Before the Throne

Chapter 10

A Jedi shall know not anger. Nor hatred. Nor love.

Qui Gon Jinn peered out the ship's viewport one last time. Docked high above the city's expanse, ready to depart from a high exit in the dome, the craft afforded him a view of the partially ruined capitol, and of the mighty half-sphere that sheltered all beneath its generous curve. There, below him, the people of Mandalore began the hard work of rebuilding their world. The Duchess had already been formally reinvested in her office, and had spent the last days establishing a temporary government, emergency services, new protocols. Qui Gon had seen her but little in this time, but had advised the newly restored Parliament as best he could. The planet was taking its first tottering steps on the path to peace. It was time for the Jedi to depart.

Or at least, for one of them to depart. The tall master sighed and gripped the back of the pilot's seat. The ship was on standby, all systems primed and ready. A gift of the Mandalorian government, it was the most elegant, well maintained vehicle he had seen in well over a year – a desperate year of running, hiding, and fighting. It was a fitting way to make a tired but triumphant return to the Temple. He did not relish the prospect of compiling a mission report spanning the events of fifteen months…but such details faded to inconsequence in light of the true difficulty.

He would return without a Padawan in tow.

He had seen little of Obi Wan in the past days, either. The young Jedi had proved marvelously adept at evasion, and uncharacteristically reclusive when he set his mind to it. The medics had done a serviceable job with his wound; he had seemed to obey their injunction to rest and recuperate with a diligence never before displayed in the Temple's healing ward, or anywhere else in the galaxy. Qui Gon was not fooled; he knew that the long days had been spent in meditation, and an extended agony of decision.

He only hoped that Obi Wan would do him the courtesy – would show enough affection and gratitude – to bid him farewell in person. It was all he hoped for. The conclusion was foregone. He had seen the indomitable sway the Duchess held over his student, had felt the forbidden bonds which united the two young people, the deadly and invisible wounds for which there was no cure but worse pain. He knew; he had been touched by it himself, once. He did not wish it upon any other living being.

He had known that the Force intended a trial. He had known what was at stake. But now, faced with his lonely departure, he found it hard to grasp the reality. He had now lost three Padawans: one to death, on to the Dark side, and one to love. If he was honest, he would admit to himself that Obi Wan, his latest and most troublesome student, his most talented, most self-doubting, most impudent, most charming student, had after all been his favorite. And he was perhaps glad that the kindest fate had fallen to the young man's lot. There were more terrible destinies, he reasoned….and yet the Force seemed to ring with a hollow sense of waste, of shame.

What had he done wrong?

Or had it been out of his hands from the very beginning, the very moment they had walked into the throne room fifteen months ago, when Satine and his Padawan had first laid eyes upon each other? He might never know. All that he had was the present moment…and in this moment, he waited to say good-bye. He would not allow himself to think beyond that.

Obi Wan Kenobi did not understand. He was supposed to be dead. And yet, he was not. The knew that he would lay his life down here, on Mandalore, and yet he had not. Was the event in the future, even now? Even at the end of the mission? Even when peace had been at long last established, a dream realized, a new beginning already under way, even before the first story was properly concluded?

He felt…cheated. But that was unworthy. The Force owed him nothing. And now it seemed to have abandoned him utterly. For three days he had tried to meditate, to achieve some measure of peace, to seek counsel from the light. To find peace, and wisdom, and some answers, to guide him on his way. He was met with a wall of blank silence. He was on his own, left abandoned to make his own choice.

And yet he knew that the Force still surrounded him. Waiting.

He gathered the folds of his borrowed cloak about his shoulders for the last time, and rose. Qui Gon would leave within the hour. He must decide his own fate, for the Force offered him no help. Perhaps that in itself was an abundant sign. He went to find the Duchess.

She was in her private garden, wandering the overgrown path that wended among the shattered statuary and the ruined fountains. She hoped to restore it to its former beauty, someday, when time allowed. It symbolized the planet and her people, a living testament ot the fragility and resilience of life. She saw him coming and paused, beside the empty basin of the central fountain.

He silently wound his way through the crumbling hedge labyrinth, to its very center.

They did not speak; and still the Force said nothing. Satine held out a hand, and he grasped the delicate fingers, raised them formally to his lips. The silence between them grew, multiplied, pooled. Memory stirred, and fluttered in the silent Force. And still there was no answer, no sign, no guidance. He sighed. He must choose.

"Master Jinn is prepared to depart," Satine informed him, though he already knew this. "The dust storm had finally passed. Flight conditions are excellent."

He drowned in her eyes again. He sank helpless into the depths, obedient to her whim. They were one thing. Their hearts, their minds, their bodies were one thing. All that remained to seal their unity, to compact their life into an everlasting alliance, come what may, was the unsaid. A simple act of will, of conscience, of spoken admission, and they would be bound forever, even unto death.

They said nothing.

Silently, he prayed for her to say the word. Would she but utter the damning phrase, he would yield utterly, kneel before her, surrender and be undone, pour out his life, sever his braid, relinquish his saber, and commit himself her service, to her dream of peace.

Say the word.

But she did not. Her eyes held his, and in their empyrean depths he saw her hesitate, mercy welling in her heart. For she knew it would kill him; and she could not strike the final blow.

Kill me, he begged. Say the word.

She said nothing. She would not take his life. She could not, for she ….she …he could not say it, either, not on her behalf, Not on his own. She would not make the choice for him, It was his to make; his trial; his death.

At that moment the Force broke its long vow of silence and spilled over the edge of awareness, unfurling a vision before his trembling senses, illumining the scene. It showed him two paths, two futures. On one hand, he saw Satine, and Mandalore restored. He saw a throne room, and loyal men, and great deeds, and long struggle, and great joy. And small children, some with white hair, some with chestnut. And laughter echoed along this path, and contentment, and warmth, and joy, and fulfillment. It beckoned, and called, and sang within the Force, a bright promise.

And on the other hand, along the other branch of a crossroads, he saw warfare, and destruction, and betrayal, and exile, and sorrow, and loneliness, and loss, and grief. And crushing burdens, and pain, and regret, and endless endless striving, and temptation and exhaustion. It loomed darkly, cold and unremitting. And the Force burned within the heart of this nightmare, gently commanding, but promising nothing.

He understood at last. His belly clenched; his breath stopped. He was to die here after all. By his own hand. The choice was his. Satine watched him, motionless.

He did it for the Force. He did it for the Light. He laid his very life down.

Heart shattering to barbed fragments, to bleeding dust, he bowed. "Farewell, Duchess."

Satine sank in a small curtsey, color leaving her face, and life leaving her as swiftly as it fled his own soul. He died, and she died with him, their pain mingling and pooling in the empty basin, the unsaid still echoing between them.

"Farewell, Obi Wan Kenobi."

And that was all they said. He walked away, not daring to turn, to listen, to reach through the Force toward the woman who had been, for the briefest of eternities, his other half.

He did not look back.

Satine Kryze did not weep.

She was the ruler of Mandalore, of a new people, a new world. She bore the weight of her race upon her shoulders, was charged with the burden of leadership. She was the heir of conquerors, the scion of a long line of noblemen. She was Satine Kryze of Kalevala, a queen, an empress, Duchess by title, absolute monarch by the will of her people. She did not weep.

She retired instead to her private chamber and laid her soul, her heart, her identity beyond the rigid confines of duty and birth, to rest upon its pyre. Let her never again be Satine, a woman, an individual. Let her simply be the Duchess, be Mandalore. She set the pyre aflame with her resolution. Let her deeds be her only children, her planet her only progeny. Let peace be her only love, her only lover.

She needed no other. Her other was dead.

The pyre burned, and in the clear consuming flames she saw a new vision. The capital would be restored, in transparent crystal. Let it be a city of light. Let there be no shadows within its walls, for only in her breast, where her heart had once been, would shadow fall. And that too could be purged away, the memory cleansed, the wound left behind by that bright blue saber, those bright blue eyes, utterly healed and forgotten. Mandalore would prosper. She would give her whole life to it, be wedded to this one purpose, until she died. And then her body would but rejoin her soul.

When the pyre had burned out, and the flames cooled, she left her heart in ashes and rose.

She returned to duty, and to the throne.

She did not weep.

Qui Gon startled when the ship's hatch opened and a lone figure ascended the ramp, stopping in the small passenger compartment behind the cockpit. He clenched his fingers into a fist, lest their trembling betray him. It was time to say farewell.

"Obi Wan." He looked at his Padawan…or former Padawan, eyes traveling over the stained and worn clothing, the saber still hanging at the young man;s belt, the long braid still trailing behind one ear, over his shoulder, down to his waist. He wanted to remember this picture, a single moment from a present that was soon to shatter and dissolve into the past. When Obi Wan said nothing in reply, he looked up into a haggard face, into eyes that were soft, liquid with pain.

Qui Gon suppressed all emotion. Let this be brief and to the point. "I must leave," he said. "I have delayed long enough."

"Yes, master." Obi Wan's voice was dull, carefully contained.

The tall man waited another moment. "Well?" he said, impatience getting the batter of him. Strike the blow and have done with it.

"I'm ready, master." Obi Wan sat down on the narrow bench. No – he sank down, as though weak-kneed. He looked a little pale.

Qui Gon blinked, The Force nudged at him. Old fool.

"Obi Wan?"

The young Jedi looked up at him again, as though dazed. "I'm ready to depart, master. For Coruscant."

Now it was Qui Gon's turn to feel dazed. What? He sat down beside the Padawan, his mind sluggishly coming to grips with the sudden reversal, the unexpected turnabout. He still had much to learn about Obi Wan Kenobi, it would seem.

"The Duchess…" he began.

"I have said farewell to her ladyship," Obi Wan answered, with perfect poise. Inhuman, calm control. Absolute flawless reserve.

Qui Gon regarded him closely, a great upswelling of gratitude to the Force, of relief, of joy, threatening to overwhelm him. It was followed by an even greater swell of pity. Oh, my dear sweet boy.

The trial had been passed. The test had been severe, merciless. The sacrifice had been made, and had exacted its price in pain, in sorrow, in what would be life-long regret. Qui Gon understood, and saw clearly the outcome. Beside him sat not his Padawan, not the stranger he had encountered on Mandalore, but a new person, forged from both. Beside him, slumped a little, disheveled, unshaven, weary, at a loss for words, sat a truly great Jedi. A magnificent Jedi.

Qui Gon had to search for his voice. Eventually he found it. "Padawan," he began again, marveling anew at the Force's ruthlessness, at its depth and profundity, at its power.

The young man interrupted him. "I strayed," he said. "And you said I would find the path again." He paused, looking at his hands. "I did, master." He looked up at Qui Gon, that flawless control still holding firm. "It was difficult."

The Jedi master reached up, took the tip of the learner's braid between his fingers. "There is much I cannot include in the Council report," he replied. He waited for the words, and their implied promise, to sink in. "But I wish you to know, young one, that in my eyes, in some ways, you have earned your knighthood today."

The words nearly cracked the Padawan's reserve, but after a moment's struggle he manged a very grave nod. "Thank you, master. I am sorry….to have made so much trouble. I –"

"No more," Qui Gon warned him. He rose and made final adjustments to the flight computer, set the system to full automatic. They lifted off, cleared the dome, rose into the atmosphere. After a while, Qui Gon returned to the rear compartment.

They were going home. The mission was complete. They would move onward together. There was nothing more to say. And yet there was. .

Qui Gon leaned forward, wrapping his arms about his student in a sudden and fiercely protective embrace. Surprised, grateful, too shocked to object, Obi Wan pressed close against him. His breath hitched. Qui Gon tightened his grip. And he held his Padawan, his friend, his son, firm in the Light of an age-old tradition, safe in the boundless compassion of the Living Force, as the young man sobbed his broken heart out.

They never spoke of her again.

FINIS