, gripped his friend's arm in a quick, ferocious gesture of affection, and maybe half-forgiveness, and held fast to what he knew, even in this endless vale of shadows.

Obi Wan had told him to stay. He could do that.

For now.