After Apsolon

The pattern in the marble inlaid floor is not as complex as it first appears. There are three concentric circles, representing the individual, the Order, and the Republic. Inside the outer two, a repeating floral motif breaks the band of color into a measured rhythm. One is a stylized representation of the winged flame, the other a flowering ixilla bush, two ideoglyphs suffused with a millenia of resonant meanings. The inner circle, representing the Jedi's heart, is devoid of decoration or pattern, for it is the realm of unity, the manifestation of the center which is everywhere and nowhere. The fading sunlight plays elegantly across the polished stone, ageless natural beauty unhindered by the subtle architecture of sentient design.

The sunlight is part of the artwork, for it is meant to represent the Force. He knows this because Madame Nu once revealed this in a lecture, and he has a very good memory for schema and symbolism. He has an affinity for such things. His mind easily wanders out of the concrete, the present moment, as it is doing now. This is how it often is, even here: Qui Gon is the anchor, the deep rooted world-tree forever moored in the bedrock of the Force; while he is the cloud-scudded heaven, wheeling on its own axis, fretted with lightning storms and the bright constellations of possibility, its seeming dome forever open into infinity beyond. Sometimes he is dizzy with the sheer magnitude of the Light, and feels that his self is a fragile vessel which will shatter and melt into the overflowing plenum. He wonders what it must be like to be Qui Gon, to be strong in the Force.

He may never know. Qui Gon is no longer speaking to him, not in the ways that count. He has accepted this, because he has earned it through his mistakes and his weakness. He had the tall man's friendship for a brief time, and he still treasures its memory, though he knows he should not cling to the past. But he is aware that the present and the future do not contain this same warmth, and he is ready to face them, alone if need be. He only wishes that he could bring an equal measure of peace to his master's heart. But even that selfish desire must be released. It is not meant to be; he does not have even that humble ability, to give comfort. Maybe if he had paid less attention to the Code and to his saber katas and to his studies and to his own selfish desires, and paid more attention to all the pathetic life forms, then he might have learned how to effect this miracle of comfort. But it is too late now.

The mission report has ended. They are all looking at him. Is he supposed to make a statement? That would be highly irregular. He looks up at Qui Gon's face, but instead of a returned glance, one that is faintly sparkling with humor or encouragement, he sees only the chiseled leonine profile, looking straight ahead, through the transparisteel beyond. The endless streams of air traffic outside are more important than a Padawan, apparently. He accepts that he is less important than the pattern of traffic. Every individual is less than the whole; even the traffic outside is a greater and more worthy reflection of the Force than a single individual. He breathes out. To crave recognition is the shadow of greed. He knows this. He has repeated it to himself thousands of time., He repeats the mantra again, in his mind.

And he bows when Qui Gon bows, and he follows the master's rippling brown cloak to the door, like a shadow trailing its original.

In the lift, they are silent. In the broad chamber at the spire's base they are silent. In the concourse, overlooking the soaring central hall, they are silent. Shallow steps lie ahead.

"I am going to meditate," Qui Gon tells him at the foot of the wide staircase. "I am sure you have studies to complete."

"Yes, master." He bows, and watches the Jedi master ascend the stairs, two at a time. He has no studies to complete; he is a model of diligence, and they have not been back long enough for him to acquire new assignments, even to attend a single lecture. He accepts that his company is not needed, is not desirable, and he heads back to their shared quarters. It is late enough to sleep; and the mission was wearying. He should rest.

The ceiling of the small room is a blank white. In the darkness, it looks black, like everything else, but he knows it is white anyhow. The dark does not change the essence of anything; it merely veils the true nature until daybreak. He suspects there is profound meaning in this, but his mind is too tired to contemplate such profundities. He wants to sleep, but he cannot. He accepts this. He knows that fighting insomnia will not help. He knows that fighting grief will not help. He knows that fighting loneliness will not help. He accepts all these things, too. Exhale.

There are too blasted many things to accept in his life right now.

If he stays here, lying on the hard sleep mat, he is going to rebel and refuse to accept one, or more, of them. He rises, and pulls back on his tunics and belt, and then his boots. The clothing is slightly rumpled, and a bit stale. He shrugs into his robe, which will conceal the untidiness. Then he pulls the hood over his head, too. That will conceal the inner untidiness he is certain shows plainly on his face.

The lightsaber is the only thing which is not rumpled or weary. It is perfect and beautiful as ever. He remembers building it, as though that moment were yesterday. He grips the hilt reverently, places it at his side. The 'saber represents tradition. Even if an individual should fail, or be extinguished, the tradition will continue. The ideals of the Order, its accumulated wisdom, its high purpose, will remain. He cannot do much damage, not truly; this edifice of devotion and service is invulnerable to the petty failures of a single heart. The Order can easily withstand his failures, Qui Gon's grief, Tahl's death. In the Force, these three things are nothing.

In his world, in the present moment, they are like the three intertwined strands of his learner's braid, so heavy that it must surely bow his head to the floor with guilt.

The self is a treacherous companion. He goes to the dojo to do battle with it.

This late at night, the salles are empty, and he quickly finds a secluded practice room in which to work. The lighting is dim, automatically coming to quarter-power upon his arrival. He does not bother to change the setting; twilight seems fitting. Shadows lie thickly in the corners of the high-ceilinged space; his boots echo dully as he strides to the center. Inhale. The floor here is adorned with no decorative work; it is plain polished wood, scarred and marked by generations' worth of sparring matches, by all the places where a badly-judged strike scored a line across the boards. Laborious polishing and varnishing have rendered the scars almost beautiful. Now they are part of the wood's natural grain.

The kata he chooses is the most difficult he knows, one most Padawans his age have not yet learned. Its difficulty makes it dangerous without supervision. He considers carefully for a moment, breathing in the nighttime stillness. He sets the 'saber to half- power, not the lowest setting. The 'saber, like the Force, is to be respected. It is not a tool. It is an extension of self, the bright burning blade an expression of the inner heart. It can cut and burn the one wielding it. To be aware of this danger is to show proper respect for the gift, for the art, for the path. He understands these things, even when he feels there is little else he understands.

The dance is difficult. Demanding. He carves a sphere of blue fire about his body. One slip and he will injure himself. The consequence of failure is severe; the margin or error is narrow. He accepts this; he is Jedi. He moves faster, bringing the deadly blade closer to his body, sinking deep into the moment, into the rhythm, into the Force. Light sings within and without, and for a peerless moment there is no self, there is only perfection. He has never performed this kata so flawlessly, so effortlessly, so selflessly. This is what mastery feels like – nothing.

It is a strange revelation, a startling one. He slips, and the blue blade brushes too close to his leg on the downswing. The pain is so intense that he nearly drops his weapon. The dance ceases. His breath comes in a rasp. Perfection dissolves into failure. He almost utters a curse, one he would not dare to use in Qui Gon's presence. Then he remembers to accept the pain. He kneels down –exhale- and centers himself. Accept it. He has known since he was very small that his failures somehow bear a greater weight than others'; that for him, the stakes are even higher, the margin of error even more minute. It is a blessing that this mistake only results in his own pain, for surely every other mistake he has ever made, and every one he has yet to make, will wreak havoc on others. They have. They will. It is simply how things are. He tries to accept this, too, but the throbbing in his leg is quite distracting. Exhale.

It hurts a little too much. He is going to have to visit the healers. The curse actually slips between his gritted teeth. But there is no other choice; and so he rises with some difficulty and limps his way across the Temple, all the way to the healers' ward. His only consolation is the thought that he has taught self a harsh lesson, and that he might be spared its insistent whine and whimper for a short space of time.

The Force is with him: at such a late hour, nearly the wee hours of the morning, only one or two attendants are on duty, He is assigned to a droid, and follows it into the examination cubicle with a tiny sigh of relief. Droids are irksome, but not nearly as much as their sentient counterparts. He might be able to escape quickly. The droid prods gently at the blackened cloth of his trousers and then demands that the offending garment be removed. Dropping boots and pants to the floor, he obediently stretches out on the narrow medical couch and lets the thing scan and poke and whir and burble over his injury. He tries to ignore the sticky-sweet scent of bacta, the stinging discomfort as bandages are wrapped over the raw skin.

Somewhere nearby, a youngling is wailing. He hopes the poor creature is not seriously ill. After a while the crying fades to a sniffle and then stops. He recognizes another voice, the deep, gentle rumble of Ali Alaan, a beloved crèche-master. It has been a long, long time since he was under Ali's care…almost ten years. But tonight, for some reason, he finds the once familiar baritone soothing, a reminder of simpler times, of a world in which failure, death, and grief did not reign in triumvirate majesty. He swallows and cautiously sits up.

"Can I go now?"

The droid is busily entering information into a database, into a messaging system which will alert the supervising healer and Qui Gon about the proceedings here tonight. That will provoke its own kind of trouble, and necessitate awkward explanation. He pushes the thought away and opts to keep his mind on the present moment. The thick bandaging around his thigh makes getting dressed a challenge, but he manages it somehow and limps his way into the corridor.

Ali Alaan is there.

"Obi Wan! What are you doing here?" Master Ali is smaller than he used to be. But he is still enormous, every bit as tall as Qui Gon and even broader in the shoulders. His long hair is now more silver than black, though it used to be more black than silver. His eyes are still a deep brown and full of gentleness. The Force is warm and steady around him, like a hearthfire. Ali has not changed much. He has not been gutted by loss.

"A 'saber mishap," he grimaces. It is the truth.

"At this hour?" The crèche-master's thick eyebrows rise. "I thought by now you would have outgrown late-night accidents." It is meant to be funny, but humor belongs to that other time, before now. Neither of them laughs. "Where is Master Jinn?" The huge Jedi looks over his shoulder expectantly.

"He's…not here, master. I came alone. I should be going now." He needs Ali Alaan to move out of the way, to stop barricading his only exit route. It would be inexcusably rude to push past. And he does not want the crèche master to see how badly he is limping. He is in no mood for questions.

Master Ali folds his arms across his chest. He knew Tahl well; she loved the crechelings, especially after she was blinded. Perhaps he knew of her friendship with Qui Gon… Perhaps he, too, grieves for her loss. Perhaps he, too, blames Obi Wan for the delay which cost her life. But his eyes do not hold accusation in their depths, only concern. Perhaps he simply sees too much. He was always alarmingly perceptive.

"You're coming with me."

It is not a request, nor a command. It is simply a statement, and Obi Wan finds that he agrees. His leg hurts, and he regrets refusing the droid's offer of a painkiller. Jedi do not require such coddling, but it would be easier to think without the perpetual burning throb in his flesh. Inhale. He might as well go with Master Ali. He has nothing else to do, and the night is long. "Yes, master."

It takes them a long time to make their way back to the crèche, Ali cradling the sleeping infant in his strong arms, Obi Wan limping behind him, trailing one hand against the walls and hand railings for support. Master Ali makes no comment on this arrangement, and deliberately slows his pace to accommodate his young companion. The baby Togruta does not awaken. It is swaddled deep in the Force, protected from grief and guilt. By the time they reach the doors to the younglings' dormitories, it is past third chime.

Obi Wan waits in the darkened playroom while Ali Alaan settles the youngling back in its bed, alongside its companions. The room is smaller than it used to be, too. It is clean and tidy and simple. Nothing is out of place. The Force is serene here, unruffled and unsullied. This is a place of beginnings, of innocence.

The crèche-master takes many minutes to return. When he does he is bearing a cup of steaming tea in his hands. An herbal scent curls in the air, sharp and sweet. "Now," he says, settling his large frame upon the opposite end of the very low, cushioned bench. "Suppose you drink this without argument, and I will accept your nocturnal peregrinations without question or comment."

Master Ali is a fine diplomat, like most Jedi. The offer is difficult to refuse, the implied ultimatum delivered with consummate tact. Obi Wan accepts the cup with a shrug and downs the hot contents, noticing that peruma tea still tastes of mingled perfume and dirt. It slides into his empty belly, where regret has gnawed a small ulcerous lurking-place of its own, and warms his chest. Almost immediately, his eyelids are drooping, impossibly weighted.

Ali Alaan keeps his promise, and asks no questions. The crèche-master merely sits at the opposite end of the bench, and patiently waits for the tea to take its full effect. He sits there quietly, resting in the moment, until long-overdue sleep blurs his outline into a haze and the Force smoothes into welcome oblivion.

Obi Wan wakes far past his customary hour, squinting a little at his surroundings, which are familiar but no longer habitual. He neatly folds the blanket which has mysteriously appeared atop his person, and sets it at the edge of the bench. Ali Alaan will understand that he is grateful. The playroom is quiet; the younglings must already have left for their first lessons. Inhale. Exhale. There are no messages on his comlink. His clothing is badly disheveled now, in need of a wash. He draws a hand over his face, too. Grit is lodged in the corners of his eyes, and his mouth still tastes of perfume and stale dirt. Inhale.

At the day's beginning, he usually meditates. But the day is far past its beginning and he feels out of tune, like a singer who has started one beat after the rest of a choir. He is the master of unfortunate delays. He is always one step behind, one heartbeat from being in time . He wonders if this will always be his destiny and how many other deaths will follow because of the infinitesmal, measureless lag time between what should be and what is. Qui Gon has often told him not to brood first thing in the morning. He should heed that advice.

So instead of brooding, he turns himself upside down into a handstand and then balances on one hand. His right arm, his spine, his left leg make a perfect vertical line, a beam reaching heavenward like the white-blue glass pillar which is Tahl's permanent memorial marker on New Apsolon. Grief flows backward with his blood, leaving the cramped places in his muscles and rushing hot toward the ground, gravity pulling them both into new places, into tiny gaps yet undiscovered. The renewed circulation feels good, a vibrant tingling; the renewed grief not so much. He accepts it, but it is harder to accept upside down. He wonders why that is. Surely in the Force there is no-

"Hello."

This is a small voice, very near, greeting him. He opens his eyes and sees the inverted face of a tiny Seleucian, studying him intently with wide coral-colored eyes.

"Hello there."

The child giggles and carefully turns herself upside down too, in a wobbling imitation of his posture, only using both hands. Her thin pink fingers are splayed upon the floor, and her soft boots point precariously toward the ceiling, wavering badly. "Now I can see you. Why are you here? You are too big for the crèche."

"Maybe I am only four years old and I will be as large as a bantha when I am grown up."

She is far too worldly-wise to fall for such nonsense. "You are human," she snorts, her balance almost tipping. She regains it and studies him again, now that they can see each other properly. "Your braid touches the floor," she observed.

From this angle it does. It is like an anchor mooring a drifting ship to the sea's bottom, a thin lifeline to solidity and certainty. He smiles. "It's been growing for a while now."

"I don't have any hair. Someday I will make a braid out of beads. But I think I will make it very long so that it drags on the floor all the time. That would be pretty."

He is wobbling, slightly. Cautiously, he switches hands, shifting his center of balance over the new axis, straightening his spine. Exhale.

"Why are you here? Did you get lost?"

What an insightful child. But they all were. They were all Jedi, weren't they? The Force never gave them a chance to be cocooned in ignorance. Others have always been transparent to them, the world unveiled. He remembers thinking that the Temple was a massive labyrinth when he was her size; but he knows that she already speaks in double meanings, and has seen through him, as though he is indeed wrought of white-blue glass, a translucent column of grief. "Perhaps."

"I had to stay behind because my tummy hurts. Masser says I shouldn't eat anything this morning. The others are coming back from morning meal soon. We all tiptoed past you earlier. Ali Alaan said it was a game. Nobody woke you up."

"Hm." That was embarrassing; he should have sensed them. He flips back onto his feet, and she tries to imitate the neat somersault, ending up on her bottom with a hard thump. But she merely forces a small giggle. They are taught to make light of their own pain, even at a young age. It is an essential skill.

"Maybe I can help you find your way back," she offers. "I'll come with you."

He shakes his head. "No. You shouldn't come with me. You might get lost too."

"Hi-Ru!" a sonorous voice summons the youngling from the broad adjacent chamber.

"Oh. I have to go," she says, sadly.

They bow to each other and she scampers away. He decides to leave before the others return. Ali Alaan will understand.

The bacta has worked a miracle, as expected. Today he can walk on the burnt leg without pain, and for this he is grateful. If he avoids the salles, the incident may pass without undue fuss. His comlink finally chimes, but it is not Qui Gon inquiring after his whereabouts. It is merely the medical droid, requesting that he make a follow up visit at his first possible convenience. He hesitates, fractionally, but he does not believe in avoiding the unpleasant. With a sigh he changes direction. If the Force is with him, it will be nothing but a brief interview with the droid. And he has nothing else to do.

The Force is not with him. No sooner does he cross the threshold of the healers' wing than he is accosted by the intimidating duo of Qui Gon Jinn and senior healer Vokara Che. On the whole he would prefer to face Qui Gon's wrath than that of the elderly Twi'Lek, but he can sense immediately that this is not his day to have his wishes granted. Feeling a bit like a prisoner on the way to his execution – and yes, he is experienced enough to know exactly how that feels – he trails behind the elegant healer, Qui Gon pacing alongside him, hands folded into opposite sleeves, regal face still looking forward, not glancing down at his wayward apprentice. This is their way, now. And the memory of any other way seems as distant as the days he spent in the crèche.

Vokara Che decided to incarcerate them, all three together, in her private office. It is a muted blue, like her skin, and the air is sweet with the lingering ghost of incense. It is less sterile here than in the clinical parts outside, but there is nonetheless an oppressive sense of interference about the place. He takes a seat when told to do so, wonders why Vokara Che has chosen to settle beside him, her strong, age-spotted hands folded thoughtfully in her lap, her robes falling in crisp folds to the tiled floor. He is suddenly aware of what a disheveled appearance he presents, and suppresses a pang of annoyance. Qui Gon does not sit down, and for some reason this also annoys him. Perhaps he should have slept more last night, after all.

"I assume the burn on your leg is much improved," the healer begins, in her husky, accented voice. "MD34 is quite efficient."

"It's fine, master, thank you." Qui Gon stirs somewhere behind him.

Master Che's headtails twitch. "I wonder why you were practicing advanced kata at two in the morning. Unsupervised."

This is Qui Gon's role; not hers. He tamps down another flare of impatience. "It won't happen again, master." And it likely won't. He is not stupid; he can easily divine the problematic nature of his decision, and has already made a resolution not to indulge himself in the same way again.

The healer's amber eyes travel over his head and meet Qui Gon's. "I should hope not," she says briskly. "Self-endangering behavior is worrisome, Padawan. It indicates a serious imbalance in the mind or the emotions. Master Jinn tells me that he has no idea what the source of this imbalance might be."

He slews round, pinning Qui Gon with his outrage. "With respect, master, this is a strange way to start a conversation!"

The tall man's mouth thins, though his blue eyes remain weighted with grief, unmoved by his Padawans' vehemence. "Nearly cutting your leg off in the middle of the night is a strange way to beg for attention," he replies, in that infuriatingly detached way he has.

He is on his feet in the next second. To be ignored, to be blamed: these he can accept. He has accepted already. But to be deliberately misunderstood? He is not a Jedi yet. He has his limits, and this is one of them. Death, grief, guilt. These three things weave a net in the Force, a snare so complete that they are both caught in it, thrashing vainly for release. He is not ready to stop struggling yet. A heat temptingly close to anger rises within him. He will take all the blame, if need be. But he will not be called a whining child. Not by this man. Not by anyone. He has buried his childhood, long ago. He buried it once on Bandomeer. And then on Melida/Daan. And a third time on New Apsolon. He is a man and it is his own business if he wishes to cut off his own blasted leg, and his arms, too, and burn out his aching heart in the process. It is between himself and the Force, and Qui Gon – who stood by the funeral pyre of his innocence each time, without weeping– will not forget this fact, not fail to acknowledge it.

Vokara Che's wise eyes narrow in comprehension and her lips curve in a small, sad, smile. But she is a warrior bred and born, although she professes to heal. " I will give you two some privacy," she declares, shutting the door behind her.

Now they are locked in this small arena together. One or both or them could simply walk away. But neither of them is a coward. "With respect, master –"

"I do not want your respect, Obi Wan. I want your honesty. What is this about?"

His honesty? Qui Gon Jinn is a great man, and a great Jedi. His heart is large enough to encompass every last one of the universe's most pathetic life forms, yet he has doubted his own apprentice's loyalty and worthiness twice. Now, three times. That infinite compassion has its limits, too. They are a mismatched set, this teacher and this student, an uneasy alliance. He will never understand why. And he doubts that the revered master, whom he loves despite all of this, really wants his honesty.

But, by the Force, he is about to get it.

"What is this about?" He will not spare his master the cutting edge of a wit honed by years of respect, by the whetting stone of discipline. "You have claimed the right to grieve Tahl in your own manner. I claim the right to accept responsibility for her death in my own manner. You will forgive me if I interpreted your indifference as permission."

Qui Gon, who is invulnerable and strong beyond imagining, is hurting. It bleeds into his tired voice. "It is not your fault, Padawan. It was the will of the Force."

"You always say that." The platitude went up in smoke and fluttering ash, along withTahl's body. He saw that for himself, when he watched his master stand by the pyre, again without weeping.

Qui Gon exhales, slowly. The faintest gleam of humor suffuses the Force. "Because it is always true," he says.

"Then let me accept that the Force used me to kill another Jedi and to… offend my own master," he growls. "You wish to be alone. I understand that. Grant me the same courtesy."

Now they are both hurting, although neither one of them shed a tear at the funeral, as fire consumed gross matter, reminding them that only the luminous truth endures or even matters. If they can find deep enough acceptance, they will never have to speak to one another again. There will only be the will of the Force, and the helplessness of its servants to prevent suffering.

Qui Gon looks through him, just as he looked through the dancing flames then. "Is that what you truly want?" he asks, heavily.

Honesty. "No. But I have accepted that it must be."

Because that is what a Jedi does. He accepts. His own wishes, his own longing, these mean nothing. They mean nothing to the Force, either, for it uses its devoted Knights as callously as though they did not exist but were merely ephemeral extensions of itself, every life a brief exhalation of Light, a beat between the next. The Force claimed Tahl's sight, and then her life, and then Qui Gon's heart and soul. It claimed Obi Wan for its unwitting pawn, wounding him in the body, so that Tahl might die, and then leaving him to gasp out the remainder of his allotted exhalation in confusion and dismay. This was its will. And the trembling mortals who breathed Light rather than air chose again, and again, to accept it. He looks at Qui Gon , and wishes – just for a moment- that he had a master who could explain to him why and how this vision is wrong, and who could give comfort. Because although he is trying, he is not a Jedi yet. Not fully. And his heart still rebels sometimes.

Qui Gon reaches out a hand, slowly, and grasps his student's shoulder. Obi Wan almost flinches. His master has not touched him – looked at him – spoken to him – since New Apsolon. The renewed contact is almost painful. "I think perhaps you should be defiant, just a little, my Padawan. I would prefer that you remain by my side."

This is even more difficult to accept. Everything which has transpired between then and now seems to contradict this statement. The howling guilt in his own heart screams a guttural denial of this statement. All his years of training urge him to quash the stirring of his own desires and accept the raw truth, relinquish attachment, admit that he has failed and that he deserves to live out the remainder of his days in exile. But Qui Gon is, as always, recommending defiance.

And maybe, in Qui Gon's face, he sees the promise of a future correction. And maybe he sees the possibility that he, as inept as he is at such things, might be able to give some comfort to his master. He could reach out for these possibilities, rather than accepting what he thinks he knows. It is possible that he is accepting only his own limited perspective, his own point of view. Perhaps what he has been calling acceptance is only despair in disguise. In which case he should not be so accepting. Perhaps this is what wisdom feels like: sweet defiance.

He swallows. There are simply too many things to accept all at once. He welcomes the chance to rebel… just a little. "Yes, master," he says, and the words are like the deepest exhalation, like the sigh of the Force itself. He steps closer.

Qui Gon looks at him. The tall man still grieves Tahl. He still aches for vengeance, perhaps. He still harbors resentment against his Padawan for delaying the desperate race to save his friend before it was too late. He still hurts, he still heals. They both do. But it is possible to do these things together. They can accept that this is the will of the Force, that they must move forward together, hearts aching and heads held high, defiantly. Despair will not claim them, for they will never accept it.

So this is what they do, master and Padawan, as they leave the healer's wing, side by side, their footfalls falling in soft cadence upon the beautiful cold marble of the floor, upon its irrefutable carved lines, the predestined pattern inlaid in the hard stone. They tread this path solemnly, without complaint. And the golden sunlight plays over their path, and over their grave faces, and warms the air between them with ever-moving, malleable radiance, with gentle hope.