Chapter Text
“So,” said Mace Windu, his eyes boring through the hologram transmission as surely as though he were standing in front of them, “explain it to me once more.”
Obi-Wan Kenobi had stood before the Jedi Council many times in his life – as a padawan and a knight both, alone and as part of a unit. Despite the intervening years of his knighthood, the vast majority of those times had still been with Qui-Gon by his side, though in those days Qui-Gon had taken the lead on reporting. He had shared bad news and mission failures. But somehow, never before had he felt as though so much were riding on this report – so much for him personally, so much for the galaxy as a whole.
Perhaps because his reports had never had such vast implications before – or such personal ones.
“We were led into a trap, masters,” he said – again, trying to quell his impatience at the need for repetition. Having so recently experienced the situation did little for his ability to report it dispassionately. “Both of us, through different channels and different means. You know the call that came to the Jedi; Qui-Gon received a distress call that was nearly a mirror image of our own, and when we arrived we were met by the same person.”
“The Senate aide to Gydumir,” interrupted Qui-Gon. “Pranay Tyrnith. Easy enough to look into, though we suspect that he too was being set up for a fall.”
Tyrnith, who had disappeared after dropping Qui-Gon off after the factory where they had both been meant to be locked away, set drifting in the ocean, with no certainty when or if they would be recovered – or what would happen to them if they were. Who had, Obi-Wan now suspected, been the mere instrument of a much larger plot meant to take down Qui-Gon’s operation – and him along with it.
It was not the first or the greatest shock Obi-Wan had received in the last few months – nothing could have compared to learning that Qui-Gon had been accused of murder and treason throughout the Republic – but still it was a clue to the potential depth of the corruption, the path to investigate.
If the Jedi Council would be willing to investigate it at all.
“I was asking for Knight Kenobi’s report, Qui-Gon,” said Master Windu. “I will ask for yours if I want it.”
Beside him, Qui-Gon did not react. For his part, Obi-Wan nearly started at the heat that flashed through his own head at those words – a sudden, startling surge of irritation. The Council had never spoken to Qui-Gon like this before, however frustrated they had been with him. Was this what his departure from the Jedi got him? Was this proof that they were not being listened to?
It would not do to show that emotion, so he controlled his reaction and continued. “Well, I can corroborate his word: Tyrnith was the person who met me. I was led to a factory, where I followed the hallways to a central room. As soon as Qui-Gon entered the room with me, it was sealed behind us and we were imprisoned together.”
Imprisoned together. Two words which felt so small in comparison to the magnitude of what had happened to them. Imprisoned – such a simple word to encapsulate the moment Obi-Wan had found himself sinking in a box whose openings and closings he could not find, drifting deeper and deeper beneath the tides of a water planet he had never visited before, with no idea how to break free. And together – so small in the face of the vast togetherness Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had managed to find in that tiny underwater prison, the massive shift in closeness and relationship that they had finally allowed between them. So small in the face of Obi-Wan’s own revelation, the realization that together was what he wanted with Qui-Gon, now and always in the future – that that truth had somehow become more important than the other ties that even now hung in the balance.
“Together,” said Master Windu, echoing the word as if he could somehow see the depths that lay beneath it. “And how did you manage to escape?”
“Does that matter at this moment?” Qui-Gon said from beside Obi-Wan. “Right now, is that truly important?”
The edge in his voice set Obi-Wan’s own nerves flaring to life. Yes, Qui-Gon had reason to feel annoyed and betrayed by the Jedi Council. They had complied with Republic belief that he had murdered Jedi; they had not worked to clear his name; even now Master Windu had addressed him with that quelling disinterest. But still – could he not tone back his irritation for just long enough to make this report?
And yet, Obi-Wan had to admit that he had a point. The Council was bound to scrutiny, but in this moment, there were more important things to be concerned about.
“Qui-Gon’s companions rescued us, Master,” he said. “But I believe he is right – the implications of this plot are serious: for us and for the Republic as a whole. We must discuss what it means about the Republic if someone else could so easily accuse Qui-Gon of an atrocity he could not have committed.”
“Hmm.” It was Yoda who spoke now, inscrutable as ever. Even if they had been in the same room, Obi-Wan would never have been able to sense anything Yoda wished to conceal from him – but the distance felt even greater now, separated by light-years and the patchiness of their communications. “Confer we must, Knight Kenobi. A recess we will take. Return to you we will, and our judgment you will await.”
“As always,” Qui-Gon murmured, but there was no indication that the masters had heard him before they flickered out of sight.
Obi-Wan took a breath, a moment, as Qui-Gon had always urged him to do in times of great unsteadiness. Centered himself on what he knew in the moment: the slight pliancy of the pilot’s chair beneath him; the tangled spikes of his hair as it began to dry stiffly against his forehead; the sure, steady pressure of Qui-Gon’s hand in his own. The certainty in that centering touch, bedrock beneath the uncertainty of what might be happening on the other side of their conversation, lightyears away.
And yet – “Why do they need to confer?” he found himself saying. “What do they have to say to one another that can’t be said to us?”
“The Council is not wont to share its judgments until they have been passed down,” murmured Qui-Gon. “And what we’ve brought them threatens everything about the foundation of the Jedi Order – if they’re willing to take it seriously.”
“They must,” said Obi-Wan, though his stomach still twisted with unease. He had never doubted the Order the way Qui-Gon had; this uncertainty was still new and discomfiting to him, like an unbroken-in pair of boots. It was automatic to him to refute Qui-Gon’s uncertainty; the fact that now it was echoed in him made him feel as though he were teetering on the edge of a high-up ledge – or back in that box again, sinking to terrifying depths. “They have to.”
Qui-Gon said nothing, but his grip tightened on Obi-Wan’s hand.
By the time the hologram flickered to life once more before them, Obi-Wan’s fingers were verging on numbness. Was this how Qui-Gon had always felt before the Council? – this tension radiating through his body, extending now into Obi-Wan’s as well? Had he simply shielded it from Obi-Wan in all those presentations they had given before, when Qui-Gon had seemed the picture of obstinate confidence? Or was it different now – different because the stakes were not only so high but also so personal?
Whatever the reason, he pressed Qui-Gon’s hand back. He had been shaken, yes, but not to his core: not at that burning brand of certainty at the center of him. The sight of Qui-Gon’s rumpled hair and the feeling of his hand bleeding heat into Obi-Wan’s own were only heralds of that conviction he still clutched to his chest like a tenet of his own Code: that knowledge that he belonged at Qui-Gon’s side. He understood now how Qui-Gon felt when he held to the Force above all else; so rarely had Obi-Wan felt that click of rightness within himself, the deep certainty driven not by adherence to a set of protocols and rules, but by something else, something internal.
That that feeling had come from a kiss, a touch, an awareness of attachment – that must be a matter for meditation later. In the moment, it was not enough to make him doubt.
“We have considered your words, Qui-Gon, Knight Kenobi,” said Mace Windu, his voice as hard and impassive as ever, betraying nothing. Their entwined hands were below the level of the comm, below where Master Windu should have been able to see, but did Obi-Wan imagine that his eyes flicked down in that direction anyway? A lump formed in his chest, sinking slowly into his stomach.
“And?” said Qui-Gon. “Are they more convincing than the argument that I might have turned to murder in absence of a strict code to guide my actions?”
Obi-Wan’s head jerked around at the bitterness in Qui-Gon’s words. He had rarely heard such a tone from Qui-Gon – but then, perhaps it was only to be understood. Serenity could only take Qui-Gon so far, and in the face of such an injustice –
Mace Windu’s voice softened not an iota. “We will see when you come to present your arguments directly to all of us,” he said. His gaze turned towards Obi-Wan, those dark eyes seeming to bore into his soul even through the blue of the hologram. “You are recalled, Knight Kenobi. Effective immediately. Bring Qui-Gon with you if you can, but do not put yourself at risk.”
Recalled. The same thing that had happened to Quinlan before he had left the Order – a mission interrupted, rather than completed, due to a Jedi’s lack of fitness to complete the task. The implication that the mission had not, in fact, been a ploy, but that Obi-Wan had been unable to complete it.
Perhaps compromised by Qui-Gon’s presence? An indication of distrust? Or the idea that Qui-Gon’s return to the Order must take precedence over the mission that Obi-Wan knew to be false?
Qui-Gon’s return to the Order – his return to Coruscant, to the Republic. Before, when the Council had asked Obi-Wan for information, they had indicated that they only wanted to talk, to hear him present his arguments on his own terms. Qui-Gon had been suspicious of them, and rightly so.
“And what awaits me upon this return?” asked Qui-Gon quietly beside him. “A reprimand from the Council? A trial before a compromised Senate?”
“That will be for the Council to determine,” said Master Windu. “You have your instructions, Knight Kenobi.”
“Mace!” burst from Qui-Gon’s lips. Obi-Wan’s eyes flew wide in alarm, but Qui-Gon had lurched forward as if to reach through the hologram and grasp Mace Windu personally by the shoulders. “You must see that this is a sham! You know Obi-Wan is too competent to easily be fooled! You know me!”
“I thought I did,” said Master Windu coldly. “And I may learn more yet, if you will condescend to come back and submit yourself for judgment. Our patience runs thin.” He switched his stare to Obi-Wan again, drilling him with his eyes. “Do what you must, Knight Kenobi.”
What you must.
Obi-Wan could guess what Mace Windu might have meant by those words. They hit him each like a rock to the gut, splashing down into the cold pool of his own disillusionment.
“I understand,” he said, striving for the coolness Qui-Gon had taught him – the detachment that Qui-Gon himself seemed to have utterly given up. “I will. Kenobi out.”
He stabbed the button to end the call before Mace could speak again.
This was . . . it. Obi-Wan had known that he stood on a precipice before he’d made that call, but perhaps he had not truly understood what it would mean. Had not understood that this was a point of no return for him, that whatever choice he made, it would be a choice for good. Had not understood that the choice would be forced by the Order rather than by Qui-Gon.
“Obi-Wan” –
Qui-Gon’s voice. For all their closeness, Obi-Wan could barely hear it over the blood throbbing in his ears, a sick pulsing sensation that made him wonder if he was somehow on the verge of flying to pieces.
Or perhaps he was more whole than he had ever been before.
Qui-Gon was staring at him, desolation and apology in his eyes. Apology for something he had not done. Apology for the choice Obi-Wan had been driven to? Apology for the Order he had trained Obi-Wan for half his life to be part of? Or was that an edge of wariness, apology for the break he feared was coming between them?
The world spun: wobbled on its axis and whirled around him. When it settled, the whole galaxy seemed to have reoriented itself in the sight of Qui-Gon before him: the naked emotion in his eyes, the conviction that had not gone from him, the knowledge that he would give himself in service to its protection – and that the Jedi Order now was failing it. Was failing the galaxy just as it had failed Qui-Gon, was failing Obi-Wan now.
Obi-Wan seized Qui-Gon’s face in his hands and kissed him.
Hot, hard, and demanding – it was too soon, perhaps, for this kind of kiss between them, and again it was a new sensation for Obi-Wan. He had never kissed anyone with this much emotion behind it, with this need, the desperate clutching for something stable, something sure. Always before the Order had been Obi-Wan’s stability, the Code his certainty. With the ground now wrenched from beneath his feet, he grasped for Qui-Gon instead, for the reassuring weight of the bond that endured between them, orienting himself to the rightness that Qui-Gon found in defiance of the wrongness of whatever the Jedi were becoming.
Qui-Gon let out a tiny gasp against him, his lips parting slightly beneath Obi-Wan’s own, giving way to Obi-Wan’s desperate onslaught. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he sought to devour or to be devoured, to lean against Qui-Gon as a solid strength or to dissolve into this moment so that he never had to make the choice that waited on the other side – but –
But there was no time. He had promised Mace Windu that he would do what he must, and he meant to.
“Hackers,” he said. The word came out more as a gasp, half voice and half breath over the sound of gentle suction as he pulled away from Qui-Gon’s mouth.
The motion was abrupt enough that Qui-Gon jerked against him, lurching forward as though to chase the kiss before recovering himself. Adapting as quickly as ever to the demand of the moment, rising above his own desires – and they were his desires; Obi-Wan could not spare the thought to marvel at the wonder of that realization, not now, but still it was enough to make him tingle. “Hackers?” Qui-Gon echoed, blinking rapidly, the fingers of one hand coming to rest almost absently against his lips while the other brushed over the top of his head as if to smooth down the hopelessly tangled hair.
“Quinlan used to be good,” Obi-Wan forged ahead, his mind racing faster than his mouth could catch up, “and Rie, she’s from the Archives, right? Who do you have who can hack?”
“Rie knows the basics, yes,” said Qui-Gon, “and Quinlan some tricks beyond them. I don’t know about Anakin’s hacking abilities, but I would not be surprised if they are prodigious. But – why” –
“We need to decouple this ship’s transmitter from the Order’s frequencies,” said Obi-Wan, “and my commlink, and anything else you have that might be traceable by the Council or the Republic.” His heart ached at the words, at the knowledge of what this meant, but it was what the Order had taught him: what it meant to be a Jedi. He must detach himself from the emotional impact of his own words, at least for as long as it took to do what must be done.
Qui-Gon’s eyes sharpened on him, the flush fading from his cheeks as he too reoriented himself to duty, to necessity – or simply as he began to understand what Obi-Wan was saying. “We’ll meet the others in orbit,” he said. “Quinlan and Rie can board then, and they’ll take care of what needs to be done.” He laid a hand on the armrest of Obi-Wan’s seat, inches away from Obi-Wan’s own hand – an offer born of years of habit, of respecting the boundaries Obi-Wan had drawn around their contact in a struggle for self-preservation. “Obi-Wan, are you sure?”
Obi-Wan slid his hand over to rest against Qui-Gon’s, a long line of warmth where their little fingers touched. “I’m as sure as I can possibly be.”
Qui-Gon gazed at him for long moments, those eyes searing through Obi-Wan’s defenses and into his soul – reading him, as he had always done so adeptly. Obi-Wan gave himself over to the loving scrutiny: offered all his emotion, all his shaken faith, all the uncertainty of the change in his convictions tempered by the surety of Qui-Gon’s presence – all of it to the question in Qui-Gon’s eyes.
Qui-Gon read it all, and then he moved his hand to rest fully on top of Obi-Wan’s, crushing it gently down beneath its warmth, its solidity. “I hear you,” he said quietly, “and honor what you offer. And I will do what I can to be worthy of it.”
One more squeeze of the hand, one more whisper of heat as Qui-Gon’s lips brushed lightly over his own. And then he pulled back, turned away, and everything was the mission.
The rest of that day was all for business.
Qui-Gon rejoined the others in the larger ship once the hackers had done their work – Anakin, mostly, with his well-practiced mind-machine meld that could yield astonishing results, while Quinlan and Rie stood by and offered the occasional suggestion. By the time they had all finished, they judged that to the best of their awareness Obi-Wan’s ship, comm, and all the rest of their devices had been fully and thoroughly decoupled from the Jedi Order and its ability to trace them – and it was time for them to make their escape as well.
They had chosen Faari as their destination for now: a small world on the Inner Rim where Republic presence was tolerated but rare – now that they had the visual marker of Obi-Wan’s ship, they had to be cautious – and where none of them could remember or find any record of Order presence in the last several years. It would be a place for them to regroup for the moment, to settle themselves and determine a new plan.
Qui-Gon should have been accustomed by now to this feeling of being unmoored, but somehow it felt as though with every mission, every new revelation, something else was chipped away: something else was untethering him from the foundation of the Order that he had relied upon for all his life. Even when he had left the Order, he had hoped to still find himself largely philosophically aligned with the Jedi, in end at least, even if their means and ideological boundaries differed. He remembered now that wild clarity he had felt on the moon of Zond, seemingly so long ago now, when he had met Obi-Wan and thought that perhaps this was the answer: their little community could stir up the trouble and the Order could resolve it. Perhaps that would be the way to make things come out all right.
But if the Order had now gone too far even for Obi-Wan Kenobi . . .
Obi-Wan traveled alone in his ship, following their trajectory and checking in with them every few hours. Qui-Gon could not have stayed with him, not when he had responsibilities here to Anakin, to the others in this group who were now severed from the Order because of a process he had begun. But he had no reassuring words to offer them, no possible plan.
Before, they had anchored themselves to the needs of the people they still sought to serve. They had found meaning in a new form of mission, of assistance, of political involvement. Even when he had first left the Order, had not known what awaited him, he had had a goal: to go to Tatooine and rescue Anakin’s mother. It had felt as if he was at least running towards something, rather than away.
Now –
Now away was the only goal, the only plan. They sought to get as far away from the Order that had once been their home as possible, for fear of what might await them there if they were caught and brought back. Qui-Gon reached for the Force and found no clarity, no immediate path waiting for him – and the absence of a purpose felt like a yawning chasm in his stomach, opening up and threatening to pull him down.
Or perhaps that was just his exhaustion.
It had been a long day – a long two months – a long two years. He sat on the floor in their common room, leaning against the wall and feeling the hum of the ship as it rattled in his bones. The others too sat in their own silent contemplation, and Qui-Gon wondered if they shared the same restive unease as he did. Wondered, then, if stillness and clarity were so difficult to find because his body craved the simplicity of sleep instead.
No one would begrudge him a rest, he thought, letting his head roll back against the wall. The others were accustomed to finding him asleep in strange places, to helping him to bed when needed. But even as his body stilled, his mind would not stop racing, seeking something to latch onto, something to steady him, to settle him.
There was something. There must be. There must be clarity in this – there must be something to trust in the Force’s design here, something that would make itself clear to him. He had to trust the Force. It had brought him companionship when he had feared being alone; it had brought him purpose before when he had not known what it could be. It had brought him Obi-Wan back, his student no more, but something else entirely, looking into his eyes and clasping his hands with a devotion that Qui-Gon had never dreamed would not only endure but also transform –
“Qui-Gon?”
Qui-Gon levered heavy eyelids open to see Anakin hovering at his side. This break from the Order had not unsettled Anakin quite as much as it had the rest of them; he had never felt as attached to the Order as he had to – and Qui-Gon’s gut twisted – the political leadership of the Republic that was the very reason the Order had become suspect . . .
“Yes?” he said.
“Can we train?” Anakin always appeared to be seconds away from bouncing quite literally off the walls – as if the restless energy or the simple swell of the Force in him kept him constantly on the verge of frantic, fiery motion. Qui-Gon had sought to give him practice drills to burn off the energy; to spar with him when he could and to rely on the others to help him when he could not.
He had neglected those drills today, taken over by the mission that had changed everything; regardless, it was certainly shaping up to be a “could not” day.
But Anakin was not the only one restless in the ship today. Qui-Gon would have certainly welcomed a sparring match, had his body felt capable of it. He could only hope he was not alone in this.
“I’m afraid I’m too tired to spar with you now, Anakin,” he said. “But I’ll certainly give you pointers if someone else is able.”
It had not been a direct ask only because it didn’t need to be: Quinlan sprang up from his coiled position like an activated droid. “Gladly,” he said. “Come on.”
The ship Rie and Rowana had purchased with their money from the Jedi – money they had fortunately spent before this break between them – was not quite large enough to contain a sparring salle the size of those at the Temple; all the rooms and compartments were smaller than the average apartment – even the Jedi apartments, which were relatively minimalist in design. But there was an open common space they had turned into something resembling a sparring room – not large enough for the full acrobatic expression of Ataru, which Aayla mostly refrained from complaining about, but enough for two or three people to fight without aerials. Over the course of their time together, they had developed a few sets of well-matched partners: Qui-Gon and Rie, as the two most limited in capacity, could spar with one another or, occasionally, as a matched set against one of the others. Anakin faced Qui-Gon only for demonstration’s sake, or when Qui-Gon had insisted he practice a form slowly, without skipping any steps (as he was wont to do); for full-speed bouts, his skills had progressed enough that only Quinlan and Rowana could give him a challenge.
Of the two, Quinlan far preferred to do so; Rowana’s skills in teaching did not lie in the realm of lightsaber combat. Quinlan, though, came alive when sparring with Anakin or Aayla – pulling his blows just enough to allow the padawans the possibility of victory, while still making them work for it. And he, too, had some amount of innate energy – or perhaps aggression – to work out.
He set his lightsaber now to training power, and Qui-Gon trailed him and Anakin as they made their way to the sparring room, seating himself against the wall once more as the other two took their places, adopting their opening stances. Even watching was nearly beyond him in this moment, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open, his attention on the moment. Anakin deserved that much from him, if he could not give him more.
Qui-Gon had continued to lean on Anakin to avoid specializing in any one form, though he knew basic moves and katas from nearly all of the styles by now. He couldn’t help but remember the sight of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber a blur of motion in his new form, the one he had taken up less than two years before and had already as good as mastered. Anakin had such potential, such ability to embody all the elements of lightsaber combat or even create a new form all his own – Qui-Gon did not want to lock him into anything. But such reason did not always prevail upon a boy with such a voracious mind, eager to devour everything new, eager to push himself further – driven by some need all his own, by the search for purpose that Qui-Gon could not pretend he did not understand.
It was the same drive they all felt, only intensified by Anakin’s background and the instability of his entire young life. Surely this was not the place to teach such a child – but just as surely, the Order itself had failed him as it had failed all the rest of them. Qui-Gon did not want to join that list of people who had failed Anakin throughout his life, but he could not be sure what to do – how to avoid what seemed at times like an inevitability.
It was a personal insecurity he had thought he’d put away once Obi-Wan had passed his teenage years, once he had come to a greater comfort with his own drive and his own center. But it had come rushing back with more strength than before, and he could not pretend it was not in part a result of his decreased physical capabilities.
But he was not alone in this, he reminded himself. Even now, Quinlan was giving Anakin a challenging fight – barely pulling his blows, clearly putting his own tension into the duel, even if he did maintain enough detachment to remember whom he was fighting and what he owed the student. Anakin responded well to it, throwing himself into the moment and matching Quinlan’s energy. Qui-Gon tried to note Anakin’s technique for critiques after the fact – there was a rise in the left shoulder and a swivel in the right hip that would need to be corrected – but for the most part this was not a training exercise but a needed release of energy.
Tension could not always be meditated away, after all – and Anakin had always found greater success in its more physical expression.
When they finished, Anakin was panting and dripping with sweat, but something in him still seemed agitated, unsettled. Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow at him as he heaved himself up from his seated position, feeling nearly as spent as the two who had just spent several minutes hammering at one another.
He did not need to ask; Anakin volunteered. “When do I get one of my own?” he said, flipping his lightsaber in his hand.
Qui-Gon’s stomach clenched. Anakin still had the training lightsaber he had left the Order with, not powerful enough to deflect real blasterfire or inflict significant wounds. He was still too young, according to the Order’s standards, to make one of his own – but then, separate from the Order’s standards, he had been in an intense training and traveling regimen for over a year. And with the danger they promised to be facing – with the situation Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had found themselves in this very day – Anakin should have it. He should not be denied full protection.
But the conversation they had had that very day ensured that he would not be able to get it.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Ordinarily, it would be a rite of passage to take you to Ilum to find your own kyber crystal. But Ilum – and every other place kyber can be found – are under Jedi protection. I don’t know if we can risk a journey there, not now.”
Anakin scowled. “Well, then, what are we doing?” he said. “If we can’t go back to the Order, and we can’t risk running into the Jedi, what is the point of us even being here?”
The question drained all the remaining strength from Qui-Gon’s body; he swayed where he stood and steadied himself against the wall of the ship. That was the crux of the matter – the place he had still not managed to settle his own mind. The thought that there was a purpose out there – there must be; there could not not be – but he had no idea what it was.
“I don’t know, Anakin,” he said heavily. “I don’t know.”
Obi-Wan had been flying alone for several hours when he was hailed.
He surfaced from his semi-meditative state – the one he had become so familiar with over the last several months, the one that merged denial into meditation, that avoided his emotions rather than engaging with them. Qui-Gon would not have approved, but Qui-Gon was not his master anymore, and Qui-Gon was not here.
Qui-Gon was in the other ship, doing his duty as the de facto leader of his small band of rogue Jedi even as Obi-Wan was doing his own as their newest defector. He could not have asked Qui-Gon to abandon his post any more than he could have abandoned his own, and he would never have wanted to; duty came first, always. That was what Obi-Wan’s lovers outside the Jedi Temple had never understood, the tenet of his very nature that he held closely to himself. Duty was his first love; all else was secondary.
But it was hard to determine what duty was anymore, what that first love could be, in absence of the Order that had always supported and guided him. Qui-Gon had always been, first and foremost, that representation of duty, that personification of the Force, to Obi-Wan – and now that he had no Order to fall back on, Obi-Wan found himself grasping at nothing, wishing for some kind of stability –
He pressed the button to accept the call, shaking his thoughts away. Now was hardly the time for this – dwelling. “Kenobi,” he said – unnecessary. Who else would have been in this ship?
“Knight Kenobi,” said Rowana Navarr. “We’re approaching the nighttime cycle on our ship, and it’s been several hours. If you’d like to get some rest, I can take over the flying on your ship – and you’re welcome to board with us if there’s nowhere comfortable for you to sleep.”
She knew well that Jedi ships had simple sleeping arrangements, even if they were not especially comfortable – and knew too that Obi-Wan had been on enough uncomfortable missions in his life that such arrangements could be downright palatial. Her offer, then, came from somewhere deeper – as if, even from such a distance, she had picked up on his unease.
Perhaps she had, or perhaps she simply understood people well enough to make the offer. Or perhaps – Obi-Wan clamped down on the thought, fighting down wishful thinking – perhaps Qui-Gon had asked her, had wanted his company.
But when he accepted her offer and boarded the other ship, he found that Qui-Gon had already retired for the night, the door to the bunk he shared with Anakin closed and forbidding. But he – or someone – had thoughtfully made up a bed for Obi-Wan on the couch in the shared common sitting area. Of course that must be where he would sleep, as the ship had only three bedrooms. One for each master-apprentice pair that had left the Order, one at a time. Three rooms, two beds to each room, and it was not Obi-Wan’s business what went on in those beds. For the time being, his business was limited to himself and the couch beneath him, at least until such time as they all could figure out what to do with him – with him and with the final break that his presence symbolized.
Right now, the answer to that question seemed to be keep their distance. Rie Axtin had shown him to his makeshift bed before making a stuttering excuse to depart; the others seemed to have made themselves scarce. Qui-Gon would have sat with him, or at least Obi-Wan liked to think he would have, but his own need for rest was too acute; he should not be concerning himself with the unsettled thoughts of someone who had not been his apprentice in two years.
Why then had he been summoned here?
He toyed with the edges of the embroidery on the blanket folded over the couch. Where had it come from? Who had brought it onto this ship? The ridges and swirls of the pattern were soothing beneath his fingers, grounding. Perhaps he would trace the patterns without looking, attempt to draw them in his mind merely from the touch of his hand. It could be a tactile meditation, a way of quieting his mind – and then it would be something other than merely fidgeting.
Obi-Wan clenched his teeth and let out a soft growl of frustration at himself. Unease was an emotion ill befitting a Jedi knight, and he should have grown past it long ago. Should have learned from Qui-Gon, who could walk into any room with a self-assurance that implicitly expected it to rearrange itself for him – and so often it simply did.
But Qui-Gon was not the only example Obi-Wan had. There were other Jedi who walked through the world as if they had never felt out of place in their lives. People like –
“Hey, Kenobi.”
– people like Quinlan Vos.
“Hello, Vos,” he said, softening the automatic tensing of his shoulders. There was no reason he should bristle at the mere sight of Quinlan. They were friends – or, had been, anyway – after a fashion, genuine liking only partially concealed behind taunts and barbs. So this tension that he felt between them now, the tension he had felt since he had first heard that Quinlan had left the Order to join Qui-Gon –
He knew what it was. He had always known what it was, and it was entirely of his own device. But still, his shoulders did not unknot.
“How are you settling in?” Quinlan threw himself onto the couch in a languid sprawl, his limbs extending into Obi-Wan’s space without asking permission. Obi-Wan breathed into the discomfort of it, reminding himself of the need for serenity, the need to react well to the unexpected.
“Fine,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You sure you’ll be all right without someone telling you what to do?”
Obi-Wan shot him a glare, just as he would have when they were younger and Quinlan had scored a hit. “I retract the thank you.”
Quinlan laughed, and the tension between them eased. Obi-Wan’s shoulders sank slowly away from his ears, and he focused on the raised thread beneath his fingers – up and over, around and through. The silence became almost easy, almost companionable, and for a moment Obi-Wan could almost forget his marked outsider status here, that he was here out of necessity but did not yet belong –
“I don’t have any designs on your master, you know.”
Fabric crumpled beneath his fingers; his shoulder blades jerked together as if magnetized. “I’m sorry?”
The tone was meant to warn Quinlan away from continuing, but Quinlan Vos had never been one to leave a touchy subject alone. “Qui-Gon,” he said. “Whatever is going on with you, whatever you’re looking for from him – I’m not a threat to it. So anytime you want to relax around me, you’re welcome to.”
“I’m – I’m not” – Obi-Wan spluttered, heat rising in his cheeks until he felt he would burn alive on the spot. “I didn’t think you – we’re just” – Qui-Gon would have had a smooth answer for this question, surely; something that managed to be honest without clarifying the extent of their interactions, the extent of the desires still simmering undirected beneath Obi-Wan’s skin. But all he could do for himself was stammer in Quinlan’s direction, struggle to formulate denials that could not fool Quinlan for a moment. In the end, he could only demand, “Is respect for privacy not a tenet of your particular sect?”
“Usually,” said Quinlan. “But usually people aren’t eyeing me like I’ve decided to steal their favorite possession.” The lilt of his voice, the slight mocking smile on his lips, dared Obi-Wan to deny it.
“Possession is not the Jedi way,” said Obi-Wan – with desperate hope that the blandness of his tone would hide from Quinlan the real unease that his words had raked up within him. For that was the root of it, wasn’t it? There was a desire for possession there, a desire to lay claim to something that he felt belonged to him – that was the root of the jealousy he had felt from the very beginning, that he had tried to tamp down within himself. Qui-Gon was not his to possess; hadn’t the last two years proven that decisively?
“Well,” said Quinlan, “we aren’t exactly Jedi out here, are we?”
Obi-Wan did not flinch at the words, but it was a near thing. He had accepted the underlying truth beneath them when he had pressed his mouth to Qui-Gon’s with the expectation of response, when he had been given a choice and realized there was no choice at all – but still they slid over him like a blade peeling him open, stripping from him something as essential as his very skin. “I suppose not,” he murmured, but the words were weak.
Quinlan said nothing, and tension hummed between them like a plucked string. But the tension was not Obi-Wan’s alone – there had been bite to those last words, challenge, and he looked at Quinlan more boldly than before in light of that realization. That new suspicion.
Quinlan’s eyes bored back into him, dark pools Obi-Wan had thought more than once that he could lose himself in – but now they gleamed with an edge of daring, the way they had weeks before when they had sized one another up over Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan had not imagined the tension then, and he wasn’t imagining it now. “It goes both ways, you know,” he said. “You don’t have to spend all your time waiting for the law to descend upon you. I’m not the Council, and I’m not biding my time until I can turn you in.”
“I know that now,” said Quinlan. “Anyway, at this point you’d have to turn yourself in, too, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve made my choice,” said Obi-Wan. And he had, though it still twisted in his gut. From the moment he had seen that lack of understanding in Mace Windu’s face, the choice had been no choice at all.
“You certainly have,” said Quinlan. All at once, the challenge in his face softened into something that, on Quinlan Vos, was even more dangerous: smugness. His mouth twitched in half a smirk, his eyes flickering to the door to Qui-Gon’s bedroom.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying,” said Obi-Wan stiffly.
“I took your oxygen masks from you earlier,” was all Quinlan said in response.
It was all he needed to say. Heat spread through Obi-Wan’s head, neck, and face as he realized what that oxygen mask must have told Quinlan – what memories it must have held, the sensory imprint of his time with Qui-Gon in that dark, quiet underwater prison – rushing up on him again, the feeling of Qui-Gon’s mouth opening beneath his, his hands tangling in his hair –
Obi-Wan stared down into his lap. There was no point in denial anymore, was there? “Yes, well,” he said. “I’m told psychometry accompanies heightened insight. Clearly an exaggeration in your case” –
“Hey” –
“– but you might consider using your skills to bolster your trust.”
“I do trust you,” Quinlan said. “Now, anyway. What I don’t trust is that this won’t all come out a mess in the end.” He shrugged. “But that’s for the people with foresight to worry about. Welcome aboard, Kenobi.”
He patted Obi-Wan on the shoulder, then stood and stretched, his nightshirt riding up to reveal just a strip of skin beneath. Despite himself, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but admire the way he moved: lithe and supple, an easy grace of someone who knew exactly how much space he took up in the world and reveled in it. Qui-Gon moved with that same smooth surety, but without the edge of flair that managed to imbue every one of Quinlan’s motions. Obi-Wan had found himself wondering, more than once, how his friend ever managed to stay undercover.
He had wanted Quinlan gone, but even as Quinlan ambled out of the room, Obi-Wan’s solitude seemed only to increase his disquiet. Quinlan was, if nothing else, at least a distraction from his own wandering thoughts.
Around him, lights dimmed into the ship’s nighttime cycle; low murmurs of goodnight preceded the closing of bunk doors. Artificial night settled around him with the metallic insulation of a synthetic-fabric blanket – and he remained stubbornly wakeful, the thoughts he had been deferring all day finally clamoring too loudly in his mind to be ignored.
Possession is not the Jedi way – Well, we aren’t exactly Jedi out here, are we?
Qui-Gon had never stopped identifying as a Jedi. Obi-Wan knew it both from what he had said and the way he had always acted. Obi-Wan had never thought he would have to relinquish that identification, either – and yet –
He did feel possession, didn’t he? Qui-Gon did not belong to him, had never belonged to him. Even the claim of master was no longer quite true, not now that Qui-Gon had both Anakin and this whole group to impart his own lessons onto, not now that Obi-Wan had determined to set his own paths. And, for all that he might feel both love and desire for his master in a combination that had not applied to any dalliance or relationship he had had before, he had no desire for possession in that relationship, either. Qui-Gon belonged to himself – no, more than anything, Qui-Gon belonged to the Force. As did Obi-Wan. As did they all. No part of Qui-Gon’s was his to possess, and he had always known it.
But – out here, unmoored from everything he had ever known except for the one person he had always known better than anyone – was there anything else he could claim for himself?
Obi-Wan clutched the blanket around himself and gazed up at the darkened ceiling of the ship above him, unable to find rest.
Alone in her bunk, with Rowana away on the other ship and the others seeking their beds for some rest after the grand commotion of the day, Rie Axtin settled down to think.
Her datapad lay in front of her, more for comfort than any immediate intention. Rie had found some form of meditation before in the archives of her personal library (where she had saved as much as she could before departing the Order for good), but her mind was not steady enough for that now, her question not clear. She could find answers amidst her research, but only if she knew what she was asking.
And right now, everything seemed so unclear that she could not isolate a single thread.
This was not an isolated incident, but the logical extent of a pattern. The events of today were only the culmination of the personal injustice that had begun the moment the murder alert had been blasted across all official news sources – the one that had been slowly building for far longer, since before Rie had ever begun to steam and stew under the suffocating hierarchies and restrictions of the Archives. There was something deeper here, they all knew it – but what?
And why?
That was not a question that would yield any kind of answer, not yet, not now, but it screamed in Rie’s consciousness, blaring out any attempt at a deeper meditative calm. Why them? Why now?
Something was different about this moment, about these people. What was it that set them apart? What was the single point on which all the rest turned?
Rie took a deep breath. Without Rowana here, her meditations were less steady, less calm – but even if Rowana were here, all she could do was aid Rie’s personal centering. If Rie asked for answers, she knew already what the response would be: I cannot answer your questions anymore. You must find your truth for yourself.
Always that was Rowana’s answer; always the gentle rebuff to Rie’s request for the intimacy she craved – though in all other ways she had that closeness. Though Rowana had left the Order with Rie on nothing more than Rie’s instincts and her own exhaustion; though she shared rooms and thoughts and secrets with her, still there was a corner of Rowana’s mind that was inaccessible to her. That she kept away from Rie – for good reason, surely, but still Rie could not help wanting it, craving it, wanting to be allowed into every corner of Rowana’s mind. Wanting those barriers between them erased, until she could drown in her master’s presence.
Which, of course, was exactly why she could not be allowed to do so.
Rie sighed and pushed her pad away. There were times that meditation on the answer could not be forced – times that she had to simply accept that she would have to wait. She had been patient for years before departing the Order. She could be patient for a little longer.
She could wait for the answer to reveal itself.
Still, sleep did not come easily to her that night.
“So what you are telling me,” said Darth Sidious, letting his lip curl visibly beneath his hood, “is that your operatives failed to capture both Kenobi and Jinn’s band of rogues.”
It was not an especially appealing sight, a Nautolan cringing. Nat Morda, the senator from Gydumir, shrank back visibly in the hologram, his tendrils wilting as if wishing they could contract back into his body. “They slipped our grasp, my lord. I am sorry. Please” –
“My patience is not endless, Senator,” said Sidious. “Your choice in using a compromised aide is surely to blame, but if you had thought that he alone would suffer the fallout of your poor decisions, you thought wrongly.” He let his voice lower into a slight hiss, watched the Nautolan shiver in response. “I fear the Republic may soon learn where you too are . . . compromised.”
Ah, how easy it was – how easy it had always been to gather leverage on these senators, these foolish politicians more married to their stations than to their principles; to elevate them over those who might have provided more of a threat to the Sith’s ultimate plan. To weaken the Republic and to foster disillusionment at the same time – it would almost be too easy, if it were not so satisfying.
Morda was begging again, whimpering and apologizing, but Sidious had grown bored. He terminated the connection with a wave of his hand. Morda would spend some time in fear as strategically-placed whispers threatened to destabilize him just enough – and then an offer would come from the Separatists, tempting enough that he could not refuse it. He would be fine – why would Sidious throw away a pawn who still promised to be useful?
He had other things to think about for the moment, other questions to consider. The Jedi had begged leave for a delay in reporting the results of the Gydumir mission, so that must mean that Kenobi had not returned. He had always been in danger of going rogue; Sidious had sensed that from his first report – eager to please, determined to fulfill his mandate as it was laid out before him, yes, but Jinn was his weakness. And now they had escaped, clearly using resources beyond what Morda and his fools had been able to counter –
And Sidious could guess what those resources were.
Anakin Skywalker. The only reason Jinn’s band of rogues had been worth any more than a single thought. With Kenobi now gone, their last potential for influence on the Order proper was gone, too, and Sidious could turn his attention to other things – but for that boy, that great pocket of power and potential. No, Qui-Gon Jinn had brought him into Sidious’s sights, and he could not be so easily relinquished. Anakin was not necessarily key to the plan, not from what Sidious could make out, but ah the joy he could take in his breaking and remaking.
No, he was not ready to give up on Anakin just yet. But clearly his strategy needed to change. Perhaps it was time to turn his attention away from pursuing Jinn and his rebels and make them come to him.
Sidious turned away from the comm device and to a different one, differently encrypted, readable only by those who knew Huttese. He had spies on Tatooine who had been busily gathering information for him. Perhaps it was time to put it to some use.
Yes. Sidious nodded to himself, selecting a contact on the device. Yes, this would do quite nicely.