Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Master, may I go for a walk? Outside?"

Qui-Gon looked up from the datapad he was studying. "We're in the downtown district of the most dangerous city on Sylelius."

Obi-Wan did his utmost not to fidget where he stood. "Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon waited, one eyebrow lifted.

Obi-Wan sighed. "But . . ."

The older Jedi nodded in satisfaction. "Yes, I knew the 'but' was coming."

"Yes, Master. But Ambassador Grenik did say that it isn't all that bad, really, and that Jedi are revered here, so we're very unlikely to encounter any trouble, at least not from the citizenry."

Qui-Gon leaned back against the plush couch he sat on. "Obi-Wan, you are thirteen years old."

"And I am a Jedi."

Qui-Gon waited.

"Please, Master, I just want to get out for a little fresh air. I feel . . . a bit stifled."

The austere Master allowed a smile at that, the flesh around his eyes crinkling in deep amusement. "Padawan, you've been all but bouncing off the walls everywhere we go. You were ready to fly apart at a touch. I didn't dare put my hand on your shoulder for fear you'd explode and we'd never collect all the pieces."

Was that really why Qui-Gon hadn't touched his shoulder for so many days? Obi-Wan shook it off, trying to contain his dismay. "Was I that obvious, Master? I truly did my best not to be disrespectful . . ."

"No, Obi-Wan, you weren't obvious. I doubt anyone noticed besides me. Still, I could tell that your control was becoming a bit . . . strained."

Obi-Wan nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Qui-Gon would probably make him stay in now, do some extra meditation and concentration exercises. He obviously needed the practice.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, and the Padawan knew that he was reaching out with his awareness, listening to the Force. It always impressed him, how easily Qui-Gon was able to fall into a light trance, finding answers, while it took Obi-Wan hours and hours of meditation to reach the same state. Another skill he desperately wanted to learn from his Master, but feared he would never reach.

The Jedi Master opened his eyes. "I don't sense any danger, at least not to you, a thirteen-year-old Jedi." He smiled warmly, and Obi-Wan felt his spirits lift a bit in response. "The Force is telling me to let you go. You need the fresh air, I know. We were cooped up in that little transport ship for far too long, and you are young."

"Thank you, Master. I'll be careful, I promise."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Don't wander more than five or six blocks from the hotel, all right? Go on, Obi-Wan, cool yourself off a bit."

Obi-Wan bowed and departed, letting out a breath in relief once he was outside their suite, standing in the hall of the posh hotel. He wondered why it felt like he had just escaped from imprisonment. Had it really become so unbearable in such a short amount of time?

Yes, it had, he decided, hurrying down the hall to the lift. Once on the first floor, he all but ran across the marble floor of the lobby, narrowly missing collision with a valet, and burst into the cool late afternoon of downtown Reshifc.

He closed his eyes and let the breeze wash over him, taking some of the flush from his cheeks. Then he started walking briskly down the street, taking time to pull his mental shields up tight, and finally let it all pour out into his conscious mind. Sith, it hurt.

The pressure had been building inside him for a couple of weeks now, just growing and growing until he really might have exploded if he hadn't gotten a chance to work it out in his mind. He was mildly surprised that he had survived it for this long. Force, there was just so much . . .

Gingerly, he dared to prod the mess with a mental finger, attempting to sort out the tangled emotions and thoughts that he had kept bottled up for such a long time. Fear, guilt, shame, longing, heartache, confusion. Questions he didn't dare ask and couldn't answer himself. And most of all, frustration. Even with all this excess energy crackling about him like a storm ready to break, his spirit was tired, tired to the very depths, as if he had been pushing against an unyielding wall with all of his strength until his arms simply buckled and he fell to the ground.

What was wrong with him? He had to figure out the central question, then he could work outward and lay it all to rest, hopefully without going insane. And without going to Qui-Gon. He couldn't go to Qui-Gon with this.

Because it was all about Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly, an involuntary moan escaping his lips in the barest breath of air. Something was definitely wrong with him. They were getting along. Their bond was strong and vibrant—they could even speak across it, sometimes, if the need was great. Obi-Wan knew that many Master-Padawan teams never developed their connection that far. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan were getting on well—they trusted each other, worked together as a unified team, even enjoyed each other's company during their rare moments of relaxation. To all signs and purposes, they had a wonderful working relationship.

So why was Obi-Wan frustrated and confused? What had changed for him, weeks ago? He paused for a traffic signal and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. He could not recall a specific incident that brought this on—the feeling had simply crept up on him. This feeling of dissatisfaction, of stalemate, of longing for, for . . .

For what? Somebody jostled the Padawan's arm, and he started, eyes flying open. The signal was green. Slowly he crossed, head down, pondering. He supposed he really ought to be observing the populace. They had come here on a mission of observation and information: the government of this Outer Rim planet, Sylelius, was considering joining the Republic, and they had asked for a representative to visit. The Senate had also asked the Jedi to report on whether the planet seemed ready for this step. If Obi-Wan had thought of it, he might have used the need for observation as an argument in favor of this walk.

But he hadn't, and he wasn't paying much attention now, anyway, too caught-up in his private struggle. Sylelius seemed like a decent world—no slavery, no blatant corruption, a moderate poverty percentage and crime rate, pretty average for planets this size. They were getting along well as a sovereign world, but Obi-Wan supposed that they simply wanted more.

Wanted more. That was it. He wanted more. Obi-Wan's step faltered and he stopped walking, a still rock in the stream of pedestrians that flowed around him, heading home from work or shopping. Why in the galaxy did he want more? Why couldn't he be happy with what he had? Force, what was wrong with him?

Qui-Gon was the perfect Master—caring, dutiful, trusting, wise, strong, even affectionate at times, teaching without oppressing, instilling discipline without unnecessary sternness. He was happy with their relationship, with Obi-Wan's progress, with everything. All the unhappiness was in Obi-Wan, and it had no cause, nothing to justify it. Just this silly, inarticulate longing. He wanted Qui-Gon to be more than a Master, a teacher, or even a friend. He wanted . . .

Force, he wanted a father. Obi-Wan clenched his fists, swaying a bit where he stood. He was such a fool. Numbly, he started walking again.

Where did that word come from? Why had he even thought it? Father. The word meant nothing. Jedi did not have family, or rather, all Jedi were family, to each other. Everyone who had taught him was like a mother or a father, and every initiate and Padawan he had learned with was like a brother or a sister. So where did this yearning come from?

And here came the guilt and shame. It was foolish of him to have these longings, wasn't it? Childish and immature and utterly, utterly stupid. This heart-craving would not, could not be satisfied. Was it wrong to even feel this way?

Unexpected tears stung Obi-Wan's eyelids, and he pushed them back with a disdainful sniff. It probably was wrong. He was probably committing some sin against the Force. But he had no idea how to atone for it.

Because the longing wasn't going away. Even now that he had brought it out into the light and identified it, untangled all the things he'd instinctively been packing away behind his deepest shields for weeks, even now, it wasn't fading. If anything, the craving had intensified now that he knew what it was.

Despair beginning to steal icy fingers around his heart, Obi-Wan continued walking into the fading sunlight.

Chapter Text

Qui-Gon answered a knock on the suite door to find Ambassador Tyril Grenik standing there. He was a tall, thin, nervous-looking human with pale hair and eyes and long fingers that twitched as he spoke. "Ah, Master Jinn! I trust you are settling in well?"

Qui-Gon nodded deeply and stepped back to let their official liaison into the room. "We are indeed, Ambassador. Obi-Wan and I are not usually accommodated in such luxury."

"Ah." A thin chuckle emerged from the long, white throat. "Well, you are very welcome, to be sure. Nothing but the best for the Jedi. Do you have any questions, needs, concerns? I am at your service for the length of your stay."

Qui-Gon indicated the datapad he still held in his right hand. "You have given us quite a good overview. Tomorrow when we meet with regional representatives to talk about what citizenship in the Republic can do for Sylelius, I hope I'll be able to answer all of your questions and concerns."

Grenik smiled, only a little shakily. Qui-Gon was a bit surprised that the planet had chosen for its liaison a person who seemingly wore his emotions on his face, but he found himself liking the man, nevertheless.

The Ambassador glanced around the apartment, some of the tension leaking from his body. "Has your apprentice retired so early? We have a small reception planned in an hour that you are both invited to attend."

"Obi-Wan asked for permission to go for a walk, and I granted it. I asked him to stay within five or six blocks of the hotel, though, so I'm sure he'll be back in time."

The ambassador's pale eyes widened suddenly, shoulders tensing up again. "But, Master Jinn, five blocks away to the west is one of the worst neighborhoods in Reshifc! Oh, I do apologize, I am so sorry you weren't informed, this area of town is very well developed, but we are still working to control the low-rent district, and the crime just keeps resurfacing, especially down on Onorda Street, oh dear, I hope he doesn't get into any trouble—"

"Ambassador Grenik," Qui-Gon interrupted, trying to calm the man's rising panic, even as his own small, sick fear rose in his heart. "Ambassador, there's no need. Obi-Wan may not have even headed in that direction. And if any trouble arises, he can take care of himself. I do not sense any danger for him."

"Oh, but, Master Jinn, are you completely sure? He's such a young boy, and I know you Jedi are special, but anything can happen, and it certainly would be a tragedy if—"

"Obi-Wan is strong and smart and capable," Qui-Gon said firmly. "He's been through much worse than this before. He even helped stop a centuries-old civil war, and he has escaped unharmed from situations that would have killed many a man much older and stronger than he." But not by himself, his heart whispered. Not when he was unaware of the danger. And he hasn't escaped completely unharmed, has he, Jinn?

Qui-Gon sighed. "He can handle one bad neighborhood," he concluded gently. Still, after he had calmed the man down and persuaded him not to send out a search party, and after he had procured the location of the reception and kindly seen the liaison out the door, the small sick fear in his heart still had not gone away.

He sat down on the couch, a small frown forming between his eyes. The Jedi relaxed against the cushions, closing his eyes and reaching out. Still he felt no danger. He accessed their bond, and came against some incredibly tight mental shields. Obi-Wan didn't want him in his head right now, and Qui-Gon would not betray the trust they had built by forcing his way in.

The Master tapped gently along the border of the shields, wanting to at least get an idea of what his Padawan was experiencing. At one point the shield was stretched rather thin, and Qui-Gon was disturbed by the turmoil he sensed roiling within. He couldn't get a sense of what was causing it, only feel that Obi-Wan was in a great deal of emotional distress. That was probably why he'd wanted to take a walk, to have a chance to work it out for himself.

Qui-Gon withdrew, the small frown playing on his lips, now. He had noticed the tension in the boy before now, the hunched shoulders, the guarded glances. How long had it been? A week, two? The Master had left it alone, sure that Obi-Wan would eventually come to him with whatever was bothering him. He was only thirteen, after all, still a child in many ways, edging cautiously into adolescence. Youngsters at that age were usually a bundle of nerves, struggling to make sense of the changes in their bodies and their spirits. If the boy couldn't resolve it on his own, he would seek Qui-Gon's help.

Still he sensed no physical danger to his apprentice. The walk would do him more good than harm, Qui-Gon was sure. He opened his eyes and sat up with a slight sigh. The Padawan's distress was troubling, but hardly unusual. Obi-Wan would be fine.

Qui-Gon went back to his reading.

X

Obi-Wan's thoughts continued swirling downward. He realized what the word "father" meant. It meant love: fierce, protective, unconditional, all-encompassing love. That was what he wanted so badly. Because as long as Qui-Gon was just his Master, teacher, and friend, there was still the chance that it could all go away, that the Padawan could screw up in such a major way that there would be no chance for redemption, and Qui-Gon would drop him, push him away as he had many times already. Of course Obi-Wan had no intention of ever doing anything that incredibly horrible, but still, there was the chance. He might do it by accident, even. And that would be the worst of all. To see the disappointment in Qui-Gon's eyes, watch him turn his back, unable to scream that he didn't mean it, he'd never meant it to happen . . .

Force, why was he even thinking like this? He was a Jedi. Jedi did not fail in a such an egregious manner. Obi-Wan wouldn't let himself fail, because that would mean he was no longer a Jedi.

Was it wrong to want that kind of love? It was dangerous: it was a strong emotion; Jedi were supposed to be calm and avoid attachments like that. Obi-Wan was sure that it was wrong to crave it, but he could not make the longing go away.

Because, he realized as his heart sank yet further toward the cracked pavement, he already loved Qui-Gon that way. Had from the very first. It hadn't been a decision on Obi-Wan's part; it had simply happened. And it was far too late to take it back now. It was part of him.

Qui-Gon would never be able to return this depth of unconditional commitment, Obi-Wan knew. It was unbefitting a Jedi, and Qui-Gon Jinn was a great Jedi, the greatest in the history of the galaxy as far as his Padawan was concerned. No, he couldn't.

Qui-Gon had an enormous heart, Obi-Wan knew. He was always picking up one pathetic lifeform or another—he lavished his compassion and help freely on all he met. In fact, Obi-Wan thought with a slightly hysterical chuckle, it might be better for him if he weren't such a good Jedi Padawan. The surest way to get into the big Jedi's heart was to be small and hurt and weak. If Obi-Wan got himself injured, or deathly ill, or kidnapped by some sadistic megalomaniac and worked over a bit so that Qui-Gon had to come rescue him, it might be a good thing. It might make the Master appreciate the Padawan more, love him more.

No, this was a ridiculous line of thought. Obi-Wan had been beaten viciously by a Hutt on the Monument on the way to Bandomeer, and that certainly hadn't made Qui-Gon like him any better. He'd simply helped Obi-Wan heal the same way he would help any stray animal he found lying injured in the gutter. And there was no way Obi-Wan was going to let himself get hurt. That would be completely unbefitting of a Jedi. Obi-Wan would not act in a way that was unbefitting to a Jedi. He was strong and well-trained, and he would not disappoint his teachers and Master by being a pathetic fool. Even though he couldn't get rid of these feelings that were so obviously unbefitting . . . .

He ought to be able to control feelings, but he couldn't. So he would control his actions instead.

There was no help for it. He was simply going to have to shove this away again, chain it under the strongest shields he knew how to make, and hope that it wouldn't grow strong enough to break away from his control. Grimly Obi-Wan packed it all away into a neat little box, the love, the longing, the fear, the guilt, the gut-wrenching pain, and buried it in the deepest parts of his mind, tying it down with every control he knew. It was going to be a constant drain on his strength, keeping all of that locked away forever, but he would have to do it. There was no other way.

At last the Padawan stood calm and still in the middle of sidewalk, his eyes closed, slowly regaining his equilibrium. He found his center and relished the sensation of being back in control of himself, and carefully lowered his shields to normal strength. Qui-Gon would never invade his mind and find that box, he knew. It was safe, for now.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, blinking a little at the sunset as it faded behind the buildings ahead. It was a large red sun, and the sunset was magnificent, with all colors in the warm spectrum: russet, gold, deep orange. It didn't do much to warm his chilled spirit, though.

"No, no! Lemme 'lone! I didn't do nothin'!"

The Jedi turned sharply at that young, shrill voice, hearing an edge of pain beneath the words. He realized that the neighborhood he was in was not entirely savory, and the pedestrian traffic had slowed to a trickle. He couldn't see anyone for a block in either direction. Everyone was at home.

Except for . . . Obi-Wan took a few steps toward the alley a few meters ahead. He heard scuffling noises, the sounds of boots on pavement, gruff chuckles. It sounded like quite a few people. A gang?

"Don't matter watcha did, vrelt." That voice belonged to a young man, and the Padawan heard pleasure and cruelty in it. "It's sorta just that you exist."

Obi-Wan jerked at the sound of a blow, followed by low, muffled sobs. The crying was in the voice of a young child, surely no older than ten. More blows. Obi-Wan halted, his hands clenching into fists. It sounded like a gang of bullies had decided to beat up on a little kid. Briefly he reached out to the Force and extended his senses into the alley, making sure that his theory was correct. It was, and he acted without another thought.

Activating his lightsaber and using the Force to amplify his presence, Obi-Wan stepped into the alleyway. "Leave him alone!" he commanded, willing his voice to sound deep and full and intimidating. He swept the glowing blade menacingly through the air, daring them to doubt his authority.

Five or six youths looked up, wide-eyed, from where they were clustered against one wall a few meters into the alley. They saw a huge Jedi, his face invisible in his hood, shining lightsaber seeming to reach to the heavens. Instantly they fled, heading for the opposite end of the alley and the sunset-lit street beyond.

Obi-Wan lowered his lightsaber and rushed over to the small figure they had abandoned, who lay crumpled, deathly still, against the wall.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan clipped his lightsaber on his belt and knelt by the little fellow, carefully touching the shaking shoulder. He spoke gently and quietly, hoping not to frighten the child, who was obviously used to mistreatment. "Hey, are you all right? Can I help you?"

The boy started at the fleeting touch, and peeked at the Jedi with one dark eye, head hidden beneath the frail protection of his skinny arms. His clothes hung on him in rags, and Obi-Wan could see dark bruises and livid abrasions through the rends in his tunic. His hair was dark, shaggy, and unkempt, but his one visible eye was sharp with intelligence and wit.

And fear, which slowly faded as the child studied the young Jedi. "You . . . you ain't gonna hurt me?"

Obi-Wan shook his head vigorously. "No, never. It's wrong to hurt little ones."

The boy slowly straightened a bit, sitting with his shoulders hunched against the wall, still watching him as if waiting for a blow. "Yeah, 'm a little one."

"How old are you?"

The boy held up seven grubby fingers.

"I'm thirteen, and my name is Obi-Wan. What's yours?"

"Nibbi. 'M a street vrelt. Dirty. You look like you came from uptown. Don't wanna be 'round here, lemme tell ya."

Obi-Wan sat cross-legged on the filthy pavement, still meeting that frank gaze, as if challenging the little boy to tell him he couldn't handle himself here. "Do you want me to go away? I would rather not, for a little while."

Nibbi drew his knees up to his chest and regarded the Padawan soberly. "No, you don't hafta go if you don't wanna. I like you."

Obi-Wan grinned. "Thank you. I like you too."

"You made the big boys go away."

"Yes. I'd like to make them leave you alone for good. That was cruel, their deciding to knock you around just because they could. Do they often do that?"

The child's small sigh held far too much weariness and pain, as if he had seen enough sorrows for a dozen lifetimes. "Yeah. Ev'y time they see me. I usually hide when I see 'em comin', but I wasn't fast enough this time."

"I'm sorry, Nibbi. Why do they hurt you?"

Small shoulders lifted in a painful shrug, a wince crossing the hunger-hollowed face. "'Cause I don't wanna give 'em the credits I beg. 'Cause I got in their way this one time, called the constables when they was tryin' to rob this old Bothan who wandered down here from uptown. But mostly just 'cause I'm here."

Obi-Wan felt terribly helpless. "I'm sorry, Nibbi." That one phrase just wasn't enough to express how sorry he was, how his outrage rose against a galaxy that would allow innocents to suffer like this, how he had to fight to release his anger to the Force. "Nibbi, why are you on the street?"

The boy's expression suggested that Obi-Wan had just asked for an explanation of why nerfs did not give birth to rancors. "'Cause I don't got no home."

"Well, yes, I gathered that, but the information I read indicated that Sylelius had a very good charity and foster system in place. Why aren't you being taken care of?"

Nibbi's dark eyes stared away over Obi-Wan's right shoulder, distant and troubled. "Was in a foster house after my mama and papa died. Wasn't no good. The dad liked his belt too much, and the mom, she thought there wasn't nuff food to go 'round, so I usually got nothin'. I ran away. Don't wanna go back, no never nuh uh. I hide when the constables come lookin' for charity cases. 'M never goin' back. This's better."

Obi-Wan sighed deeply, unwilling to imagine a home so horrible that the street was better. It was amazing that the little boy had trusted him this quickly and completely, sharing his story so freely. He had hoped that a quiet, kind conversation would open the child up enough to let the Padawan touch him. Now was probably as good a time as any to test that idea.

"Thank you for telling me, Nibbi," he said gently. "Will you let me see where they hit you? It must hurt a lot."

The dark, troubled gaze met his again. The boy seemed to shrink against the wall, studying the Jedi with sharp suspicion. Obi-Wan restrained another sigh. It hadn't worked.

But after a moment the boy uncurled from his fetal position, moving rather stiffly, and crawled over to sit in the young Jedi's lap. With pure, child-like trust, he leaned sideways against the thirteen-year-old's chest. "I like you," he whispered. "An awful lot."

"And I like you an awful, awful lot," Obi-Wan whispered in his ear. "Now, come on, let's pull that tunic up and see what's going on."

X

Qui-Gon stood at the window, gazing out at the drizzly street lit now by streetlamps as the last light of the sun faded in the west. The reception had started ten minutes ago. Obviously, he and Obi-Wan were going to be late. If Obi-Wan even showed up.

Qui-Gon turned away from the window with a sigh. It had been raining for thirty minutes now. Surely Obi-Wan had started walking back as soon as it started. How far away had he gotten?

The Jedi Master reached along the bond, but Obi-Wan had raised his shields again, not as tight as they had been at the beginning, but not as loose as they had been for perhaps five minutes there in the middle, either. Something was definitely going on. Yet he did not sense danger. There was darkness out there, certainly, as there was darkness everywhere. But it was nothing unusual.

After another ten minutes, Qui-Gon commed Ambassador Grenik and told him that the Jedi would not be at the reception. Their presence had been optional, anyway—no harm done. But that small fear in his heart was slowly blooming into full-grown paranoia. What was taking the boy so long? He fought it down, allowing just a hint of irritation to replace it. Had Obi-Wan overstepped his bounds?

Qui-Gon was just grabbing his robe to head out himself when the door finally opened, and there stood Obi-Wan on the mat, soaked and dripping, shoulders slumped. He eyed Qui-Gon warily, as if waiting for a reprimand.

But the Master was too surprised to reprove . . . yet. "Padawan, what have you been up to? Where is your robe? Why are you spattered with mud? And—" He took a hesitant step forward, barely able to believe what he was seeing. "You have a black eye! Force, Obi-Wan, don't you dare tell me you ran into a door! What happened?"

Obi-Wan shook himself slightly, water spattering from his sodden garments. He brushed a hand through his spiky hair, pushing water down to drip on his neck, and tried to keep his teeth from chattering with minimal success. "It's a l-l-long story, M-Master."

Qui-Gon stared at his wayward apprentice for a moment, wavering between concern and irritation. The fatigue in the boy's face finally decided him. "Obi-Wan, get out of those wet clothes immediately. Take a hot shower and put on something warm and dry, then come out here prepared to tell me every last detail of this long story."

"Y-Yes, Master." Obi-Wan bowed slightly, gratitude evident in voice and expression, and departed to follow Qui-Gon's orders to the letter.

Qui-Gon went to the suite's kitchenette and made some tea. He had two mugs ready and waiting when Obi-Wan emerged, dressed in sleepwear, reddish-sandy hair sticking up strange places. His face was too pale for the Master's liking, and the black eye stood out in ghastly silhouette. It was a lovely big shiner, already displaying a mix of purple, green, black, and sickly brown that almost made Qui-Gon ill just to look at. Force, what had Obi-Wan gotten himself into? A lot of strength and anger had gone into that punch.

Obi-Wan accepted the mug Qui-Gon offered with a quiet, "Thank you, Master," and sank onto the couch. He seemed to melt into the cushions, relaxing for the first time in hours or days.

"Where did you go?" Qui-Gon began, keeping his voice neutral.

"Um . . . I think I ended up on Onorda Street for a while. Wandered about a bit. Met a few people."

"Did you go outside the six-block radius I prescribed?"

Obi-Wan eyed him guiltily. "Only for a little bit, and I had a good reason."

Qui-Gon sat up straight in agitation. "Obi-Wan, I will not accept excuses."

"But if you'll listen to my reason—" Obi-Wan started and sat up as well, irritation flaming in his voice.

"Padawan!" Qui-Gon was abruptly stern and quiet, reining himself in. "Reasonable disobedience is one thing, but blatant disrespect is quite another."

The boy deflated immediately, leaning back against the couch, his face flushing with shame. "Yes, Master," he said meekly. "I'm sorry, Master. I did not mean to be disrespectful."

It hadn't been disrespect, Qui-Gon realized belatedly, sitting back as well. It had been frustration brought on by extreme weariness and his own sharp tone. The momentary flare in his apprentice had drained completely away, leaving a deep, worrying exhaustion. "Obi-Wan, what have you done in the past two hours to wear you out so completely? You look like you haven't slept in days, while just before your walk you seemed to have enough extra energy to power a city."

Obi-Wan sighed. "I'm afraid I used a number of rather difficult Force skills that I do not have complete control over, and they took a lot out of me. It seemed to take forever to walk back—I barely had the energy to put one foot in front of the other. I'm sorry I worried you."

Qui-Gon ignored that last, unwilling to admit that he had been worried. "I'm sorry I snapped at you, Padawan. Apparently you've been through a bit of an ordeal. You said you ended up on Onorda Street?"

"Well, at first, yes. I heard some troubling sounds coming from an alley . . ." Briefly he told the tale.

Qui-Gon pondered silently for a moment. "You used Force amplification to scare them off."

"Yes, Master."

"Deception."

"Yes, Master."

"And it worked very well." He flashed the apprentice a rare grin. "It was well done, Obi-Wan. So that was the first thing that drained your strength? Then what?"

Well, the first thing had actually been the locking away of his turbulent little box, but the Padawan wasn't going to mention that. "Yes, Master, I felt normal then, no excess energy. But the little boy, Nibbi . . . he needed help." He related the homeless child's story quietly, sadness surging behind the words. "And when he let me lift up his tunic . . . it was horrible, Master. I couldn't believe it. They've been beating him regularly, it seems, with belts and rubber tubes and whatever they found lying around. I wanted to take him to a med center, but he refused, afraid that the authorities would take him back to the home he ran from."

Qui-Gon could see where this was going. "So you used the Force to heal him."

"Yes, Master."

"Obi-Wan, that is not your gift, and you have very little training in that skill."

"I had to," the boy said, a trifle defensively. "At least the ones that were bleeding!"

Qui-Gon smiled sadly. "You don't have to explain yourself to me, young one. But that obviously drained your strength much further. Then what did you do?"

"Well, you had given me a little Sylelian currency in case of an emergency, remember? So I took him to a café and got him a decent meal. That's when I went beyond the six blocks—the closest café was across the street and down a bit, and I didn't want to make the child walk too far." He paused, his gaze wary again. "Do you forgive my indiscretion now? I'm sorry I disobeyed you, but to be honest, I really wasn't thinking much about you at the time."

"I forgive you, Obi-Wan. Drink your tea."

The Padawan glanced at the mug in his hand, which he had evidently forgotten. He eyed it doubtfully. "What kind is it?" Qui-Gon was fond of strange herbal concoctions that the younger Jedi found a bit too strong and exotic for his tastes.

"Marjili with cinna. Your favorite."

Obi-Wan took a cautious sip of the still-hot liquid and favored his Master with a beatific smile, beautiful despite the huge black eye that dominated his face.

"Then what happened, Padawan? You still haven't explained that bruise."

Apparently the boy had forgotten about that, too. He fingered it gingerly, winced, and took another, longer sip. "Well, I took Nibbi back to his sleeping place—just a big box in the corner of an alley. It started to rain, and I knew I had to get back, but the poor little one was shivering. So I gave him my robe and put lingering Force heat in the box, just enough to keep it warm for a few hours. I felt horrible leaving him there, Master, but I didn't know what else to do."

"Padawan, long-lasting Force heat is yet another skill that you have not mastered."

Obi-Wan simply nodded, his eyelids beginning to droop.

"Well, young one, I'm beginning to understand why it took you so long to get back. It's a wonder you made it at all. Now, who punched you? Surely the child did not?"

The Padawan smiled gloomily at the thought. "Force, no. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm the best thing since the invention of cheese, or something. No, it was the bullies who have been abusing him. They were waiting for me—I wasn't paying attention, didn't feel the danger. Kicked me into a mud puddle and then pinned me against a wall. Leader got in the first shot." He flapped a hand in the direction of the nasty bruise, the bright blue-green eye within twinkling. "Quite a good first shot, it was."

Qui-Gon could not suppress a swell of horror at the image of his exhausted apprentice being held against a wall by five or six vicious young men, all of whom must have been much older and bigger than he. "Padawan, I do not share your amusement. I did not realize you were injured beyond that black eye. Do you need me to call a healer?"

"No, I'm not injured. It's just the black eye, and a bruise where they kicked me." Obi-Wan laid a hand tenderly against his stomach. "Not bad. I got away. Force wave."

Qui-Gon sat still, stunned speechless for a moment.

Obi-Wan gave him another tired smile. "I know, I know, yet another skill that I have not mastered. They were all knocked unconscious, fortunately. I could not have done anything else to fight them off. Barely . . . barely made it back . . ." He blinked sleepily at the mug, lifted it as if it was almost too heavy for his strength, and drank deeply.

"Obi-Wan . . ." Qui-Gon began tentatively. "Obi-Wan, do you know how many Jedi in history were able to gather and release a Force wave at the age of thirteen?"

"No, Master." The boy blinked at him, unable to understand where this question was going.

"I think there might have been two. Perhaps three."

"Oh. That's nice." Obi-Wan drank again. "I didn't really think about it. I just knew that that was what I had to do. And I knew I could, and I did."

By the Force, Qui-Gon thought incredulously. How did he manage to walk at all after doing all of that?

He moved to sit next to the boy, removed the empty mug from his limp grasp. "No wonder you're tired, my Padawan. No wonder at all. Here, let's see what I can do about that black eye."

Obi-Wan flinched slightly as Qui-Gon laid a hand against the side of his face, index finger and thumb touching the edge of the bruise, but did not pull away. He looked back at his Master with the serenity of complete exhaustion, not entirely aware of his surroundings anymore.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and drew on the power of the Force, pulling it in to flow down his arm and through his fingers, closing ruptured blood vessels, soothing swollen flesh, banishing the pooled blood beneath the skin. If Obi-Wan could heal a mass of bleeding wounds, even without a gift for healing, Qui-Gon could heal a simple black eye.

When he opened his eyes the bruise was not completely gone, but significantly reduced, as if a week's worth healing had happened in the last few minutes. Obi-Wan smiled peacefully, admiration and gratitude shining in his weary young eyes. "Nice," he murmured.

"What about your stomach?"

The Padawan lifted his tunic without a tremor and let Qui-Gon inspect the discoloration on his abdomen. It was deceptively small, from the toe of someone's boot, but dark and livid, revealing the power that had gone behind the kick. He did his best to ease that, too, and was relieved to detect no internal injury. Force, they could have hurt Obi-Wan seriously, if he hadn't been able to escape.

"Now, Obi-Wan, I think it would be best if you went to bed."

The boy stood slowly to obey, and would have fallen back on the couch if Qui-Gon hadn't caught him. "Now, now, Padawan, none of that," he teased gently. "One act of reasonable disobedience is enough for one day."

He supported the apprentice to his room and got him into bed, tucking the covers under his chin. He was amused to realize that the boy was already snoring, a soft whuffle and wheeze that made him seem about five years old. Then Qui-Gon went back to out the lounge area to finish his tea, and to ponder all that his Padawan had accomplished in only two hours.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Qui-Gon was not entirely sure whether or not he ought to wake his apprentice. Shadows still lurked under Obi-Wan's eyes, despite a solid ten hours of sleep. Then again, that wasn't particularly shocking, considering what the boy had done.

But after Qui-Gon had been watching for only a moment, the Padawan stirred, as if the weight of his Master's gaze was enough to pierce through the haze of sleep. He opened his eyes and stared blearily at Qui-Gon standing in the doorway.

"Good morning, Padawan," Qui-Gon said.

"Mornings," Obi-Wan said slowly and clearly, taking care to enunciate each syllable, "were created by the Sith specifically to torture Jedi Padawans."

Qui-Gon smiled. "Would you like some breakfast?"

Obi-Wan sat up immediately. "Yes, please."

The Master chuckled and departed to comm the hotel kitchen. The mention of food was always a sure-fire way to get the apprentice going in the morning

But when the simple repast of fruit, pastry, and tea arrived and the two Jedi sat at the small table in their lounge, Obi-Wan didn't eat much. For several long minutes he held a half-eaten poli fruit in his hand, contemplating it with a deep, philosophical stare. Qui-Gon sipped his tea, studying the Padawan just as intently. The boy didn't notice.

"Something bothering you, Obi-Wan?"

Blue-green eyes flicked to the Master's face, then away. "Just . . . just wondering whether Nibbi is having anything half as nice for breakfast."

"Ah." Qui-Gon lowered his eyes, for some reason feeling slightly chagrined.

Obi-Wan took a half-hearted bite of his poli and picked at the pastry on his plate. "Master, are we doing anything important today?"

They had already been over the itinerary for their entire stay, but Qui-Gon decided not to mention the boy's lapse in concentration. He could allow his Padawan an hour to wake up—that was usually how long it took. "This morning we'll be meeting with city officials, and we'll have lunch with the ruler of Sylelius . . ."

Obi-Wan knew he was being prompted, to prove that he'd paid attention and remembered. He blinked, waking up a bit more. "President Rothis Hindegar."

"Right. We'll wear formal robes for those functions. The afternoon is free, and we'll start our observation. I thought we'd find some common clothes and blend in."

"Perhaps we should split up to cover more ground. There will be a lot to see."

"Perhaps we should." Qui-Gon suppressed a frown. For some reason he didn't like that idea. But it wasn't the Force speaking to him. It was . . . something else.

Obi-Wan sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, stopping when he touched the left eye, which was still red and puffy. "Master, I . . . I'd really like to . . . I know we're only going to be here for a couple of weeks, but while we're here I want to spend some time . . .it might not seem entirely befitting to a Jedi, but . . ."

Qui-Gon finally took pity on him. "You want to spend time with the little boy you befriended."

Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly. "I want to try to earn his trust, enough so that he'll let me take him somewhere he can be taken care of. All of the foster homes can't be like that one. But I think I'll need to visit him every day, and I didn't know if we would have time."

"Padawan, we will make time. This is important. And it is completely befitting to a Jedi."

"Truly?"

"Very much so, yes! I'm glad you've found such a worthy project to occupy your time here. I'd hate for you to become bored."

"Oh, I'm never bored," Obi-Wan said seriously. He finished the poli fruit in a few bites, then started in on the pastry. Qui-Gon could tell by the glaze in his eyes that he hardly tasted it, busy planning how to reach the hurting child.

The Padawan's eyes flicked again to the Master's face, bright with eagerness, yet sober with responsibility. "I want to visit the charities, the government's systems, and interview those who would take charge of Nibbi. That will be good observation, won't it? You can tell the most about a people's character by seeing how they treat the weakest and neediest among them."

Qui-Gon sat back in his chair a bit, impressed. "That's very wise, Padawan. Just don't neglect the other aspects of the world. Talk to merchants, constables, people on the street."

"Yes, Master." But the blue-green eyes were distant with thought again. Then they fixed on Qui-Gon once more. "Master, I must ask your permission to do something that may not be entirely befitting to a Jedi."

Qui-Gon blinked. Again? "What is it, Padawan?"

"I need to fight the leader of that gang. It must be a fair fight, just hands, just the two of us, and I'll probably have to promise not to use the Force. Once I beat him, they will respect me enough to leave me—and Nibbi—alone. I'll probably have to beat him pretty badly, though. It won't be pleasant."

Again Qui-Gon was impressed by the boy's wisdom. Why had he never noticed this side of Obi-Wan before? "So you are saying that this fight would be in your defense, and the defense of a child who cannot protect himself? Yes, Obi-Wan, that is befitting to a Jedi. Just make sure that you keep that as your motive, not seeking revenge for the way they hurt you."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "What, this?" He gestured at the healing bruise around his eye, failing to notice Qui-Gon's wince. "This is nothing. Bruck did worse than this, and more besides, and I never sought revenge. Though I admit that I defended myself in something approaching anger a time or two." Obi-Wan took heart at Qui-Gon's smile, enough to return it and ask hopefully, "Do I have your permission then?"

Once more a protest rose in Qui-Gon, and he quelled it with a faint sigh, accepting the will of the Force. He nodded reluctantly. "I must admit that I don't care for the idea of you facing a young ruffian twice your size without the Force, but I trust your judgment. If you feel that that is what you must do, then you should follow your instincts. I know that you can handle yourself."

Obi-Wan's grin broadened. "Thank you, Master. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. The Force is with you."

X

Despite his best intentions, Obi-Wan had a very difficult time focusing on the morning meetings. It was information he'd heard dozens of times before, about how wonderful the Republic was, how the Senate allowed every world to be represented with their fair say, how each planet retained limited autonomy, yet were protected by the best laws and the best security history had ever seen.

"Yes indeed, the Jedi," Ambassador Grenik had interjected. "The guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy!"

Obi-Wan pressed his lips tightly together to keep from smirking, and felt Qui-Gon's disapproving nudge through the bond, almost—but not quite—a mental slap. The Padawan schooled his features to calm, not needing to look at Qui-Gon to know that the returning glance would be a glare. Focus, Kenobi, he scolded himself, hearing his own words in his Master's voice. This isn't some boring class back at the Temple. This is a real live mission, and bad things can happen at a moment's notice. A Jedi must be ready for anything.

But nothing happened. Everything was perfectly peaceful, all of the participants in the meeting were perfectly amicable, and Obi-Wan remained perfectly bored.

The first spark of interest he got from the day came during lunch. All right, meeting President Hindegar, that was pretty neat. Obi-Wan hadn't been sure what to expect from the ruler of Sylelius, but had vaguely envisioned a round, red-faced man with a snobbish manner and gold braid on his uniform. Instead, Hindegar turned out to be a practical, cheerful fellow in his mid-fifties wearing the attire of a middle-class Sylelian, his dark blond hair beginning a dignified edge toward gray.

But what truly captured Obi-Wan's interest was Hindegar's daughter. She was four or five standard years older than the Jedi Padawan, honey-colored hair flowing down her back in gentle waves. Her face was soft and rounded, her full, pink-glossed lips perpetually pursed.

This was not what drew the young Jedi's attention. It was the deep tension in her hunched shoulders, the guarded shields behind her eyes, the sadness that surrounded her Force-signature like a clinging mist. He was astounded that her father seemed totally oblivious. Couldn't he feel it? Couldn't everyone feel it? The girl was in pain!

The president caught his eye and grinned. Obi-Wan realized that he'd been staring and blushed furiously. The young lady regarded him with barely-disguised hostility.

"Padawan Kenobi, this is my daughter, Amora Hindegar," the president said. "Amora, Obi-Wan Kenobi. I believe you'll be seated next to each other for this luncheon."

Obi-Wan nodded, a sinking feeling in his chest. He wanted to apologize to Amora, but felt absolutely ridiculous, and his jaw locked up. Unexpectedly he felt the weight of Qui-Gon's hand on his shoulder, and he gave the Master a grateful look.

"Let's sit down, shall we?" President Hindegar swept a hand in invitation.

The group had been standing the doorway of the banquet hall as introductions were made, but now they moved into the well-appointed room and took their seats as directed. Joining the Jedi and the two Hindegars were Ambassador Grenik, the mayor of Reshifc, and half a dozen various aides and coucilors.

Obi-Wan made several valiant attempts to start a conversation with Amora, and was rebuffed by silence as sharp and enduring as an adamantine wall. Her guard was fully up, and she was not about to let a snot-nosed Jedi apprentice with a childish crush inside. Obi-Wan sighed and surrendered, hoping that she had someone to confide in. Her pain itched at the edges of his senses, demanding relief. It was starting to hurt him, too.

"Would you explain the candle ceremony?" Qui-Gon asked as they dug into the salad course, and Obi-Wan brought his attention swiftly back to the moment. "We saw that listed on the schedule for tomorrow evening, but did not understand its significance."

"Ah, the Release of Candles," President Hindegar answered, apparently gratified by the Jedi's interest. "It is a ritual unique to this region of Sylelius. You know that Reshifc is only two kilometers from the sea? Once a year on tomorrow's date, the people gather to remember those who were lost during the past fifteen moon-cycles. A candle is lit for each loved one taken by death, and given to the sea in remembrance. It is a symbol only, for we know that each soul has already been loosed to fly among the stars. But the ceremony can be a balm for the grief of those left behind. And it is a lovely sight, all of those lights floating on the waves."

He reached across the table suddenly to grasp his daughter's hand, smiling sadly, and Amora looked at him with wide dark eyes and returned the clasp with white-knuckled intensity. The president sighed deeply. "We will release a candle for my dear wife, Amora's mother."

"I am truly sorry for your loss," Qui-Gon said gravely.

"It was almost thirteen moon-cycles ago," Hindegar said. He gave Amora's hand a gentle squeeze and released her. "But yes, the grief still bites us sharply at times."

Obi-Wan let his sympathy show in his eyes, hoping that Amora would see it and perhaps think a little better of him. She did not notice.

And why couldn't he shake the feeling that something was wrong? This loss ought to be enough to explain the anguish he felt emanating from the girl. But somehow he knew that there was more to it, and he was deeply unsettled by this instinct.

Chapter Text

The bell above the front door tinkled, and Nilla looked up, eager to greet the newest visitor to the Onorda Street clinic. "Welcome!" she said warmly. "Come in, come in! Can I help you?"

The boy paused shyly just inside the door, his hand still on the push-bar that crossed it. He was a slender youngster, perhaps twelve or thirteen, his sandy hair in a short, spiky cut. His garments were ordinary, new-looking, a scuff on one knee. He looked like any one of hundreds of pre-adolescent children in Reshifc.

Nilla's eye was drawn immediately to the large bruise that covered half his face. It was mostly healed, but Nilla's lips still tightened in anger. Somebody had punched this child.

She purposely did not focus on it, not wanting to frighten the hesitant boy away. "Well, what brings you here? I'd be happy to answer any questions you have."

The boy stepped slowly to the desk. "I . . . uh . . . I'd just like some information."

Nilla started pulling brochures from her desk drawers. "We offer a number of free services: shelter, counseling, med care . . ." She glanced at the pamphlet in her hand, which offered free pregnancy testing, and put it back in the drawer. "You can register anonymously, if you like. No one needs to know. This clinic is meant to be a safe place for those who have nowhere else to turn."

The boy nodded soberly, his eyes on the sheaf of flimsyplast Nilla held out to him. As his slender fingers closed about the brochures he glanced up and offered a brief, brilliant smile, allowing her a glimpse of sparkling blue eyes. "Thank you. I'll just study this information for now."

She watched him wander over to the small lounge area and settle himself into a chair, spreading the brochures on the low table in front of him. That accent . . . it was Deep Core. This boy—or his parents, perhaps—did not come from Sylelius.

Nilla had been a receptionist at the Onorda Street clinic for two years, starting here on recommendation of her sister Mili after she was downsized from the comm part plant down on 122nd Street. It was a good job. She enjoyed welcoming frightened, hurting people into a place where they could be safe and begin to find healing for their wounds.

She felt that her heart had become cold and shrunken in the impersonal surroundings of the part plant. Now it was warm and open again, and seemed to get bigger with each person she encountered. It made her more vulnerable to pain, as her compassion was constantly touched and pricked by the poor folks she met. But it also opened her up to enjoy more of life. The trade was worth it. Absolutely worth it.

Over time Nilla had developed a sweet, welcoming manner that served her very well in this job. It was a gentle kindness, one that offered help without insistence, without pressure. She knew when to speak and when to be silent. Sometimes the right word could draw a hurting soul in—sometimes the wrong movement could send a frightened child away. Nilla had learned all of these words and movements, some by instinct and some by experience, and she could draw almost anyone.

This boy, now . . . There was something about him. Something shuttered and silent, and infinitely sad. It went beyond the healing black eye, but Nilla supposed that the two were connected. This youngster had hidden away a part of himself, finding it a liability in the game of survival.

It happened every day, she knew. Exuberant children learned that attention meant pain, and destroyed their enthusiasm to become quiet and reserved, knowing the seldom noticed meant seldom beaten. Battered women learned that their men would not tolerate any other relationships, and so they hid away their connection to parents, siblings, friends, and even children, fighting desperately to please what would never be pleased. Oh, it was tragic. And it happened every day.

This boy, now . . . this charming young man with the bright smile and the brilliant, subdued eyes . . . What had he lost? Something very important, Nilla knew. Something that, perhaps, could never be regained. Oh, it made her heart ache. And it made her angry. No one should have to go through this kind of pain, least of all an innocent child.

The boy had finished reading the brochures and now sat looking out the window thoughtfully. There were shadows under those blue eyes, Nilla noticed, shadows of weariness . . . and pain? Unaware that he was being observed, the boy let some of the deep sorrow she had sensed rise to the surface. For the briefest moment a look of utter misery flickered on that pale young face, then was gone.

Nilla couldn't stand it any longer. She bustled out from behind the desk and sat in the couch perpendicular to his chair, angling herself to face him. He turned to look at her, young face once again clear and calm.

She laid her hand gently over his, and he seemed startled, but did not pull away. "Listen, sweetie, you don't have to put up with this. Who is it? Mom, dad, uncle? Employer? Whoever it is, what they're doing to you is wrong, and you don't have to submit anymore. What do you say you step into one of our meeting rooms and have a chat with someone? No pressure, you don't have to make any promises, just have a nice, friendly little conversation."

Surprise flickered across blue-green depths. "No one is hurting me. I'm all right, really."

Nilla nodded gently. Of course he would deny it—few admitted to being abused on their first tentative visit to the clinic.

"Truly, I got this black eye in a fight."

That did not explain the shadows on his face, the flash of misery she had seen, and the silent sorrow he still concealed.

"Very well. But will you talk to one of our counselors? I promise, no pressure. You don't have to come back ever again, if you don't want to. But you should at least know your options."

He studied her intently for a few moments, giving her a good chance to study those huge eyes that seemed to blaze of their own light. What color were they, after all? She had originally thought they were blue, then blue-green, but in this light they seemed more of a pensive greenish-gray. And even as she watched, they seemed to shift.

"All right," he said at last. "I'd like to hear more about what you have to offer here. But, no, I will not make any promises."

"Fair enough." Nilla clasped the boy's hand warmly in her own, and they rose together. "I just want you to know what's available to you, sweetheart. No one should have to deal with pain and grief alone."

"No," he agreed quietly. "No one should."

X

People were shouting, and a crowd was gathering on Onorda Street. Nibbi slowly stuck his head outside his box, blinking at the afternoon sunlight. He had hidden here after lunch—a handful of nuts he'd found in a can in a recyclobin—to nap. He was napping more and more, lately, whenever he wasn't searching for food or running from the gangs. Napping required no energy, and he felt no hunger and pain while he slept. Some of his dreams were even kind of nice.

Nibbi cautiously crawled out of his hiding place, leaving the nice warm robe there, where no one could find it and steal it from him. He edged down the alley, keeping close to the wall, his eyes fixed on the crowd gathering on the street outside. Life on the street had not killed his curiosity yet. Crowds like this only gathered for speeder crashes, shootings, and gang fights, and he wondered which one this was.

Automatically his eyes searched the crowd for begging targets. Mostly gang members, older street kids and beggars, some local merchants, a few housewives from the apartments. None of them had any credits to spare for a filthy street vrelt, or so they had informed him on more than one occasion.

The center of the clot of gang members was roiling agitatedly, and everyone's attention was focused there. Nibbi heard bloodthirsty shouts of encouragement, groans and gasps, sounds of flesh striking flesh. It was a fight, then.

Nibbi insinuated himself into the crowd, wanting to see who was going at each other this time. Rell and Stiner had an on-going feud, and that Sullustan couple from down street—Mr. and Mrs. Bnong, was it?—occasionally took their differences outside, or it might be random members of opposing gangs letting their insults escalate into injuries.

It was no good. The little vrelt couldn't get close enough for a clear look, and the constantly shifting bodies only gave him occasional glimpses through the legs of the gang members immediately surrounding the fighters. With a thrill of terror, Nibbi recognized Tronak, who took it upon himself to make sure that the urchin got a regular taste of his thick, plastoid belt. That belt hurt a lot—the edges were sharp and bit into his skin more often than not.

Nibbi began inching his way out of the crowd, trying not to touch anyone and draw attention to himself. Maybe he could find a recyclobin or something to climb up on . . . At the edge of the press of bodies he almost ran into a tall, burly man, one he didn't recognize. He stared up at the human in something approaching awe, completely forgetting the turmoil about him. The man was dressed like any other loser on Onorda Street, but something about him didn't seem to fit. He held himself differently, without pride, but without defeat. Somehow, he reminded the little vrelt of Obi, the most amazing person Nibbi had ever met.

The towering man held himself in silence, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the combatants in the center of the crowd. His gaze was intense, focused. It seemed to Nibbi that maybe the big man wanted to join that fight, but he held himself back. Somehow the child knew that he had nothing to fear from this one.

Timidly, trembling a bit at his own daring, Nibbi tugged on the man's tunic. "'Scuse me, mister."

He looked calmly down at the vrelt, and a gentle smile lit on his face. "Yes, little one?"

In spite of himself, Nibbi's voice shook. "C-Can you tell me what's goin' on? I can't see." He realized that his fingers were still wrapped in the man's tunic, and let go abruptly. Stars and little fishes, but this fellow was big. He could squash Nibbi like a teeny-tiny bug, if he wanted.

The man studied him thoughtfully. "Would you like to see?"

"Yes, please."

The giant's eyes seemed to flicker a bit in surprise at that. A polite street vrelt? Without hesitation, the man turned toward the little boy and held out his arms.

Nibbi took a nervous step back, eyeing those big, broad hands with suspicion. He bet it would it hurt an awful, awful lot to be hit by one of those. Then he looked up at the gentle, open face, and the fear faded. He held up his own arms, like the trusting little child he no longer was.

The man picked him up easily and balanced him against one shoulder. Nibbi gasped a bit at the sudden movement and wrapped one arm about the light brown head to anchor himself. "All right?" the man asked, looking at the child with smiling, faded blue eyes.

"All right," the little vrelt said faintly. "Thanks, mister. 'M Nibbi."

"I'm Quig—" The man bit his lip suddenly.

"Quig? Thank you, Quig."

Quig smiled. "You're welcome, Nibbi.

Nibbi finally turned to watch the fight. For the second time in as many minutes, he gasped. "It's Obi!"

Chapter Text

Focus on the moment, focus on the moment . . .

It was incredible, really, how distracted and unfocused Obi-Wan could be. Here he was, in the middle of a fist-fight, for crying out loud, and his mind kept wanting to wander. He had been aware of his Master's presence from the moment Qui-Gon stepped to the edge of the crowd, but he had deliberately cut off most of his Force sense, and so had no clue what the man was thinking. Was he pleased, proud, disappointed, irritated, disgusted, bored? The Padawan could imagine any of those reactions, but the first two seemed the least likely.

Focus on the moment!

Obi-Wan blocked another punch, side-stepped another sweeping kick to the ankles. This fellow, Tronak, had the vast advantage in strength, height and downright bulk, but he had virtually no training. If the Padawan hadn't been so exhausted that he couldn't see straight yesterday, the Sylelian youth never would have gotten in that shot to the eye. An eighth-year initiate could probably take him, even without the Force.

So why is this taking so long? Focus, Kenobi!

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes. He caught Tronak's fist in his own as it sailed past his face, but the older youth broke the grip with a slight grunt, exerting almost no effort to do so. Obi-Wan had been fighting defensively, taking a few hits to the mid-section, though no bad ones, ducking or blocking most blows. It was the way a Jedi fought, but it was earning him no respect from these bullies, and respect was what he needed to earn.

"Go for it, Tronak!" a gang member screamed in the cacophony of egging-on that had been continuing since the fight began.

"Rip his eyeballs out! Show 'im he don't belong here!"

"Show 'im he can't mess with the Gray Knights!"

"Nights?" Obi-Wan asked between pants for air as he ducked another swing and circled, ending up on Tronak's right side. "You named yourself after a time of day?"

Tronak growled as he turned to face the slippery kid who kept evading his fists. "Knights, you idiot, not Nights! As in 'the gray knights approach on black horses as the pale moon rides above'?"

Obi-Wan blinked, surprised by the quotation of Alderaanian poetry. "Oh, knights!" he repeated, blocking a strong downward blow with crossed wrists. "As in, the guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy? Is that why you feel it is within your rights to hurt and belittle a helpless child?"

"What, that little vrelt?" Tronak aimed a blow that should have split Obi-Wan's lips and loosened half his teeth, grunting with frustration as it only grazed by that smooth, gold-tinted cheek. "He deserves everything he gets! I don't understand why you wanted to fight over him, of all things. You ain't no Jedi! Jedi take care of big, important things, like presidents and wars and solar systems under siege. You're just another do-gooder from uptown, thinking you can stick your perfect nose in here and tell us what to do!"

Obi-Wan was distantly amazed that the gang leader could find breath enough for that tirade. Tronak was panting steadily now, sweat dripping down his none-too-clean chin to splash on faded garments and a worn leather vest. This fight had gone on much longer than the usual fisticuffs Tronak was used to deciding with only a few heavy, well-aimed punches.

The Padawan nodded gently. "Yes, Jedi guard presidents and solar systems. But we also care about children on the streets, and young men who have no direction. It is a shame that the 'larger' things so often prevent us from taking care of the rest. All are equally important."

Tronak paused for a bare moment, delicately balanced with one foot forward and a fist cocked to swing, and gave his opponent a confused look. "You make no sense at all."

Obi-Wan reflected sadly that that was probably true as the Sylelian launched his offensive again. He blocked three blows in quick succession, then sighed in exasperation. Enough. It was time to end this.

The Padawan knocked the incoming fists wide, and jabbed in with his own punch, lightning-quick, before the bigger boy could react. He jumped back lightly, using a footwork move from the fourth kata. Tronak reeled slightly, then straightened with an almost audible snap, dark eyes blazing.

With a low roar, he leaped for Obi-Wan again, limbs flailing. The Padawan grunted as the spiked boot connected with his knee—he hadn't anticipated the kick in time, busy twisting away from the flying fists. He really missed the Force.

He used the impetus from the strike to pivot and strike out with his own round-house kick. It caught Tronak in the chest, throwing him back into the arms of his cronies. The tight circle around them shifted a bit as their positions moved. Obi-Wan threw himself after the older youth, aware that he could not waste time, had to take advantage of momentary weakness.

They crashed to the ground, Obi-Wan on top, pinning Tronak's arms with his knees. Utterly calm, he pounded the gang leader's face with all the strength he had, the muscles toned by years of intense training making him far more formidable than his youth and stature advertised. He was a Jedi. He fought to defend the defenseless.

And he fought very well indeed.

Tronak hadn't had any idea what he was getting to when he agreed to this brutal "duel." Now he began to get an inkling, and realization in his dark eyes quickly flashed to panic, barely visible as Obi-Wan's fist flashed up and down. With a convulsion of his entire body, he threw the younger boy off and rolled onto his knees, making it to his feet before the young Jedi could recover his position.

They stood for a moment, panting. The crowd around had become tensely silent, the gang members shocked by the momentary defeat of their champion, the bystanders eager to see what would come next. Tronak looked Obi-Wan squarely in the eye, blood dripping from his nose and his chin, and there it was. Respect.

That was it, then. What Obi-Wan had come for. He stood straight, and gave the bully a stiff little bow, never taking his eyes from other's face.

Tronak aimed a kick at his head.

Obi-Wan snapped straight and caught the foot, twisting it. It had not been a good kick, neither graceful nor balanced, and Tronak started to fall, yelling in surprise and rage. Obi-Wan lunged forward as he released the foot, grabbed the older boy's collar to hold him up, and slammed one last punch into his face.

Then he let go and let him fall. Tronak crashed bonelessly to the pavement, eyes shut, face mangled with bruises. Obi-Wan looked at the gang that crowded around, a warning in his eyes. He was ready for them, if they decided to break the bonds of the agreement.

The side of his mouth quirked in satisfaction as they swayed slightly back, giving him room. One of Tronak's lieutenants knelt at his side, trying to wake him.

"Don't attack me again," Obi-Wan said quietly, his words carrying to every corner of the small crowd. He held himself straight, like the Jedi he was. "Don't lay a finger on Nibbi. I did this on my own, as we agreed." How much do you think I can with the Force? he implied to the gang, though he said nothing aloud, wanted to keep at least a shred of his cover as an observer—he wouldn't just shout it out now. "Touch that little boy again, and I'll know. I do not seek revenge, but I'm a strong believer in justice."

With the cause of excitement gone, the crowd began to break up. Tronak's gang dragged him away. Obi-Wan simply stood there, watching. No one said a word to him.

"Obi, Obi!"

The Padawan turned just in time to catch the little boy who hurled himself into his arms. He grunted softly, staggered just a bit, then caught his balance and hugged the boy tightly. "Hi, Nibbi."

He set the child down and looked up his Master, who stood a few feet away, his face impassive. "Hello . . ." He wasn't sure what to call him now, if they should even bother pretending not to be Jedi.

"This's Quig!" Nibbi said excitedly, tugging on the man's broad hand. "He's nice! He sorta makes me think of you. Do you know each other or somethin'?"

Qui-Gon grinned, and Obi-Wan felt his brow wrinkle in confusion. "Um, yeah, Nibbi. He's . . ."

"I'm his uncle." Qui-Gon stepped in smoothly. "We're visiting Sylelius on business. Though Obi consistently finds other ways to occupy his time."

"Yeah!" Nibbi turned back to Obi-Wan, little face beaming with excitement. "That was so maj, Obi! Tronak went down like a speeder with a busted repulsor. Neeeeowwmm-POOSH!" He demonstrated, gliding his flat hand down as if heading toward the ground, then bunching both fists together and bursting them apart in an explosion of small dancing fingers. He giggled, a broad, crooked grin spreading across his face, and looked almost sleepy with gleeful contentment. "It was maj," he repeated in a reverent tone.

Obi-Wan was completely taken with that little giggle. He would do quite a lot, he considered, to hear it again, and frequently. The young Jedi carefully lowered himself on one knee, ignoring the new aches and pains that yelped for his attention, and placed a gentle hand on the little one's shoulder.

"I did it for you, Nibbi," he said softly. "They won't bother you again if they know what's good for them."

The small boy regarding him soberly, dark eyes suspiciously bright. "No one ever fought for me b'fore," he whispered. "No one. Not ever."

"Well, that's changed now, hasn't it?"

Nibbi nodded, ducking his head. He picked up Obi-Wan's free hand in his little ones, intently studying the bruised and bloody knuckles. The child ran small, shaking fingers over the wounds, and Obi-Wan didn't mind at all that they were a bit dirty.

"It's all right, Nibbi. It doesn't hurt much, really. Uncle Quig and I will take care of them when we get back to where we're staying. Remember how I helped your back?"

Nibbi looked up at the older boy with a bright smile, one tear tracking through the grime on his cheek. "Yeah. I betcha you can do anything, Obi."

Obi-Wan grinned back, and moved his hand from the little shoulder to wipe away the tear. "Why don't we get something to eat?"

The little vrelt's eyes widened in astonishment. "Doncha hafta get back?" He gave "Quig" a wary glance.

"I have a few more people I need to talk to," Qui-Gon said smoothly. "You two have a nice meal in that café down the street, and I'll be back in half an hour or so."

"Fair enough?" the young Jedi asked. "Good thing that café isn't the nicest in town. We probably look like brothers now, all dirty and scratched up."

Nibbi giggled. "Fair enough." He threw his arms around Obi-Wan's neck in a tight hold. The Padawan just barely avoided making a choking sound, and hugged him back

Obi-Wan looked up at his Master, and Qui-Gon gave him a deep, measuring look. I think you're well on your way to earning his trust, the older Jedi mouthed, knowing the Padawan could read his lips. "See you soon."

And he walked away, still without any indication of what he'd thought of the fight. Obi-Wan fought the sinking feeling in his chest. Just how badly had he done?

Chapter Text

Qui-Gon returned to café to find Obi-Wan and Nibbi sitting on the edge of the duracrete stoop, playing Rock, Flimsy, Cutters with sparkling eyes, loud, childlike giggles, and hands flying in animated gestures, fisted or flat or forked in the third symbol. He paused a few paces away, just watching them, how wonderful they were, how beautifully they shone in the Force. Nibbi's presence shone green and youthful in the Living Force, like any young, growing thing, but Obi-Wan signature, as always, was all but blinding in its brilliance, a pure, gleaming white that never seemed to dim in the Master's eye of the mind. But it was the outer vision that struck Qui-Gon most powerfully.

Neither was a truly a child anymore—Nibbi was aged by pain and loss far beyond his years, Obi-Wan by the path he had followed with grave intensity from infancy—but in this moment both were young and pure and glowing with innocent joy, taking delight in a simple childhood game. Both boys were dirty and scratched, faces and hands a bit battered, clothes rumpled and showing signs of hard wear. Though Nibbi definitely looked worse off, they truly could have been mistaken for brothers, even with the sharp contrast of their coloring: deep brown hair and eyes, fair reddish spikes and sea-colored lumas.

Qui-Gon was surprised by the image of his Padawan as a grubby child of the streets, and it bothered him deep in a hidden part of his psyche—he did not like how the boy seemed neglected and forsaken, despite the cheerful energy in his stance and expression. The man shook it off and took a step forward, clearing his throat. The boys looked up with wide eyes, immediately torn away from their fun, wariness surfacing on open, vulnerable faces. Qui-Gon regretted startling them so badly, and a doubt wormed into his mind. Nibbi's reaction was understandable, but why had Obi-Wan stiffened so abruptly? Surely he was not afraid?

Obi-Wan relaxed at once, flashing a friendly, welcoming smile. Nibbi gradually followed suit and gave the man a hesitant wave. "Hi, Quig."

"Hello, Nibbi." Qui-Gon smiled warmly. "It's time to head back, Obi."

"Yes, M-my uncle." Obi-Wan grinned sheepishly, then turned back to his little friend, eyes and voice softening instantly. "Did you think about what I said? Nilla is a really nice lady, and she would love to meet you."

Nibbi's lips pursed defiantly. "'M fine. Like my box."

"I bet you'd like a warm bed even better," Obi-Wan coaxed.

The child shook his head firmly. "Warm enough." He crossed his arms across his small chest, glaring at the older boy with a vehemence that did not quite mask his insecurity. He wanted Obi-Wan's approval, longed for it with the intensity of a little one left alone and lonely for far too long, but on this issue he would not budge. He was afraid.

Obi-Wan sighed and ruffled the dark, tangled hair. "All right. I understand. Keep thinking about it, though." A sudden flash of mischief glinted in blue-green eyes, and Obi-Wan reverted to a very childish trick. He pinched Nibbi's nose between his index and middle fingers and pulled back his fist with the thumb poking out slightly between them. "I've got your nose!"

"Give it back!" Nibbi's mouth dropped open in utter dismay and genuine shock.

Qui-Gon did not resist the laugh that rumbled powerfully from the bottom of his lungs to burst out of his mouth. "By the stars, Obi, he truly does believe you can do anything."

The corner of Obi-Wan's mouth twitched in chagrin, and he quickly touched the tip of his thumb to the little boy's nose, then displayed his hand open, fingers spread, proving that he held nothing. "Sorry, Nibbi," he said contritely. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Nibbi reached up and felt his nose with both hands, patting it tenderly in obvious relief. He grinned at the Padawan, eyes shining. "'Sall right. Just startled me, you did."

Qui-Gon would have shaken his head at the hero-worship that gleamed so brightly in those dark young eyes, but the purity of it prevented him. This little one saw Obi-Wan as the embodiment of all that was good in the galaxy, a tower of strength and comfort and delight. It didn't matter that he was only thirteen years old, a Padawan learner, half-trained, inexperienced and prone to error—to Nibbi he was a Knight. And Qui-Gon could not fault the child for feeling so.

"Obi, we really must be getting back," he said, surprising himself with the gentleness of his tone. His emotions had been taking far too much control lately, especially when he hadn't intended them to. He would need to work on that.

"Yes, Uncle Quig." Obi-Wan rose reluctantly from the stoop, pulling Nibbi up with him.

The Jedi escorted the street vrelt back to his box in the alley, and Qui-Gon understood Obi-Wan's unwillingness to leave the child there. But for now this was Nibbi's choice, and he was in no immediate danger, thanks to the Padawan's fight this afternoon. It would do more harm than good to force the boy into care. Perhaps with a little more persuasion . . .

"I'll try to see you tomorrow, Nibbi," Obi-Wan said, leaning down to tuck his own robe around the little one. He glanced at Qui-Gon, and the Master nodded.

"I saw a little park a couple of blocks from here," Qui-Gon said. "Perhaps you two could have fun there. After our business tomorrow is completed, of course."

Nibbi nodded, small white teeth gleaming in the dimness of his "home" as he snuggled into the robe. "I'll be waiting for you."

Obi-Wan straightened slowly, reluctantly, and followed Qui-Gon down the alley toward the street. They walked back silently, each Jedi lost in his own thoughts. Qui-Gon was aware of the anxious glances Obi-Wan kept tossing him, and he waited patiently for the boy to speak. Perhaps now he would finally find out what had been troubling his Padawan so deeply over the last couple of weeks.

But Obi-Wan said nothing, and at last Qui-Gon broke the quiet himself. "Your little friend seems quite enamored with you."

Obi-Wan snorted gently. "I wish he had chosen someone else to trust so exclusively and whole-heartedly. Like Nilla at the Onorda Street clinic, for example."

"I take your observations there went well, then?"

"Yes, but I don't think we should stop by right now. With my fresh bruises and your hulking figure, she'll be certain that you're abusing me, 'Uncle Quig.'"

Qui-Gon stopped walking at the boy's quiet snigger, turning a teasing glare on his Padawan. "Are you mocking my choice of name and relation to you? I could have said you were my clerk, you know. Or my servant boy. Then I would be perfectly justified in teaching you a physical lesson."

"Slavery's illegal on Sylelius, Uncle Quig." Obi-Wan covered his mouth with his hand, but could not hide the shimmer of playfulness in bright blue-green eyes. "And yes, I'm definitely mocking you. I have street cred now, you know. Roughs on Onorda Street respect me. Not much you can do to me now."

"Oh, no?" Qui-Gon half-growled, half-laughed, stalking toward his impish apprentice. "You're really asking for it now, boy. I'm still a lot stronger than you!"

Alarm flashed through those expressive eyes, and Obi-Wan backed up a step, then fell to the pavement, hard, as his knee buckled beneath him. Qui-Gon halted instantly, stiffening a bit in surprise and consternation. "Obi-Wan?" No more teasing now. This was serious. "Is something wrong?"

"I . . . I forgot about my knee." Obi-Wan touched it cautiously, then hissed and drew back his hand. "Tronak kicked it. Spiked boot. Must have stepped wrong, there. Hurts a little."

Qui-Gon knelt at the boy's side, not caring about the spectacle they were making for the pedestrians hurrying about them as sunset approached. He hovered one hand carefully over the injured knee, probing it with the Force. "Just bruised and swollen," he decided with relief. "I'm sure it hurts quite a bit, though. You were limping this whole time, weren't you? Why didn't you say something?"

Obi-Wan shrugged, watching as Qui-Gon poured in healing waves. He seemed withdrawn and subdued, suddenly. Qui-Gon was bit disturbed by these abrupt mood-swings. Something was definitely going on with his apprentice, and he wanted to know what it was.

He looked at the boy's face, and was again bothered to see those deep shadows of fatigue ringing his eyes. Today had been tiring, certainly, as had the day before, but Obi-Wan should not be so exhausted, should he? He turned back to the knee.

"Master?" The boy's voice was tentative. "I did not mean to be so disrespectful. I guess my mind thought I was still playing with Nibbi . . . silly of me."

Qui-Gon looked up again, in surprise this time. "Padawan, we were teasing. I teased you back. You were not disrespectful. I think I startled you, though, and for that I apologize. It was not my intent to frighten you. I don't want you to be afraid of me."

"Oh." Again the boy stared at his knee as if fascinated. "I'm not afraid of you, Master. You just . . . surprised me. Turning toward me like that. Jedi reflexes. And I know you're a lot stronger than I am."

For the second time that evening, Qui-Gon felt regret. He had enjoyed that playful interlude, as brief as it had been. Now the quiet, troubled Obi-Wan was back, and Qui-Gon had made it happen, as much as he hadn't meant to.

"There," the older Jedi said with satisfaction, as he felt the swelling in the knee subside. "You should be able to stand now." He helped the boy to his feet, steadying him, watching carefully for any signs of distress. "Can you walk? I will carry you, if need be. I'm certainly strong enough for that."

He tried a joking smile, wanting to recapture that cheery mood of a few moments ago, but Obi-Wan only shook his head quickly, eyes wide. "No, you don't have to! I'm fine." He took a few steps forward in proof, showing only a slight hint of a limp, and turned back to look at his Master. "See? I'm all right. Truly."

Qui-Gon acquiesced, but kept a scrupulous eye on the Padawan for the remainder of the walk. He should have noticed the boy's limp the moment they left the café, but had been lost in his own mind, which was very unlike him. Wasn't he always admonishing his student to focus on the here and now?

It troubled him deeply to think that perhaps that image of Obi-Wan as a neglected street child bore some truth in it. Had he been negligent with this precious life, even in the most trivial way? Obi-Wan deserved better.

Qui-Gon did not like this feeling at all. He would do his best to ensure that it would never have a basis in reality.

Chapter Text

Once again Qui-Gon was tending his exhausted Padawan's bruises before sending him off to bed. He hoped this wasn't going to become a habit. He didn't know how much of this he could take.

"Nibbi's a sweet little boy, isn't he?" Obi-Wan remarked suddenly.

Qui-Gon glanced up from the Padawan's knee, his eyes trailing slowly over Obi-Wan's bruised and torn knuckles laying limp in his lap. He remembered Nibbi's wide dark eyes, sad and hopeful and amazed, the tender, hesitant way he had brushed his little fingers over those bruises.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I can see why you want to help him so much."

He looked back at the knee, probing it with the Force. A few ligaments had been strained, and all the walking afterward had not helped. He should have insisted that the boy allow himself to be carried. Qui-Gon might not be able to ease it enough with the Force—perhaps they should visit a real Healer, or whatever Sylelius had that passed for one.

Obi-Wan, sitting sideways on the couch with his leg stretched out for the Master's inspection, shifted against the cushions, then stilled his fidgeting with a frown. "It isn't right," he blurted. He blushed at Qui-Gon's curious stare. "Nibbi, I mean. Why would anyone want to hurt him? I don't understand."

Qui-Gon ran his fingers gently over the injured knee, watching Obi-Wan's face. The boy didn't quite wince, but the shadows in his eyes deepened almost imperceptibly, and his mouth twisted in chagrin when the Master withdrew.

"Sometimes it is better that we do not understand," Qui-Gon murmured. "You do not want to be intimately acquainted with hatred, fear, indifference or wanton destructiveness, and that is what you would need in order to comprehend such darkness."

"You're right, Master," Obi-Wan said soberly. "I don't want to understand that."

Qui-Gon studied his face, again displeased by those persistent shadows. The boy should not be this utterly exhausted. Was he coming down with something? Qui-Gon did not detect anything, and the Force whispered no warning of physical danger, no matter how he strained his ears to listen.

Well, if he couldn't heal the knee completely, he could at least do something about that new scrape beneath the un-blackened eye, red and swollen, from the street youth's extended fingernails grazing by. But when he reached out to touch his cheek, Obi-Wan shied away. Qui-Gon looked at him in puzzlement, and the boy shook his head with a rueful smile.

"No, Master. You'd better not heal that one. People on Onorda Street will find it awfully strange that a street kid's bruises disappeared overnight. Can't have even more people realizing that we're Jedi. Same with my knuckles."

Qui-Gon dropped his hand with a sigh. "Yes," he grumbled. "And the names 'Quig' and 'Obi' will never be connected with Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi, the first Jedi to visit Sylelius in the better part of a century."

Obi-Wan grinned. "Why, Master! I didn't know you concealed such depths of sarcasm! "

Qui-Gon gave him a mock-glare, glad that the teasing was back. The boy was very resilient, obviously. It would be a pleasure to explore this new facet of their relationship—he looked forward to it already.

The Padawan sobered suddenly. "Most people see what they expect to see," he said softly. "On Onorda Street, they see two wanderers, down on their luck. In the President's chambers, they see two noble Jedi. But almost no one sees two names, two people, individuals with their own lives."

"That's true, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon recognized ancient Jedi wisdom, but was impressed by Obi-Wan's ability to apply it to their unique situation. Again the Padawan was teaching the Master. "Well, may I at least tend your knee? Since apparently you are the one giving the orders now."

"Oh, please, yes," Obi-Wan said fervently.

Qui-Gon smiled and turned his attention back to the bruised kneecap and swollen tissue surrounding it. Obi-Wan bore it stoically. He truly was a very brave young boy. Every moment Qui-Gon spent with him just cemented that fact more.

"Did you notice President Hindegar's daughter at the luncheon today?" Obi-Wan asked.

"I did," Qui-Gon said gravely, and flashed his Padawan a smile. "And she noticed that you noticed her."

Obi-Wan frowned. "She thinks I'm infatuated with her. I'm not. I'm worried about her. Master—something's wrong. Did you sense it?"

"She is grieving for her mother, Padawan."

"Yes, Master."

Brief silence. "Do you think it's more than that, Obi-Wan? Don't be afraid to question me, at least not in private."

Obi-Wan sighed. "I think it's more than that, Master. But I don't know what it is. Will we see her again?"

"At the candle ceremony tomorrow night, I believe. Other than that, I'm not sure."

Again silence fell. Qui-Gon felt quite comfortable it, but it occurred to him, belatedly, that Obi-Wan might not feel the same. Perhaps that was why he kept making these abrupt comments, his voice young and uncertain, as if he wasn't sure he ought to be the one starting the conversation. Now, as the quiet stretched, as comfortably as blanket in Qui-Gon's perception, the boy began to make small, fidgeting movements, halted before they became obvious enough to disturb Qui-Gon's work. Finally he laid his head sideways against the back of the couch with a sigh that was little more than a breath of air, and closed his eyes.

Qui-Gon watched the boy's face, young and freshly-bruised, the half-lidded eyes concealing that blue-green sparkle. Again the little frown made itself known between the Master's eyes, almost familiar, as it kept returning every time he took a moment to consider his apprentice. Perhaps now would be a good time to ask what had been disturbing the boy's thoughts lately, as he sat here open and vulnerable, hovering on the edge of sleep.

"Padawan," he said softly, continuing to pour light into the injured knee, feeling the swelling dissipate, the strained ligaments strengthen. "Is something bothering you?"

Dreamily the boy nodded as his eyes slipped fully shut, then opened partially, then began to droop again. He was halfway along the long, slow slide to slumber already. The hand laid loosely in his lap curled into a gentle fist, then opened again.

The knee was as whole as Qui-Gon could make it. He covered it warmly with his hand, applying the lightest pressure, just to let the boy know he was there. "What is it, my Padawan? What has been troubling you so?"

Obi-Wan rubbed his face sleepily against the couch cushion, as a felicat would rub its head against a friendly palm, then stilled, slumping bonelessly. "Did . . . did I fight very badly, Master?" His voice seemed to echo from a distant plain, soft and sad.

Qui-Gon reflexively tightened his grip slightly, then refrained himself. "What . . . what would make you think that, Padawan?" he asked, voice suddenly strained.

"Well, you didn't say anything . . . I thought, I thought perhaps were disappointed. Maybe you thought I was fighting in anger . . . you were always concerned about my anger. I didn't, Master. I didn't fight in anger."

"I know you didn't," Qui-Gon said softly. "I felt your desire to protect and help. Anger did not touch you."

Obi-Wan's hand gripped the fabric of his tunic sleeve. His body tensed slightly, though his eyes remained nearly shut, his voice soft and dreamy. "I did not want to hurt him. I had to. I fought so they would let Nibbi be. I had to hurt him to make that happen. I didn't want to." He shuddered, drawing in a deep breath.

"I know. I know, Padawan. You fought very well. You are a very skilled fighter, Obi-Wan, and you fought for the right reasons. I was not disappointed. Quite the opposite—I was most impressed."

"Truly?"

Oh, the boy sounded so very young and hopeful. It ignited an ache in Qui-Gon's chest, strange and sweet and sad. He fought it away with a shake of his head, giving the knee a gentle squeeze. "Truly, Obi-Wan. Truly. Now let go, young one. I know you're tired."

Obi-Wan relaxed, his hand falling away from his tunic sleeve, his mind falling away into peaceful darkness. Qui-Gon knelt there for a moment, just staring at his sleeping apprentice. Apparently he had been neglecting the boy, however unwittingly. He had forgotten what it was to have a youngster in his care—he'd been treating Obi-Wan as a miniature adult, not the growing, sometimes-uncertain young boy he was.

The knee was almost fully healed, but Obi-Wan would have to take it easy for a few days. Qui-Gon knew the boy would not like that. But right now, he was dead to the world.

He gently drew the sleeping boy into his arms and carried him to his room.

…

"Hello, Nilla!"

Nilla had been adjusting the new painting on the lounge wall, recently donated by friends of the clinic. She whirled, her mouth dropping open. "Obi! I'm so glad you came back!"

She crossed to his side in three quick strides, already reaching out to take his chin in gentle fingers, turning his head to examine the new bruises. He could see her jaw tightening in anger, and did his best to head it off.

"Nilla, it was a fight. Honest. I know it looks bad, but it isn't really. I won."

She released him and took a step back, her hands knotting into fists to rest on her hips, lips still tight. "Obi, you don't have to lie. Did we not convince you of that yesterday? This is a safe place."

"I know. Look, Nilla. Defensive wounds." He lifted his hands and showed her the backs, the knuckles purple and red with the use he'd put them to. "I'm sure you've had the training to recognize these, as well as to recognize the difference between accidental and intentional bruising. No one is abusing me. I got in a fight with Tronak."

Nilla recognized the name. She let her hands fall from her hips. "You beat that bully in a fight? Obi, that behemoth is at least fifty pounds heavier and a foot taller than you!"

"Oh, believe me, I know." The young mouth twitched in a wry grin. "I felt every gram of that extra weight driving down on me. But I still won. You can ask anyone who was there yesterday, and they'll tell you."

She considered this, the flesh beside her eyes wrinkling in doubt. Then her gaze sharpened accusingly. "And what on earth possessed you to get into a fight like that, young man? What possible reason could justify that?"

"The same one that leads me to come here and volunteer my time. Listen, Nilla, I have a little problem, and his name is Nibbi. And I have a plan . . . ."

Chapter Text

Qui-Gon had excused his Padawan from the morning meetings to let him catch up a bit on his studies and katas . . . and to avoid Ambassador Grenik seeing his new bruises. The Jedi Master felt a taut little smile rise as he remembered the ambassador's just-short-of-hysterical reaction when the Padawan appeared that first day with a faint-but-large bruise. Fortunately, most of the Sylelians had seemed to accept the Jedi's attempt to pass it off as a training mishap. President Hindegar had simply grinned broadly and quoted some local saying about boys being boys. But a couple of the councilors had definitely looked at the Master a bit askance, and he had suspected that they were thinking the same as Obi-Wan said his friend at the clinic would.

No, far better to avoid another scene like that. They would finish their observation on Onorda Street today, then heal those bruises and go somewhere else. Qui-Gon lifted his chin, casting his senses out as he entered the park. There, on some play equipment—his Padawan twisted and swung, laughing, using the Force to push his little friend farther and faster. Nibbi's giggles rang high and loud, above the laughter of the other children.

By the Force, they were beautiful.

Obi-Wan sensed his approach and reluctantly let the swinging, twisting apparatus glide to a halt, slowing it telekinetically. Blue-green eyes were a bit dazed—Qui-Gon hoped the thing didn't induce nausea. Nibbi seemed all right, still giggling quietly, dark eyes sparkling. But the Jedi Master was well-aware of how susceptible his apprentice was to anything that had the remotest possibility of causing queasiness. The boy even got motion-sick in hyperspace, sometimes.

"Hi, Quig," Nibbi said, a little sadly. "Is it time to go already?"

"Not quite," Qui-Gon said gently. "I thought I'd join you for a bit, if that's all right?"

Obi-Wan gaped at him, completely blown away. Nothing they had done in the past six months had prepared him for this. "You . . . you want to . . . play with us?"

"I would indeed, if you have no objections."

Nibbi bounced excitedly in his seat. "Yeah! Wow, Quig, you're the bestest uncle I ever met!"

"Thank you, little one." Qui-Gon grinned, but looked to his apprentice. "And do you object?"

Obi-Wan still looked dazed, and the Master supposed he had a right. He'd just tossed the boy for a ride far more unexpected and dizzying than anything legal play equipment could provide. "No, M-my uncle. Wh-what would you like to do?"

Qui-Gon passed a critical glance over the park. Letting a smile spread across his face like widening morning sunshine, he pointed toward the simple obstacle course a dozen meters off. "Think you can beat me getting through that?"

It wasn't quite fair, pitting a Jedi Master against a Padawan and a non-sensitive child, so Qui-Gon and Nibbi teamed up. Something new—but familiar in a lost-and-found sense—bubbled in Qui-Gon as he ran through the course, boosting Nibbi over the low wall, dancing through the foot-entangling part with the child on his shoulders, crawling under and around the soft wires, gently swinging Nibbi on the thick rope he was too tall to use. It took him some time to identify the strange sensation. Joy.

Obi-Wan won, leaping off the twisting balance beam with an entirely unnecessary but very lovely Force-enhanced flip, but it was a near thing. And then the three collapsed in the grass, laughing, mimicking each other's humorous movements and sounds during the race in gestures and ridiculous faces. Qui-Gon leaned on his elbows—grinning, pushing long sweaty hair out his face, and most definitely not panting, because no Jedi Master would be put out of breath by such a simple exercise. He was part of the childish fun this time instead of observing it from the outside, and he felt young for the first time in many, many years.

Too soon, he had to spoil it all. "You know, Nibbi," he began cautiously, gently, "Obi and I are almost finished with our business on Onorda Street now."

The child's face fell immediately, as he had known it would. "You mean . . . you mean you won't be comin' back after today?"

"Actually," Obi-Wan said with exaggerated casualness, drawing a sharp glance from his master, "I will be coming back every day, but only for an hour, and I'll be busy during that time."

Qui-Gon did not remember discussing this with his Padawan. Yes, he had told the boy that they would make time for him to visit with Nibbi, but they had not worked out the particulars yet. He would not be able to condone anything that would interfere with their mission. Obi-Wan's eyes begged him to be silent, to agree with this plan, whatever it was. Qui-Gon nodded almost imperceptibly, and let the apprentice take the lead in this matter. The boy had shown astonishing initiative and insight over the past few days—perhaps whatever he was plotting would be the best route.

"Busy?" Nibbi asked.

Obi-Wan nodded. "You remember that nice lady I told you about, Nilla? I'm going to be helping her at the clinic. Just spending time with the little ones there, mostly—Nilla said they needed someone to read them stories and play with them while their parents are getting treatment. You'd be welcome to visit with me there, though—then I could play with you, too."

Qui-Gon fought the grin that wanted to spread across his face as he understood the Padawan's plan. Nibbi wanted to be with Obi-Wan, but was terrified of the clinic. In this gently manipulative way, Obi-Wan was attempting to use the hero-worship Qui-Gon had almost disdained to overcome the child's fear.

It might backfire. If Nibbi's trust in Obi-Wan was not strong enough to over-ride his terror . . .

The Padawan saw his little friend's hesitation. "You don't have to stay there," he said quickly. "They never make anyone stay. I'll walk in with you, if you want, and I won't leave you alone, and we'll leave together. I promise, no one will make you do anything you don't want to. You don't even have to tell them your name."

Still the little boy was silent, hugging his knees to his chest, his face a silent agony of indecision.

"I'd really love to see you," Obi-Wan said softly. "Uncle Quig and I will be leaving in a week and a half, and we'll be busy until then. This is the only time I have to spare."

At last Nibbi nodded. "All . . . all right. I'll, I'll try it." His eyes sharpened as he stared at the young Jedi. "Keep your promises."

Obi-Wan grinned, and his joy flooded the Force around them so powerfully that Qui-Gon was almost dizzied by it. "I will! You know me, Nibbi. I'd never break a promise."

The child nodded slightly, his eyes on his fingers nervously pulling at the grass. "I know. I know you wouldn't."

The Jedi decided to finish their observations among the vendors on this block. Nibbi tagged along, a constant shadow at Obi-Wan's left side, sometimes attaching himself to the young Jedi's sleeve with a white-knuckled grip for a few paces if someone or something unsettled him. Qui-Gon understood—the little boy was used to hiding, keeping to the walls, avoiding sentients who meant him harm. Walking in the open like this took extraordinary courage, for a seven-year-old street child.

He could see that Obi-Wan understood as well. The Padawan did not try to push Nibbi away or draw attention to these subtle signs of fear, merely laid his hand on the boy's forearm when he grabbed for him. Qui-Gon took a moment to let pride fill him—his apprentice was such a wise young one, and with marvelous depths of compassion the Master had never noticed before in their unintentional griefs and brutal misunderstandings. He felt the pride fully, let it buoy him for a moment, then released it with a brief, regretful sigh.

They spoke to a flower seller, the strong scents of slightly wilted Alderaanian roses and Mimosan violets strong in their nostrils. She had no opinion either way about the Republic. A butcher with a small shop on the corner was vitriolic in his railings against the Sylelian government, causing Nibbi to press against his young protector's side, but knew nothing about the Republic and seemed to feel that any change was for the better. Their next stop was a roasted velinut cart, and the Sullustan who manned it was enthusiastic about Sylelius joining the Republic.

All in all, the people seemed ambivalent or cautiously optimistic about the coming change. This bode well for their mission, if even the inhabitants of the roughest neighborhoods on the planet felt this well about the Republic. Qui-Gon was pleased, though he did not allow himself to believe that all obstacles were now surpassed.

As they began to exit the small marketplace, one last vendor caught Obi-Wan's attention, crying his wares. It was a cart selling last-minute candles for the ceremony this evening. "Honor your lost ones! All colors and accessories! Only a few hours left to make your purchase!"

Obi-Wan looked to his master for permission, and Qui-Gon nodded. The Padawan stepped closer to the cart full of candles and plexiglass globes, Nibbi's hand tucked in his. "Would you explain this to me?" the boy asked softly. "I am a newcomer here."

To Qui-Gon's pleasant surprise, the vendor immediately dropped all the crassness of commercialism, looking at the thirteen-year-old with compassion. "You are grieving a loss, young one?" he asked with the same softness.

Obi-Wan hesitated, the nodded, swallowing hard. His eyes were suddenly too bright, the angle of the late afternoon sun striking them too harshly. Qui-Gon's heart clenched. He had forgotten. How could he have forgotten? Obi-Wan had said nothing, but the man knew that not all the wounds of the events of past months had been healed. Some, perhaps, would never heal.

The vendor lifted one of the tranparent globes, explaining how it was actually two spheres, lubricated between so that the inner one would remain upright with the weight of the candle fixed to the bottom even as the waves tossed it, thus allowing the flame to burn longer. Small, optional capsules held time-release oxygen, also prolonging the candle's life, as the globe would be sealed. The globes came in a variety of colors, a translucent rainbow, and some had recesses for a small hologram or memento. Mourners could buy plain candles, or ones that burned with colorful flames, or even spat sparks, if the spirit of the lost one was especially fiery or fun-loving.

The boy turned beseeching eyes to his mentor. "Master, may I?"

Qui-Gon did not correct the honorific. They were leaving this area anyway. And he could not deny that sorrowful plea. "How much for a globe and candle?" he asked the vendor.

"Two, please, Master."

He looked back to the boy, surprised. "For Cerasi?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "And for Bruck."

Ah. No, Qui-Gon could not deny this wish to honor the dead. "Two," he said to the vendor.

Obi-Wan chose a green globe, and a clear one, and two plain candles.

Before they left Nibbi to his box, the little one wrapped himself around Obi-Wan's waist in a fierce, empathetic hug. "I'm sorry," he murmured against the Padawan's chest. "I know it hurts."

Obi-Wan simply hugged him back, at a loss for words.

Chapter Text

At sunset, a flotilla of barges pulled out into the calm sea, which, shifting in gentle swells of indigo, reflected red-gold crescents from the sinking sun. The sky was smeared with deep green above the burgeoning redness, clear and thick like opaque azhali balm, healing but suffocating, determined to bury the stars that struggled to shine through despite all efforts to hide them. No candles would be released until the last sliver of the sun vanished beneath the rim of the world.

The Jedi were honored guests aboard the Presidential barge, but in this ceremony they were not the center of attention, and nothing was expected of them. This event was for the lost, and those left behind. Silence reigned, only the gentle slap of the ocean against the wooden sides of the barges loud enough to be heard, steady and solemn as the rhythm of a dirge.

Qui-Gon kept his eyes on the western sky, very careful not to spy on his apprentice, who was attempting, very cautiously, to make an opening with Amora Hindegar. It was obvious that the girl was having none of it. And truly, Obi-Wan might have a chosen a better time. The girl was deep in grief, and every moment only seemed to widen the rift between not only the two young people, but also between Amora and rest of the world. She was losing herself in a whirlpool of dark emotions, the Jedi Master sensed. Obi-Wan was right—something had to be done.

At last Obi-Wan surrendered, his shoulders slumping as he stood by the railing a few paces to Qui-Gon's right, his gaze dropping to the darkening waves. Amora stood straight, brittle, head and shoulders taller than the young Padawan. Her gaze was empty and broken, fixed on the dying sun. A few more moments of heavy silence, and the last corner of the sun disappeared, though the entrails of its bloody death still stained the sky in fading red.

Immediately Qui-Gon saw the pinprick flickers of yellow flame on some of the surrounding barges, though most mourners were choosing to wait until the night deepened. Rothis Hindegar stepped forward and wrapped an arm around his daughter's shoulders, and she leaned his head on his arm as he murmured to her. Obi-Wan stepped away, giving them space, and joined his Master in gazing at the first candles beginning to bob on the billowing waves.

"Now, Master?"

Qui-Gon looked down at the blue-green eyes almost lost in the twilight, seeing the grief rise to the surface for the first time since they had left Melida/Daan. The boy had buried it deep—too deep. They had never worked through it, too busy bolstering their own shattered relationship. Qui-Gon had not given thought to what his Padawan had lost, what he would need to recover from it, and he regretted that oversight. Now that they were on a firm footing, their bond healed and vibrant and shining brightly between them, it was time to look back with clear eyes and remember what had been forgotten.

"Whenever you're ready, my Padawan," he said gently. "This is your time. Did Ambassador Grenik tell you about the traditions?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "I asked him to explain them twice. I wouldn't want to misuse them . . . don't want to offend their heritage."

Impulsively, Qui-Gon laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Not what I meant. I know you would never intrude on a culture or twist a rite. I just wondered if you knew that this is meant to be a time of freedom for mourners. Don't think you must follow any set pattern, but take what seems good from the traditions. Do what feels right to you. Every grief is different, and heals in its own time. The Release of Candles is meant to help that process along, not force a false expression of ritualistic reverence for death."

"Oh." Obi-Wan nodded thoughtfully. "I think I will wait until it is fully dark then, Master. And . . . and I will say a few words. But I won't describe memories, or pray, or sing their favorite songs." He chuckled, very faintly and sadly. "I don't think I can, in any case."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Would you like to release them alone?"

Obi-Wan raised a hand to touch the large one that still rested on his shoulder. "No. No, I want you to be near." He looked up hesitantly. "Unless, unless you'd rather . . .?"

"It's all right, Padawan." Qui-Gon gave him a smile, as soft and gentle as he could make it. "I'm glad—honored—that you want me near."

Obi-Wan smiled back, a little wanly, and slowly sank down to sit on the wooden deck in a classic meditation pose, feet tucked under knees, back straight, eyes closed, hands laid loosely in his lap. Qui-Gon pondered for a moment, then chose to sit next to him. He watched the candles multiply on the waves, seeming to brighten as time quietly passed, brushing by like feathered wings softly parting the night. He knew it was not the flames that burned more brightly, but the darkness that grew more complete with the fading of the day, yet the illusion was welcome.

Rothis and Amora released their candle, and the elder Jedi heard the Sylelian girl softly singing a lullaby, her voice cracking at times, the melody sweet and soothing in a melancholy way. The President talked quietly, his voice pattering a continuous reminiscence of his lost wife's likes and dislikes, the way she made vuerma tart so sweet and light that it melted on the tongue, her reluctance to rise in the morning and her sleepy beauty when at last she opened her eyes. He laughed softly at times, at others seemed just short of sobbing. After a time Amora stopped singing and simply leaned against him, listening.

When the last shreds of sunlight bled from the sky, leaving only star-scattered blackness, Obi-Wan opened his eyes, surfacing from the light meditation with a long, nearly-silent sigh. He drew the two globes and candles from the folds of his tunic and assembled them, setting the candles in their holders through the small, sliding gaps in the outer spheres, pinching the oxygen capsules to set the time-release. After a moment of consideration he set the clear globe in his lap and lifted the green one to his face. So many candles floated in the waves all about that there was enough light to see, albeit it dimly, all edges and colors made soft and gray by the warm, multicolored light.

"Cerasi," the boy murmured. He took the tiny laser torch from his utility belt and lit the candle, then sealed the globe. Still he sat looking at it for a moment longer.

"I remember you, Cerasi. I remember how surprised I was the first time I saw you. A young person, my age, not a Jedi, but your passion for your cause burned as brightly as mine. You were willing to give your life for peace. You did give your life for peace. The world around you was so dark, Cerasi, so broken, but that just made your spirit stand out the more clearly. You . . . won me over. I thought nothing would ever sway me from my path as a Jedi, but you . . . you had that power. Regardless of my faults, my ignorance and stupidity and disloyalty, and what that did to me, I cannot blame you for that. I can only admire all that you accomplished."

He pulled in a deep breath, running his fingers over the green globe as it warmed in his grasp. "They say green is the color of new birth. And it's the color of your eyes. It is because of you, Cerasi, that Melida/Daan is reborn, on the path to healing. More than what I or Nield or anyone else did, it was what you said and felt and did. I wish I had done more to help you. I wish . . . I wonder what the galaxy would have been like if you had become an adult, and perhaps turned that passion to heal a broken universe as you healed a broken world. I truly believe you might have been able to do it. But even so, you did so much. I wish you could see it. Perhaps you can."

Obi-Wan leaned forward and reached through the wide gaps in the railing, gently setting the globe on the wave that seemed to surge upward to accept it from his shaking fingers. "We don't need luck, Cerasi," he whispered. "Be at peace."

For a moment he just sat, resting his forehead against the rail, gazing vacantly at the globes that drifted by. Each was unique: engraved with small images, glowing with colored lights, sputtering with sparks that managed to be serenely solemn in their playfulness. Slowly, Obi-Wan lifted the clear globe from his lap. With deliberate movements he lit the candle and sealed the sphere, and then he simply sat, staring at the white glow of the flame, bright and pure.

Qui-Gon did not move, did not speak, even as time trickled slowly by and the boy continued to stare. He knew this was hard. He was amazed by the apprentice's forgiveness, and eloquence, the peace that radiated from him even as tears tracked down his cheeks. This was Obi-Wan's time, and he was using it very well.

At last the youngster began to speak, slowly and haltingly. "This is . . . more difficult than I expected. Bruck. I . . . I remember you. But now I must . . . I must choose how to remember you. And I choose . . . I choose to remember you as a Jedi."

He paused for a moment, overcome, and then his voice strengthened, almost rang with clarity and power, though he still spoke quietly and reverently. "I remember you, Bruck, a Jedi Initiate a few months younger than me. You wanted to be a Jedi so badly. You fought hard. You trained hard. You were passionate in your desires, so passionate that . . . but I will not remember that. I will remember the Light, and . . . and I will honor it. You were filled with Light, once, and it burned brightly in you. That's why I chose a clear globe, so that there would be nothing to cloud the flame. I wish I had done more to help you. It doesn't matter what else was in you, not anymore. I choose to remember the Light."

Slowly he leaned forward, shaking harder than he had with the last one, and almost had to lower his arm to the shoulder to set the globe in the water. "Be at peace, Bruck."

He sat back with a weary sigh, hugging himself and shivering slightly. Qui-Gon saw the fatigue lacing the young features and could not blame him. That must have been exhausting.

The Master tilted his head back toward the benches that lined the cabin of the barge. "Why don't you go sit down, Padawan?" he suggested kindly. "Watch the candles floating in the sea. I think you will find the sight soothing."

Obi-Wan nodded and rose, a bit stiffly. He kept his eyes on the sea as he wandered back to the bench and sank down, slumping bonelessly. A stringed instrument began to play on one of the nearby barges, signaling that it was an hour into the ceremony. Now the Sylelians would honor their dead with music, as well as with candles and words of remembrance. It was a sweet tune, sad and lonely. Soon other instruments joined it, swelling in an outpouring of sorrow that filled Qui-Gon's spirit with light even as it reminded him of the darkness.

Still he sat by the railing, looking out at the waves. After a time, he sensed his Padawan's attention wandering, fading in and out. All to the good. The boy deserved a rest.

Qui-Gon hesitated a moment longer, then drew the ice-blue globe from his tunic and stared at it in contemplation. He had bought it on impulse the other day, while Obi-Wan spent time with Nibbi. It had struck him as an odd thing to do, and he had not allowed himself to understand why he was doing it, what it represented. Now he had to decide whether to release it, or simply hold on to the candle as a symbol of a grief he could not yet acknowledge, much less heal from.

Obi-Wan's words had struck a chord in his spirit, he realized with a slight shock. They rang still, echoing and rebounding, whispering encouragement.. Clutching it to his chest would do no one any good, and would only harm the relationship that Qui-Gon was beginning to realize was the most important in his life, the most precious, the most valuable.

This ice-blue globe was the past. The boy sitting on the bench behind him, half-aware, drooping now as sleep descended, was the future, his legacy, his message to the generations to come. There was no better time than this very moment to release this small, lone candle and all that it meant.

With great care Qui-Gon set the candle in the holder, lit it, pinched the capsule, and sealed the globe. He gazed for a moment longer at the bright little flame that bathed his face in azure radiation, but he already knew what he needed to say. Obi-Wan had shown him the way.

"Xanatos. I remember you, Xanatos. And I will choose, in this moment and ever after, to remember you as a Jedi. The Light burned brightly in you, my Padawan. You would have been a great Knight. I wish I had done more to help you. There are many regrets, many things I could say, but I choose to leave those be. I remember and honor the Light in you, and only the Light. Be at peace, my Padawan, my son."

Tenderly, he gave the candle to the ocean. Then he settled into a meditative pose, gazing over the water, listening to the slow dirge, the gentle rhythm of the clashing waves. He watched the candles shining against the sea.

Chapter Text

Qui-Gon remained sitting there by the rail, watching the sea, until the first candles began to gutter and flicker out. Their time here was almost ended. It had been cleansing, healing, and he did not begrudge a single moment.

The Jedi Master stood, eyes still gazing unfocused out across the waves. The sea seemed to mirror the sky, countless candles like twinkling stars against the sky of dark water. It was a shame that the light had to die, succumbing at last to the effects of time and burning. Then again, Qui-Gon knew that nothing lasted forever. Each had a time allotted by the Force, lived and then ended. That was why living in the moment was so very important, for no moment lasted, and each was precious.

In a way, he mused, every sentient life was a candle shining in the dark. We are given this length of wax to burn, so much and no more. Some have brighter flames or more colorful personalities, but all are priceless and unique. I wonder how the Council would respond to this insight, if told them that all Jedi are no more than candles against the sea?

He smiled and made his way back to the bench where Obi-Wan now slept, head lolling against the wooden slat, arms crossed loosely across his narrow chest. Qui-Gon sat next to him, still savoring the sight of the candles as the cloud of light slowly began to diminish. The barge tipped slightly as the waves swelled, and Obi-Wan body shifted bonelessly with the movement, brushing Qui-Gon's arm momentarily, then sliding a few centimeters back. Obi-Wan sighed sleepily and hugged himself tighter, face turning away, as if his dreaming mind wanted to respect Qui-Gon's privacy and not intrude upon his grief, just as the boy had done awake.

Qui-Gon looked at him with a slight frown. The Padawan's arm had been chilly against his, and even now the boy shivered minutely in the depths of the ocean night. It had not occurred to him before this moment that it was getting rather cool out here, but Obi-Wan had always been more sensitive to the cold than he. The boy's robe lay loosely around him—perhaps he had fallen asleep before the temperature began to tell.

The Master hesitated for a moment, then reached over and adjusted the folds of brown cloth around the slim body of his Padawan, drawing them close and tight. He wrapped an arm around shoulders that suddenly seemed small and slight in the circle of his broad arm and pulled the boy against his side, holding him still in the shifting of the waves. Was it his imagination, or did Obi-Wan actually seem to melt into the half-embrace, leaning more heavily against the man's side as he realized he was welcome there?

Qui-Gon smiled gently down at the boy, wondering when he had become so important to this sour old Jedi Master who used to prefer solitude. He wondered when it became so imperative that he see that brilliant smile every day, that those blue-green eyes should light with childlike pleasure in simple joys, that the young body should be warm and sheltered and at ease as much as was possible on their often dark and hard path of life, and the pure spirit should be comfortable and happy.

He didn't know quite how and when it had happened, but somehow those goals had become first in his heart, no matter how duty and calling demanded his full attention. It was foolish, he knew, to attach so much of his own happiness to that of another. A Jedi could not afford to depend on anything but the Force, and part of him drew away from these unaccustomed sensations, no matter how pleasant they were. But a louder, more insistent part of his spirit reveled in this newfound joy, the filling of places long cold and empty, dry with dust and crusted with the salt of old tears.

More than one kind of cleansing had occurred tonight, he realized. Yes, it had been good for them both. The past had been honored and released, making room for the future. It was good to set aside their roles as Jedi for one night and be merely a man and a boy, healing from old wounds, separate, yet together in the most fundamental way.

Qui-Gon sensed a presence and looked up, drawn out of his musings just in time to see a dim figure sit on his left side. "Greetings, Mr. President," he said softly. "My heart is with you on this night of grief."

Rothis Hindegar nodded gravely at the traditional salutation. "And mine is with you, on into the morrow," he replied. "We are honored that two Jedi would take part in our small, provincial rite."

"We were honored to be allowed to join you," Qui-Gon said, though a part of him sorrowed at his error, that the cloak of a Jedi could not truly be set aside even for a single night. It was too much what they were, he supposed, wrapping every fiber of the being. "My apprentice and I both have suffered loss in the past few months, and this was a most beautiful and reverent way to honor that. How are you and your daughter? Amora seemed to take it very hard."

He was prepared to press this issue, aware of Obi-Wan's perception that something was not right with the girl, and his own instinct of a darkness clouding her presence in the Living Force. It was arrogant of them to try to step in at this late date, perhaps, but they could not pass by suffering, be it physical or emotional, while there was any chance of helping.

But the president surprised him. He heaved a deep sigh and studied the Jedi closely in the dim light. "Amora . . . Amora is not doing well, Master Jinn. It has been nearly a full year since my wife died, and Amora still grieves. I fear that something deeper is wrong. But she will not speak of it, not to me, not her friends, not to the grief counselor I took her to a few moon-cycles ago."

Qui-Gon nodded, his gaze shifting to the dying candles. "Obi-Wan and I have both sensed something amiss in her. I meant to say something to you."

"You are Jedi. You have seen much of the galaxy and no doubt encountered many troubles, political and personal. Tell me, do you have any idea of what else I can do for her?"

The hope in Hindegar's voice made Qui-Gon wish that he could give him a simple answer, clear everything with a few words. This was a good man—he suffered because he saw suffering in his daughter. Qui-Gon wanted very much to alleviate that.

Unfortunately, nothing was simple. The Jedi Master sighed. "I can only repeat what you already know. Somehow, you must convince Amora to open up and talk to you about what is troubling her." And who am I to offer such advice? he wondered suddenly. I've known for some time that something is troubling my apprentice, and I've made no move to discover what it is. How dare I presume to counsel this man when I cannot communicate with my own teenage charge?

But the president nodded slowly, as if the Jedi offered sage wisdom instead of the obvious observation it was. "Do you have any idea of how I can go about doing that?"

"It is necessary that you have a deep relationship, that you spend time together and trust each other. She needs to feel safe and secure with you." Even as he spoke, he wondered, evaluating his relations with his Padawan. Did they have that? "From what I have seen, you and Amora do have that. I sense only peace from her where you are concerned."

Hindegar's shoulders sagged. "Then what can I do differently? Something must be done."

It was like a flare of light across Qui-Gon's mind, the sudden realization that their two situations were different. Obi-Wan was a strong and compassionate young man, working tirelessly to act as a Jedi should, to better the lives of all around him. Amora, by contrast, had shut herself away. Perhaps that was the answer.

And once again, Obi-Wan had shown him the way. The same sort of trick that had worked on Nibbi might very well be the key to unlocking Amora's hidden self.

Qui-Gon sat a little straighter, taking care not to disturb the boy who slept against his side. "It appears the Amora has fallen into depression. She is isolating herself, correct? There are ways to overcome such sorrow. The first step is stop the isolation. She needs to respond to others' invitations to be a part of life. The second step would be for her to seek out such opportunities. And the third would be for her to try to help others.

"I can understand that you would not want to force Amora into anything, but perhaps there is a way we can prompt this process to begin?"

President Hindegar smiled, sitting up straighter even as the Jedi had, hope bright his eyes. "I am eager to hear your suggestions."

X

At first Obi-Wan's dreams were strange and unsettling. The ground beneath his feet was unstable, shifting in the wind that blew frost into his bones. Broken images flashed by his mind's eye: green eyes, pale hair, rushing water, a dirty street. He felt his breath and heart quicken, and though he did not know why he was afraid and could not control his body's reactions, he was ashamed of this baseless fear.

Then the wind changed. Though it still blew against his face, it had softened and warmed. The hiss of the surf in his ears became rhythmic, deep, even comforting. Though the surface he stood on still shifted, he felt sturdy and balanced, his stance secure.

Eventually he was aware of being carried, his body unresponsive and the movement not of his own volition. Normally this would have disturbed him, but somehow it felt right and natural. He was safe. All was well with the galaxy.

Still, Obi-Wan was curious. He pushed toward a groggy awareness, though he allowed his body to remain loose and limp and did not open his eyes.

It was Qui-Gon. His master, the wise, mighty Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, was carrying him. Obi-Wan heard the deep, steady thud of the man's heart vibrating through the bones of his face, felt the warmth of the broad chest sheltering him from the ocean chill, the strong arms holding him secure against that warmth. There was even a slight scent this near to the mighty Jedi, a hint of spice that laced the sharpness of cool air in the boy's nostrils.

His first instinct was to be embarrassed. How childish, to fall asleep and force his teacher to carry him like a baby. Not the best way to go about trying to impress his stoic master, being so weak, needing to be coddled. He was just proving how useless he was as a Jedi.

But the second instinct, following so quickly and strongly on the heels of the first that it completely overwhelmed it, was to enjoy this. This felt good—no, it felt wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. This was the way a parent would carry a child, wrapped firm and close in gentle arms. While Obi-Wan did not want to be seen as a child, he could not help but revel in this new sensation.

He knew it was an illusion. Qui-Gon would never see him as anything but a student, a burden laid on him by the Force. Again the embarrassment rose, and he quelled it, and the guilt that came for doing so. Obi-Wan let his mind slide back into a deeper sleep, once again refusing to acknowledge his confused emotions. He was getting rather good at that.

This feeling of warmth and security would never be a reality. But for now, he could pretend.

Chapter Text

"I can't go in there."

Obi-Wan looked down at his little friend. Nibbi's small hands were wrapped around the young Jedi's forearm, just above the wrist. They were shaking faintly, reminding Obi-Wan of the dusty wings of night-flying insects

The two boys had been standing outside the clinic for ten or fifteen minutes, just watching residents of Onorda Street pass in and out of the small, unassuming building. Obi-Wan had wanted to give the homeless child time to work up his courage, but it appeared that he had only grown more nervous. Just then a young mother walked into the clinic, cradling her five-year-old son in her arms. The gentle swelling of her abdomen indicated the reason for this visit.

"Hey, I bet that little boy will be waiting in the children's room," Obi-Wan said, pointing at the little family disappearing inside the double doors. "You'd have lots of fun playing with him."

Nibbi hid his eyes against the Padawan's upper arm. "Can't," he squeaked out.

Obi-Wan gently cupped the little one's chin with his free hand and turned to face him, dropping to one knee. In this position Nibbi's head was a bit higher than Obi-Wan's, but he ducked his head as if to diminish and hide himself.

Obi-Wan dipped his own head to maintain eye contact. "What is it, Nibbi? What's wrong?"

Nibbi hunched his shoulders. "I don't belong in there. I can't go in."

"Of course you belong, little friend. This clinic is here just for people like you." He paused, studying the downcast eyes and trembling lips. "Why do you think that, Nibbi?" he asked softly. "What makes you different from that other little boy?"

"I . . . 'm dirty."

Obi-Wan blinked. He'd forgotten—after an initial struggle to ignore the grime caking the little one's face and hands, to see beyond that to the deserving child hidden behind the filthy vrelt, he had forgotten all about it. "Oh. Well, I suppose you are."

He lifted his own hands, looked critically at the dirt that had transferred, the residue of sweat dried in the faint crevices that would deepen with age and harden with training. "Looks like you've rubbed off on me a bit."

He meant it as a joke, but the little boy did not take it as such, and Obi-Wan's smile vanished as Nibbi's face seemed to fall even further. "Oh, Nibbi, it's not that bad," he said hastily. "It's pretty hard to be squeaky-clean when you're living in an alley. It just makes us look like brothers, remember? Don't worry. Nilla is used to homeless people coming in. A little dirt won't hurt a thing."

"But what if . . . what if someone makes fun of me?"

The Padawan hesitated, looking at his little friend with his head tilted slightly to one side. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way.

"Tell you what, Nibbi . . . there's a 'fresher just off the lobby. Why don't we go in and clean up a little? Then you can look in the mirror and see for yourself whether you look any different than that other little boy."

Nibbi drew a deep, doubtful breath, then nodded. Obi-Wan smiled and rose to his feet, extending a hand. His smile broadened when the little hand slipped into his without the slightest hesitation.

In the refresher, Obi-Wan wet a couple of disposable towels, and the two boys took their time washing their face and hands. The young Jedi was touched by Nibbi's diligence and enthusiasm in this task, and a bit saddened. After a time he gently removed the now-worthless towel from the little one's hand and again knelt to face to him.

"Did I miss anything, Nibbi?"

Nibbi looked him over with small, wrinkled brow and pursed lips. He touched the side of Obi-Wan's face, next to his right ear, and a patch of skin on his forehead. "Here, and here."

Obi-Wan wet another towel and handed it to him, and Nibbi obligingly scrubbed the offending spots. Then the child shyly asked the same question. His forehead was still wrinkled, but in worry now. Obi-Wan washed the spots Nibbi had missed, carefully and tenderly, praising the job he had done.

With Nibbi's permission, he lifted the little boy in his arms to look in the mirror. Two pale, shiny-wet faces peered back at them, young and open. Curiosity shone in both pairs of eyes, rich brown and bright blue-green, as they studied themselves and each other.

Nibbi's face was much too thin and worried for a seven-year-old, Obi-Wan noted, but he looked very different without the ever-present dirt. The difference was akin to that between a clouded sky and one that was clear and blue, lit by the sun beyond. Even better would be a smile, or one of those wonderful little giggles, but Nibbi wasn't ready for that. Obi-Wan vowed to do his best to earn one before their time today was over.

The young Jedi also noticed scars—a long thin one across the delicate cheekbone, a thick one like a half-drawn square on the side of the jaw. A fist wearing a ring, Obi-Wan decided, feeling sick. A belt-buckle.

"My hair's still dirty," Nibbi said.

"I'll bring cleanser tomorrow, and we'll take care of it," Obi-Wan promised. "You know what, Nibbi? You're a nice little boy, just like the one we saw earlier." You deserve to be happy and loved as much as any other child.

"You think so?" Hope and disbelief warred in the big, dark eyes that watched the Jedi from the mirror.

Obi-Wan nodded firmly. "I know so, little brother."

A tiny, crooked smile, and Nibbi leaned back against Obi-Wan's shoulder, pressing his freshly-scrubbed cheek to that of the older boy for a moment. A sharp spark of warmth pierced through Obi-Wan's chest at the small, fleeting gesture. "You wouldn't lie t'me?"

"Never."

Nibbi nodded slowly. "'Kay. 'M ready t'go in now."

X

"We feel that we must be up front with you, Master Jedi. We are looking into joining the Republic at this time for several specific reasons, and we would appreciate your input as to whether or not the Republic will be able to assist us with these problems. Now would be a good time to speak of them, I think, in this private meeting."

Rayel Tooks, the Sylelian Chief of Security, looked Qui-Gon frankly in the eyes as he spoke. His hands were folded in front of him on the conference table, hiding the personal communicator that the Jedi had never seen him without. His shoulders were military-straight, dark eyes piercing and commanding, even as his words spoke of supplication. It was indeed a private meeting of only three: the chief, the president, and the Jedi.

The Jedi Master nodded gravely. He had expected something like this when he noticed Tooks' bearing sharpen when he had mentioned that his apprentice would not be joining them for the talks this afternoon. The security head obviously had something on his mind that he didn't want to express in front the Padawan.

"You can trust me with your concerns, as you can trust any Jedi," Qui-Gon said.

A quicksilver smile flashed across the middle-aged human's face. "You refer to your apprentice? I do not distrust him, far from it. But the matters we must discuss are not meant for tender ears."

"I see." Qui-Gon sat back slightly, folding his hands on his chest. He was mildly astonished by how quickly Tooks had picked up on his subtle defense of the boy, but more astonished at his own quick instinct to do so. One would have thought the Jedi Order itself had been disparaged. "What did you wish to discuss?"

Tooks closed his little communicator in one fist and used to his other hand to punch up a holo image on a small console set into the dark wood of the table. A model of the Sylelian system flickered into existence in the air and spun slowly: warm yellow binary suns, six planets, a small asteroid belt and a larger one. The chief's blunt finger indicated the larger belt, between the fourth and fifth planets.

"We have heard unpleasant rumors about criminal activities occurring in this region of the system. Historically, Sylelius has wielded jurisdiction only over the planetary surface, and there is much resistance to expanding the government's role. The people are conservative, and they dislike the idea of so much power being held by one man, even one as good as President Hindegar."

The president's mouth quirked, and he gave his head of security a brief nod.

Tooks nodded back, not the hint of a smile on his expressive features. "Unfortunately, this leaves the other planets of the system open to . . . undesirable opportunists, to say the least. Lately the rumors have been growing more frequent and detailed, and we fear that the activities are increasing."

Qui-Gon sat forward, studying the hologram as if the fuzzy blue and white lines could reveal the secrets of space beyond. "What kind of activities?" he asked, though he could make a shrewd guess.

Rayel Tooks sighed, but spoke frankly and firmly. "Brothels. The illegal kind. The kind that keep slaves . . . underage slaves. We don't want their kind here, Master Jedi. Not only are they harboring criminals from all over the galaxy, but they are also a threat to the vulnerable of this planet, our planet."

Qui-Gon nodded grimly. He understood their desire for a private meeting now, and for Republic assistance.

"They are hiding under ancient Sylelian laws that prevent us from interfering with the rest of the system," Hindegar said wearily, "but if we were to join the Republic, this region of space would automatically fall under Republican jurisdiction. And then you could move in and sweep the asteroid belt, with the Sylelian Constabulary Force, if need be. At least, that is our understanding of the situation. Are we correct?"

Tooks' fist tightened around the communicator, and the faces of both men were intense, waiting.

"We've had a rash of unexplained kidnappings in the last few months," the security man said quietly. "It is not good, Master Jedi."

Please tell us you can help, his strong face pleaded silently.

"Your basic evaluation of the circumstances is accurate," Qui-Gon said, glad that he could give the right answer to this question. "There are particulars to discuss, but that would, indeed, fall under the control of the peace-keeping arm of the Republic, perhaps even the Jedi."

Both men relaxed almost imperceptibly in relief, and the Jedi smiled warmly, again pleased to find himself in the company of these honorable leaders. Had he grown so used to dealing with corrupt and misguided leadership, that coming in contact with noble men in power was such a sweet breath of relief? He supposed he had.

"Are there any other potential security problems you wish to discuss?"

Apparently there were, but that was the worst, and had weighed most heavily on both Tooks and Hindegar. At mid-afternoon they took a break to walk the grounds of the capitol building, refreshing their minds and spirits with sunlight and cool breezes and the sight and scent of innumerable flowers blooming in a riotous glory of color.

Again Qui-Gon meant to question President Hindegar, but did not have to. Rothis was eager to discuss his troubles with one he trusted to understand and give worthy counsel. "I talked to Amora this morning," he began, once Tooks had walked far enough ahead to be out of casual hearing range.

Qui-Gon smiled, touched by the guarded excitement in the man's voice and demeanor. "How did it go?"

"I'm still nominally in charge of her schooling, so I was able to pass it off as an academic assignment, this need to volunteer daily somewhere. I gave her a list of potential organizations and sites that need and can use untrained volunteers and told her she had three days to choose one. But I think I already know which she will pick."

"Truly?" Again, Qui-Gon didn't have to push. Hindegar was happy to share.

The president nodded cheerfully, apparently feeling much more at ease now that something was being done to help his daughter, no matter how slight and potentially risky. "I think she will choose the clinic on Onorda Street. She'll be least likely to meet any of her friends there."

"You're not worried about her getting into trouble in such a seedy area?"

Hindegar quirked a smile, looking up into the tall Jedi's face. "It's not so bad. Ambassador Grenik is a very touchy man, I'm sure you've noticed. But I would have an IS squad escort her to and from wherever she chooses to go, as always."

"You trust your Internal Security to care for Amora?"

Again the cheerful, relaxed nod. "I trust them with my life. And my daughter is my life, Master Jinn. Make no mistake about that."

"Oh, I don't," Qui-Gon said softly. "That is readily apparent to anyone with eyes to see."

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan still looked much too tired, Qui-Gon decided, surreptitiously studying his apprentice as they sat eating a quiet dinner together in their rooms. For once there wasn't an evening banquet or reception or symposium that they needed to attend, so they had a few hours just to enjoy the Sylelian culinary arts.

Maybe the boy was going through a growth spurt. Qui-Gon had heard that teenagers were often exhausted by the rapid physical changes in their bodies, and needed more sleep than most adults could fathom. Obi-Wan was a bit on the small side right now. Perhaps that was the answer. It would probably be a good idea to have him get a full physical once they returned to the Temple.

Qui-Gon was more concerned by the hidden troubles he sensed when he looked at his apprentice. The boy wasn't shielding particularly strongly, and he saw nothing to justify this instinct that something was deeply wrong. Yet he could not dismiss it.

His words to President Hindegar about how to encourage his daughter to open up came back to him. Did Obi-Wan feel safe and secure with his master? Qui-Gon wondered. How often did they just talk? Not very.

"Did your visit at the clinic proceed well?" he asked, and had to still a grimace. Very smooth, Jinn. Could you possibly be a little more formal? Why not just turn this into a Council inquisition?

But Obi-Wan smiled pleasantly, looking up from his forkful of thick, chewy noodles in some kind of creamy sauce that they could not identify, but found very delicious. "It went well, once I got Nibbi inside. It was a bit of a struggle."

"How so?"

Briefly, the boy explained. "I hope I said the right things," he finished with a slight frown. "Sometimes I'm not sure. I don't have your wisdom, Master—I wish I did. I told him that all the dirt was on the outside, but I'm not sure he understood me. Or believed me."

"It sounds like you handled it very well, Padawan. You've made amazing progress with the child in only four days."

Obi-Wan looked startled. "Is that all? It seems like so much longer . . . ."

"The days have been very full, I know." Qui-Gon chuckled. "We have done a great deal in a short time. Perhaps now the mission will calm down a bit."

The apprentice shrugged, turning back his food. "And how did your day go?"

See, Jinn? That's the way you casually start a conversation. "We discussed matters of security." He wished he could say more, share freely as the boy had done, but Tooks was right—this information should not burden the young.

Obi-Wan unconsciously drew back a little, and Qui-Gon silently rebuked himself. This had to go both ways—he could not close himself off and expect the boy to reveal everything. "Did I ever tell you, my master and I once had a run-in with a street child, too? It was not quite the same as your experience though."

The boy looked up, eyes wide and bright, a quick smile playing on his lips. "No, Master, you never mentioned that." Of course he hadn't. Qui-Gon had never voluntarily shared any of his past with his Padawan before, not even these innocuous adventures from his own apprenticeship.

Qui-Gon smiled and settled back in his chair, falling easily into the story. The story of a small con-man and two gullible Jedi. "Afterward, Master Dooku always insisted that he knew all along that something wasn't quite right, but I knew better . . . ."

It was a humorous story, with as many twists and turns and reversals as any good holo-show. Obi-Wan frowned in thought, laughed in delight, and even teased his Master for his lack of insight. Qui-Gon grinned affably and bore it, content in the easing between them, in the glow of pleasure that illuminated his young student. Talking wasn't so very hard, after all—why hadn't he done it before?

They cleared the dishes aside for the hotel service to pick up and meditated together, having missed their evening sessions for the past few nights. It was good to calm the mind and the spirit in tandem, to listen to the peaceful currents of their shared connection and bathe in the living power of the Force. Obi-Wan almost dropped off to sleep in the middle of it, so weary was he, but he held himself partially alert with a tenacity that impressed the older Jedi.

Still, Qui-Gon ended the meditation earlier than he might have, entirely willing for the boy to get a few extra hours abed. Obi-Wan immediately slumped out of his straight-backed pose, pressing his fingers to his eyes as if to tear away the sleep weighting them by sheer force of will. Qui-Gon touched his shoulder, and the boy looked up, chagrined.

"No shame, Padawan," the Master said gently. "You have been unusually weary lately, but I don't see how it could be your fault. Are you ready to sleep?"

Obi-Wan nodded slowly and struggled to his feet, swaying slightly. Qui-Gon rose with him, a supporting hand still on his shoulder.

The man frowned to himself. He would not force this issue, would not endanger the trust that was growing between them, but it was time to speak straightforwardly. "Something has been troubling you for some time, my Padawan. Will you share this burden with me? It is my duty—and my pleasure—to assist you in any matter that I can."

Obi-Wan's eyes sought the floor. He hesitated, but finally shook his head. "I . . . I'm sorry," he whispered. "It—it's not something you can resolve for me." He looked up momentarily, his face drawn with regret. "But thank you for offering, Master."

"Will you at least tell me what it is?" Qui-Gon pressed gently.

Again the blue-green gaze dropped to the thick carpet, dull with weariness and inner pain. "I—I'd rather not. Please?"

Qui-Gon squeezed his shoulder, breathing out a small sigh. "Very well. But know that I am always here for you."

Obi-Wan nodded, but Qui-Gon was not sure if he truly understood. Or believed him.

X

The days passed like that, comforting in their routine, even on this far outer world on a mission that Qui-Gon soon discovered was much more complicated than they had suspected. They rose early and performed familiar katas, ate a light breakfast, attended meetings or observed in increasingly strange and distant corners of Sylelius, then had luncheon with some group or organization interested in meeting the Jedi. In the afternoon they often parted ways for a time, Obi-Wan going to Onorda Street for a few hours, Qui-Gon sitting on strategy meetings and planning sessions that disquieted him more each day.

The best part of the day, for the Master at least, were these quiet evening talks. As Obi-Wan grew accustomed to the routine, he spoke more and more freely, telling the tale of their time apart with all the vim and animation of an eager youngster. Soon Qui-Gon didn't even have to ask how his day was—the boy began to speak spontaneously, out of the outpouring of his heart. Like another burdened person Qui-Gon knew, it seemed that he had only been waiting for someone who was willing to listen. And he had found that person in the tall Jedi Master.

"Nibbi talked to Nilla for the first time today—I mean truly talked, not just whispered hello or good-bye. Nilla started it, and at first Nibbi seemed scared, and he sat close to me, you know? But then she started calling him a pet name, and he relaxed. I don't know, I wouldn't have liked it, but it made him smile. 'Nibbi-kins.' What kind of name is that? He even told me once that 'Nibbi' isn't his actual name, so that's like a nickname already, isn't it? But Nilla . . . Anyway, he seemed to like it. I don't understand it, but that's all right. Maybe he'll keep going there after we have to leave, if he feels comfortable with Nilla. She's really sweet, Master. I bet you would get along well. . . ."

Another day he started talking almost before they were in the room, so confused and unsettled was he by the day's events. "Amora Hindegar was at the clinic today. She's volunteering, too. It's very strange, Master. I could see her sort of freeze in place when she saw me. Her eyes grew very large. But she didn't say anything, and I didn't have a chance. She's working in a different part of the clinic, organizing files or some such, though Nilla said that at first she had said that she wanted to help with the children, as I am. She must have changed her mind because of me. That makes me feel good about myself. What should I do?"

Qui-Gon didn't have any definite answers. The best thing, he strongly suspected, would be for Obi-Wan to continue being the caring, sweetly clumsy young man he was. He did not see how anyone could resist this boy's guileless charm, least of all a hurting girl. "Be persistent, but careful," he said at last, unsure of how to communicate this intuition, or if he even should. "You have learned much from your interactions with Nibbi. Listen to the Force, and your own heart."

In return for these confidences, Qui-Gon told stories. Some from his apprenticeship and young knighthood, some from the creche, pranks and adventures, lessons learned and insights found. Obi-Wan listened with the same wide, bright stare as the first night, his expressive face encouraging the Master to continue.

Then they meditated, sinking deeply into the river of power. Qui-Gon led his apprentice on paths he had yet to tread, and Obi-Wan's fresh gaze leant new power to the sight, amazing the Master anew with each journey. It was always calming and exciting, cementing their bond and sharpening their perception of each other and the Force that guided them.

At the end of every night Qui-Gon asked, very gently, "Will you tell me?"

Every night, Obi-Wan sadly shook his head.

Qui-Gon could have ordered him to reveal this burden, and every night, he had to refrain himself from doing so. Obi-Wan would have obeyed. But that was not the way Qui-Gon wanted it to happen. He knew that it would only destroy all the good done in these quiet evenings.

Obi-Wan's weariness continued, indeed, may even have increased. Every night he staggered to bed and tumbled immediately into sleep, gathering several more hours than Qui-Gon himself needed. Yet every morning he rose bleary with fatigue, struggling to conceal his yawns, reviving only slightly as the day continued.

He was beginning to falter on the katas, missing the mark as exhaustion weighed his limbs. He did his very best, always, but his body betrayed him, and his best was less than he used to reach with barely an effort. It frustrated and shamed the boy and worried the Master. Something else had to be done, he knew, but he did not know what it was.

A full week ambled by, both too quickly and too slowly for the two Jedi. In three days they would depart from Sylelius, and they had much yet to accomplish.

Then the separate focuses of their afternoons crashed together in a single hour of horror and pain.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan left Nibbi in his box and strode toward the entrance of the alley, lifting his face as he unconsciously yearned toward the softened late-day light illuminating the street beyond. He didn't like the dark and closeness of the alley, the feeling that the walls were leaning in, the damp mugginess and the faint scent of rotting refuse. Again the urgent need to get Nibbi out of this situation pricked him, but he shook his head, knowing that he was making progress. Tomorrow he would ask the child, once more, if he was willing to accept help.

He paused just before he reached the street, instinctively shrinking back, pressing his right shoulder to the damp wall as the Force shrieked a warning. His hand strayed to his 'saber hilt, hidden in the folds of his tunic. Something was deeply, dangerously wrong.

Casting out with his senses, Obi-Wan felt the intense focus of Amora's four-man guard spread across the street beyond. They were dressed in casual attire, he knew, engaging in innocent, pedestrian activities, except the one that always pasted himself firmly to Amora's side, pretending to be her older brother. The young Jedi hadn't even needed the Force to spot the undercover IS guards that first day he saw them—long training in the warrior's arts had given him eyes to see that indifferent poses held muscled readiness, and unfocused glances were actually intensely aware of every nuance of their surroundings.

Amora was heading home, a few minutes later than usual—perhaps something had held her up at the clinic. Her sense in the Force was relaxed, slightly wandering, though as always it held that core of impenetrable sadness. Something was amiss with her, as Obi-Wan had known from the beginning, but she was not the source of the current threat he sensed.

The darkness at the edge of Obi-Wan's perception drew tighter, black and opaque, a burning edge of night leaking a slow spread of poison across the day. He gasped involuntarily, a sharp inhale of dank, miasmic air that almost choked him. It was danger, hungry, thirsty, needing, lusting, and it was, it was . . .

It was heading straight for Amora.

Obi-Wan hurtled out of the alleyway, his lightsaber a shaft of pure brilliance in his hand, and flung himself between Amora and the darkening threat. Without a conscious thought, the bright blade flashed before his face to deflect the blue bolt that flew out nowhere, slinging it harmless toward the sky to disappear against the blue. But that wasn't the only one.

"Get down!" the boy screamed, but the guard next to Amora had already pulled her down to the pavement, covering her body with his own.

Amora struggled, yelling incoherently, then stilled as the guard murmured something in her ear. Two of the other guards had already been taken down, red bolts this time, smoking holes in a smooth forehead, a muscular chest, laying as still as Amora did now, but not by choice. The fourth guard crouched behind a vendor's stall, blaster in his fist, grim determination hard in mouth and eyes. The rest of the street had emptied already, Obi-Wan noted. Good.

Obi-Wan swallowed. Already the 'saber was wavering slightly in his shaky fist—so slightly that he hoped no one else could see. The exhaustion was overtaking him, as it always did about this time of day. He turned slowly to assess the area, lightsaber on guard before him, and breathed in a deep, slow breath, drawing in great, thick streams of the Force with the thin air. His fist steadied somewhat, though he could feel the weariness lurking in his bones, waiting to leap on him and drive him to ground.

Not yet. Not yet. There were five of them, two on the rooftop, one in the alley to the north, one approaching from each end of the street. Obi-Wan brushed one of their minds and encountered only a vague sense of duty—a hired gun. Another mind, and he shuddered convulsively, fingers tightening on the metal hilt. These were no political foes, seeking to kidnap the President's daughter for leverage in some fanatic cause or game of intrigue.

These were corrupt businessmen looking for prizes, high-quality merchandise to hire out to customers always greedy for a new experience, a new thrill. And they were looking for children.

More blaster bolts, firing in stuttered synchronization. Obi-Wan spun, lightsaber weaving a ribbon-dance of protection. He tried to deflect the bolts back whence they came, but was too busy flashing to meet the next to see if he succeeded.

The guard behind the stall was firing back, and the one covering Amora raised one hand to assist, though Obi-Wan could see that it was difficult from his position on the ground. He leaped and flipped from one side to the other, trying to use the lightsaber economically, moving it neither too far nor not enough, keeping it centered over Amora as much as possible.

Still he wasn't good enough, wasn't fast enough. The weariness crept from his bones to drag his limbs slowly toward the earth, like an ugly creature clinging to him, pulling him down. The guard grunted as a bolt slipped through Obi-Wan's defenses and struck the man's leg, and the Padawan could have cried in exhaustion and defeat. Not enough . . . can't hold on . . . please, please, please . . .

He didn't know what he was begging for, mind spinning too painfully even to articulate his need, except to know that he could not do this much longer. Two more deflections, heavy arms swinging the lightsaber like an axe instead of a beam of pure energy. Then he all but sobbed in relief as his plea was answered, and they began to back off. This prize carried too high a price for savvy businessmen—they left behind two dead, one on the rooftop and one on the street. Obi-Wan didn't know whether Amora's guards had accomplished this or he had done it himself with a deflected bolt, and at the moment he could not muster enough energy even to be curious. He would care later. Much later.

The Jedi apprentice sank to his knees, panting, and finally extinguished his lightsaber before it sank to the ground and rolled away from his nerveless fingers. Amora fought her way out from under the wounded guard, her face red and streaming tears. At the sight of the panting Jedi she sat heavily on the pavement, face draining of color, mouth moving silently.

Obi-Wan stared back at her, vision starting to blur and fracture. He had nothing to say.

The unwounded guard reached them, comlink already to his mouth as he called for back-up and medical assistance. Dark spots began to converge on Obi-Wan's peripheral vision and he squeezed his eyes shut, pushing them away by main force of will. He didn't have time for this. Something . . . something else, he had to do something else, protect someone else . . .

He shot to his feet, sucking in a breath as if to yell, but it escaped him in a whimper. He didn't have to go back in the alley to know. Nibbi was gone.

X

Master! Nibbi has been kidnapped!

Qui-Gon sat up straight in his tall conference chair. "Close the spaceports."

Rayel Tooks tossed him a curious glance from across the wide, polished wooden table. "What did you say?"

"Close the spaceports!" Qui-Gon stood abruptly and fought to keep himself from pacing in agitation, holding himself still through iron control. But his fists, clenched in the folds of his robe, were quivering imperceptibly.

Tooks flipped his communicator up from where it rested in his palm, thumbing the activation button, and set it to his lips. While a distant part of Qui-Gon was gratified by the swift action, another part of him screamed that it was already too late. He could feel Obi-Wan's fear and sorrow weeping through the bond.

They had communicated by mind before, in moments of great need, but never across such a distance. And never had he felt his Padawan so vividly, as if the boy were standing beside him at this moment. Unconsciously Qui-Gon reached out to touch him, fingers grasping only air.

President Hindegar had been hastily assuring the other members of the current council meeting that all was well, that the Jedi Master was not mad, but had received some sort of instruction from the Force. Then he stood, his gaze locked on Qui-Gon's.

"Shall we take my speeder?"

He nodded, and they went.

Throughout the short drive to Onorda Street Qui-Gon focused on the bond, trying to send his apprentice calm and assurance. We're on our way. Everything's going to be all right, I swear it. I swear it, Padawan.

It was not a Jedi trait, to swear. Most lived by the creed that their word was their bond: yes was yes and no was no. But in this instance it felt like the right thing to say. Obi-Wan needed more than mere words. He needed the weight of a promise.

Gradually the Padawan's agitation diminished, and Qui-Gon almost felt the small, shaking fingers against his. Obi-Wan knew. Somehow, without sitting on these afternoon strategy sessions, without hearing about the Sylelian asteroid belt and what happened there, somehow he had divined for what purpose his little friend had been stolen. He had every right to be afraid.

I'm coming, Obi-Wan. We'll find him.

He felt the brush of warm air against his ear, a singled whispered word. Hurry.

Chapter Text

Once they reached the clinic, it was hard to say which man jumped out of the speeder first, Qui-Gon Jinn or Rothis Hindegar. The president had received a detailed com call on the way over, so they knew exactly what had happened. Amora stood against the wall, but she straightened quickly at the sight of her father. He rushed to her and snatched her to his chest in a fierce, protective embrace. She clung to him, shaking.

Obi-Wan had been pacing nervously, but turned as Qui-Gon hurried to him. The boy's eyes were wide and stricken, but he held himself with Jedi calm, hands clasped white-knuckled over his stomach. Qui-Gon turned his head slightly as he heard Rayel Tooks descending the speeder behind them, much slower than the two who had young ones trapped in this horrid situation, but his gaze flickered away from his apprentice for only a fraction of a second before he faced him fully.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon murmured, trying to say much, much more than a single word could ever contain, cramming it full of everything he had.

"Master." Obi-Wan blinked. "Master, we have to hurry."

"I know. I know. We will."

"Master Jedi!"

Qui-Gon turned toward the brisk voice, quickly but reluctantly, his hand instinctively finding Obi-Wan's shoulder as he pivoted. A constable with a captain's badge stood there, snapping into a reflexive salute under the Jedi's grim stare. Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan straighten under his hand, pulling himself together, and gave the slender shoulder an approving squeeze.

Behind the captain, constables were pouring out of uniformly painted speeders to secure the area, and medics were heading for the wounded man on the ground. A fresh squad of IS guards surrounded the president and his daughter. The man's arm was still tightly wrapped around the shaking girl as he spoke to the IS commander.

Qui-Gon took all this in without breaking eye contact with the constable before him. "You have news, Captain . . . ?"

"Captain Anjize, sir. All of the spaceports are secure. No ships have been allowed to take off since Chief Tooks issued his directive, and local security are preventing anyone from leaving. If you'll come with me, we'll go directly to the nearest port to begin a search. Chief Tooks said you would want to be personally involved."

Qui-Gon nodded a quick affirmation and moved to follow, his hand falling from Obi-Wan's shoulder. Then he was caught short as a young hand grabbed his sleeve, and he turned back to the boy's earnest eyes and shaking head.

"Not the nearest spaceport, Master. The farthest."

Qui-Gon looked at the smaller fingers entangled in the fabric over his arm, remembering another youngster who had grabbed his protector's sleeve when he felt anxious and unsettled. For a moment the recollection almost unmanned him, and he dragged his gaze back to the strangely vulnerable face of his Padawan. Obi-Wan was doing his best to hold it in, but Qui-Gon could see. "All right. The farthest."

He looked at Anjize, who nodded readily. Whether or not the Sylelians trusted the instincts of a thirteen-year-old boy, they would listen to the Master. And Qui-Gon had never had a reason to doubt this boy's insight.

Obi-Wan did not seem to realize that he still held his master's sleeve as they followed the captain to a speeder, fingers bound tightly in rough cloth, and Qui-Gon made no attempt to shake him off. If the boy needed this small, inadequate reassurance, he was welcome to it. Halfway there Tooks fell in with them as if he belonged with the Jedi, and before they got in the speeder President Hindegar held up a hand for them to wait.

Tooks halted with one foot up on the on the speeder, and Anjize turned back, waiting. Hindegar grabbed his daughter's shoulders, looking her firmly in the eye. "I want you to stay in the clinic. Let Lt. Berol look after you. I'll be back as soon as I can."

She nodded, blinking back tears. Hindegar released her and turned to Berol, issuing last minute commands. Qui-Gon saw a small middle-aged woman moving toward the girl from the direction of the clinic, and assumed that she was this "Nilla" Obi-Wan described in such glowing terms. Amora let the older woman take her arm, inclining her head slightly to listen to gentle words being murmured in her ear, and offered a hesitant nod.

Hindegar smiled, then turned to the four waiting by the speeder. "What are we waiting for?"

Obi-Wan's fingers tightened in Qui-Gon's sleeve, but he did not express the despairing impatience the older Jedi felt thrumming through the slight frame. "Nothing at all," the Master said smoothly.

To the Padawan's carefully hidden relief, no more words were needed.

X

Once they reached the spaceport on the outskirts of the far side of Reshifc, it was Obi-Wan who led the way, and the men let him. The Jedi apprentice seemed unaware of them, every iota of his being focused on a distant point they could not see, as if every molecule in his body was an iron filament straining toward magnetic north, quivering to reach it. Tooks spoke quietly on his communicator, hearing reports from the on-going searches in the other spaceports, but Qui-Gon and Hindegar held themselves in silence, watching the boy's intense, tightly controlled search.

Obi-Wan walked with smooth, brisk strides, not a centimeter wasted, his head turning sharply but gracefully this way and that. It was the march of a soldier, the prowl of a hunter, and the rush of a frightened boy in one. Bright eyes seemed to take in everything in an instant, immediately dismissing what was of no help. The smallest movements were taut with purpose, and one purpose only.

Only Qui-Gon saw the minute tremors that possessed the strong young body, a chill breeze rippling the calm surface of a lake. He could feel Obi-Wan's steadily worsening exhaustion, behind his politely raised shields. He could not ask the boy to stop, take a break, give himself time to rejuvenate—but he wanted to.

They walked down the row of individual docking bays, passing the spaceport guards stationed at intervals along the passage to keep anyone from trying to escape the quarantine. Truly, it was impressive how quickly and thoroughly Tooks' orders had been carried out, Qui-Gon reflected absently. He'd seen much worse security on Core worlds.

Obi-Wan's brisk pace faltered, and he halted outside Bay 48, his hand on his 'saber hilt. He gave Qui-Gon a meaningful glance, unable to speak. It seemed as if the task of forming words and sending them out would take too much effort for the boy at this point, would break his closely guarded concentration.

"This one," Qui-Gon translated quietly.

"Are you sure?" Tooks asked carefully.

"Yes."

That was enough. The president, the security chief, and the two Jedi walked into the bay. A burly man stood outside a lowered ramp, arguing viciously with the 'port guard, who was slowly lowering her blaster rifle to point at her antagonist. This was about to get ugly, fast.

Tooks stepped forward, jutting his chin authoritatively. "Your ship will now be searched for contraband, just like every other ship in Reshifc during the current lockdown. You are not being treated unfairly. Harassing a guard with a rifle will not make your position a micron more tenable, I assure you."

The man hauled his bulk around to face this newcomer, florid face bulging as he prepared to burst into another tirade. Then he froze. President Hindegar himself had come to inspect this ship. Escape was no longer an option.

Qui-Gon felt his Padawan shudder beside him, felt the building tension and panic, and knew what was coming. He leapt forward and caught the desperate fist before it touched the Sylelian head of security, jerking it behind the man's back and pulling it upward to immobilize him. He had felt the brush of this one's slimy mind, just as his apprentice had, and knew that he was no petty thief or smuggler, but an acquisitions man with a despicable stock of trade.

The man hissed sharply as his hand was forced up between his shoulder blades, but made no other move to resist. Like most evil beings, he knew when he was beaten.

"Are there any others on board?" Qui-Gon asked in a low, dangerous voice.

The bulky head shook frantically, double-chins wobbling. Qui-Gon quickly turned his custody over to the spaceport's guard, who had already removed her cuffs from her belt, and the four men hurried into the ship.

Again Obi-Wan led, all but running through the metal halls. Qui-Gon kept his senses sharp for more depraved minds, but suspected that most of them were still on the streets. Hopefully now, with the constabulary force alerted, any more kidnapping attempts would be foiled.

Obi-Wan reached a locked metal door and barely refrained from throwing himself against it. "Here," he gasped out, turning pleading eyes to his master.

Qui-Gon turned to the keypad by the door, beginning to get a feel for which numbers were used frequently, but quickly lost patience with the slow process. He could feel the panicked, traumatized young minds locked in the dark beyond that door as well as his boy could. He tossed Obi-Wan a grim smile and ignited his lightsaber.

"Stand back!" Obi-Wan yelled at the door, and followed suit.

It was just a regular door, not a security bulkhead or vault, and the two glowing blades made short work of it. Obi-Wan barely had time to extinguish his 'saber before his arms were full of a frantic, sobbing little boy.

"Obi, Obi! I thought you wouldn't find me! I thought you wouldn't come! Obi!"

"Nibbi!" Obi-Wan closed his arms around the little body and lifted it, and the child wrapped his legs about the Padawan's waist and his arms about his neck, still wailing against his tunic. "I came, Nibbi. I would always come for you if you needed me."

"I did, I did! I really did!"

The little one was rapidly falling into hysterics, but Obi-Wan rocked him and soothed him as gently as he knew how, his eyes closed in gratitude and relief. They hadn't hurt the boy. They'd frightened and threatened him, obviously, and perhaps there had been some rough handling, but Nibbi was not too broken to receive comfort. Everything was going to be all right, eventually, just as Qui-Gon had promised.

Nibbi had been the only kidnapped child brave enough to come to the door after it was torn apart so strangely. Qui-Gon and Hindegar went in after the others, Tooks again speaking rapidly and concisely into his communicator. There were four of them, three girls and a boy, ranging in age from about five to eleven. The oldest two recognized their president, so it was not hard to convince them that all was well, and this truly was a rescue. Soon all four were standing in the hall, staring about with wide, uncomprehending stares.

Qui-Gon's heart ached with simultaneous agony and joy. They had saved these five little ones before they suffered a fate worse than death. But how many like them had been taken in the unexplained kidnappings over the past seven months, and even before?

Hindegar seemed to guess something of his thoughts. He placed a supporting hand on the large Jedi's shoulder, offering a sad smile. "Let's take them back to the clinic. We can contact guardians from there, and it should be somewhat anonymous. We'll be able to avoid some of the inevitable media attention, at least for a time."

Qui-Gon nodded, grateful for the calm presence and sensible advice. A small, cryptic part of heart doubted, though. This had been a relatively easy rescue. It couldn't be real, could it? Somehow, nothing felt settled.

He strongly suspected that there was more pain and turmoil to come.

Chapter Text

"You look uncomfortable."

Obi-Wan looked up, his head wobbling slightly, and stared at Amora in shell-shocked surprise, too weary to question her presence. He sat cross-legged on a couch in the lounge at the clinic, Nibbi a warm little bundle in his lap.

The child's legs still straddled the Padawan's waist, small hands loosely gripping his tunic, dark brown head a soft weight on Obi-Wan's neck and shoulder. At Amora's voice the little one made a distressed sound in his sleep, twitching in reflexive fear, and the Padawan wrapped his arms more tightly about the little frame.

"As long as Nibbi is comfortable, I'm fine."

The corner of Amora's mouth twitched. "No offense meant," she half-muttered, half-apologized. She shifted from foot to foot, and he glanced away, not wanting to embarrass her further. He didn't know what to say to her. Apparently she had the same problem.

"I brought you this."

Obi-Wan looked up, staring at the blanket Amora held tightly in both hands. It was thick, dark blue, fuzzy, slightly worn. His confused gaze flicked to her face, and she shrugged.

"It's from the shelter part of the clinic a level down. Nobody is there right now, except the kids Chief Tooks brought back. Not sure why you aren't down there, too. It looks like it might be awhile until the constables can take your statement and you look really tired, so . . ."

She cut herself off with a grimace, looking slightly nauseated by her own babbling.

"Nibbi didn't like the basement," Obi-Wan said, though he didn't know why he felt any need to explain his actions to her. "I think he might be a little claustrophobic—bad memories or something. He was starting to panic again, so I brought him up here. The couches aren't as uncomfortable as they look."

Amora nodded and wordlessly held up the blanket, asking permission with her eyes. Obi-Wan nodded, and she carefully draped it over the two boys. After a slight hesitation, she adjusted it around them, tucking warm folds of fabric between Obi-Wan's shoulders and the back of the couch, moving it so that Nibbi's mouth was not covered.

"Thanks," the young Jedi said softly as she stood back, eyeing her handiwork critically.

Amora offered a halfway smile, then turned to go. Before she moved deeper into the clinic, she paused at the doorway and looked back. "Thanks," she echoed, just as softly. Then she slipped away.

Obi-Wan rested his cheek against Nibbi's hair. It still smelled faintly of the cleanser from the hotel, clean and gently herbal. He drifted, not sleeping but not fully alert, either, relaxed now and much warmer with the weight of the thick blanket. The murmured conversation of the guards at the outside door—a constable and an IS man—wove through his awareness but did not register. Something about the watch on the streets and the search of the spaceports, nothing else turning up . . .

He felt himself tipping slowly to the right, the ever-present weariness increasing the pull of gravity until he was no longer able to resist it. He ought to catch himself, he supposed muzzily, but could not dredge up the energy to do so, nor even to care about his inability, his weakness. All the world was this warmth, this heaviness, the pull of the earth and the murmur of the sea, this longing to succumb to the peaceful gray of sleep.

Then his shoulder caught up against something warm and solid, halting his slow downward slump. A sleepy protest—or apology—lumbered from uncooperative lips, and Obi-Wan felt a large arm circle his shoulders. A huge, warm palm covered his forehead and eyes, stilling the restless movements of eyelids struggling to open, too weak to overcome inertia.

"Shh, Padawan. All is well. You can sleep if you like."

Obi-Wan subsided, letting his body fall back into loose-limbed submission to his weariness. He felt himself being shifted, the big hands careful and gentle, so that his back was against Qui-Gon's side, his head sheltered in the slight dip between chest and shoulder. A long, slow sigh slid away from him, emptying him further of any need to protest.

"That's it." A blunt, callused thumb brushed his cheek. "Rest now. I'll watch over you and your little friend."

Obi-Wan tightened his grip on Nibbi, which had been slightly jostled in the maneuvering, but it was an instinctive act. He knew he was safe, and so was Nibbi. Nothing bad could ever happen to them here.

X

Qui-Gon sat with his sleeping apprentice curled against his side, gazing unseeing at a painting on the opposite wall as he pondered these new feelings and impulses surging within him. He looked down at the tousled reddish mop that rested peacefully just below his chin, at the dark little head tucked just a little lower, beneath a smaller chin. His eyes trailed across the length of his arm, which passed gently around a narrow shoulder to brace an even smaller back beneath the thick blanket, and knew that beneath the warm blue folds little hands clutched Obi-Wan's tunic, and the young Jedi's arms held the little body secure.

The Jedi Master's eyes lingered on his forearm for a time, remembering young fingers that twisted desperately there. And like the dream of a dream he remembered again the tiny fingers that had clutched his Padawan's sleeve, seeking comfort and protection.

Parallels. Qui-Gon's gaze returned to the opposite wall. Nibbi had fallen asleep in Obi-Wan's arms, at last feeling safe, protected by his Jedi friend. And here was Obi-Wan asleep in the circle of Qui-Gon's arm, allowing himself finally to rest after struggling desperately to stay awake in the hours since they had rescued the children from the kidnappers' ship.

He wondered, suddenly, if Obi-Wan might have some of the same needs as his little friend. And having made the resolution never to neglect his Padawan if he could help it, Qui-Gon wondered if he ought to be doing more to fulfill those needs.

And he wondered what they were. Wondered if this new ache in his chest, so strange and sweet, might have a companion within his Padawan.

"Why are you so weary, my apprentice?" he whispered. "What a heavy burden you must bear, to tire you so, though you are strong in body and spirit. I wish you would let me help you carry it, or take it from you altogether."

Obi-Wan slept on. Their bond had been more vibrant and strong than ever since their extraordinary communication earlier this evening, and Qui-Gon sent a gentle probe trailing along it, faint enough that it would not the disturb the young one's slumber. He sensed contentment and peace, the healing that sleep was beginning to accomplish for the worn young body.

Yet with this new openness, he could sense something else below that, something buried deep and constrained with a powerful control that was almost awe-inspiring in one so young. Qui-Gon could not get a sense of what it was, however, only a clear conviction that it was very strong, and growing stronger. Soon it would be too much for the Padawan to contain, even with this amazing discipline.

Qui-Gon withdrew, troubled and un-enlightened. This could not be allowed to continue. Obi-Wan was exhausting himself trying to control something that could not—and probably should not—be controlled. It was dangerous and unhealthy. If he did not share this the next time Qui-Gon asked, he would have to order him to reveal it. The Master did not want to do that, but he could not allow the youngster to continue on a course that was only going to harm him, if it hadn't already. Even disregarding his masterly duty to care for his Padawan's safety, a part of him just really, really disliked the idea.

He couldn't articulate his feelings beyond that. He simply really hated the notion of Obi-Wan being hurt. In any way.

"Master Jedi?"

Qui-Gon forced his eyes to focus, and turned toward the quiet voice. "Captain Anjize."

The constable officer still stood military-straight, though this many hours into the crisis, many were beginning to relax into the stance of soldiers under siege. Even Tooks had shed his heavy official coat and taken to reclining against the counter in the back room where the temporary communications base was set up, drinking a cup of strongly brewed tea. When Qui-Gon had realized that his presence was no longer needed for the coordination of the continued search efforts, he had quietly left to find his Padawan. Just in time, too.

"We're ready to debrief your apprentice, and the little one there," Anjize said quietly, his eyes gently touching the two boys curled up asleep like a basketful of pups. "We apologize for the wait. Chief Tooks wanted to take care of the children who had parents first so they could go home."

Qui-Gon sighed. "I understand. I'd rather not disturb them—they desperately need this rest—but better to get it over with. Will it have to be done separately?"

"I'm afraid so. But they needn't be alone during the debriefing—Miss Crolin has volunteered to sit with Nibbi, and you are welcome to join your boy."

Miss Crolin . . . ? Ah, Nilla. She caught the Jedi's attention with a quick step forward from where she'd been standing in the doorway, smiling tenderly at the sleeping children.

"I wish we didn't have to wake them. Such a lovely sight they are. Too bad I don't have a holo-camera on me."

Qui-Gon grinned lightly, imagining Obi-Wan's mortification if such a holo were to be taken, and he came across it later by some mischance of destiny or the Force.

Shaking off the image, he turned to gently wake his Padawan, brushing his hand over the soft, sandy-red spikes. "Obi-Wan. Up now. Just for a little while, and then you can sleep again." He sent the lightest of nudges along their bond, lacing it with his own strength to bolster the boy's failing resources.

Obi-Wan stirred, craning his head back against Qui-Gon's chest as he strained to open his eyes, the lids fluttering erratically. Do I have to?

I'm sorry, Padawan. But yes, you have to. Just for a short time, young one.

The boy woke with a jerk, face flushing with embarrassment. He hadn't realized that Qui-Gon could hear his thoughts. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"No need," the Master said softly. "I wish you didn't have to wake up, either. You're not the only one who is entirely comfortable in this position."

Obi-Wan seemed to realize then where he was, lounging against his master's solid warmth. He looked up briefly, cheeks flaming yet more hotly, and struggled to sit up, putting some distance between them. Qui-Gon supported his shoulders until he rested against the back of the couch, and Obi-Wan deliberately didn't look at him again, instead turning to wake Nibbi with the same gentle techniques Qui-Gon had used. Of course he had seen Anjize standing there and instantly understood why they were being wakened.

If it were possible, Nibbi woke even more reluctantly than his thirteen-year-old friend had. He didn't seem to wake completely, but allowed himself to be passed into Nilla's ready arms and quickly nuzzled his face into her throat, little arms twining trustingly about her neck. Nilla smiled tenderly down at him, running her fingers through the dark, over-long hair, and accepted the blanket Obi-Wan held out for her to wrap around the little one.

Obi-Wan wobbled a bit as he stood, and Qui-Gon was quick to rise with him and pass an arm about his shoulders. The Master looked to the captain, inclining his head slightly.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Anjize nodded. "It shouldn't take long." He offered Obi-Wan a rueful smile. "You'll be able to go back to sleep soon."

But as with many pat answers easily given, that statement turned out to be quite, quite wrong.

Chapter Text

Most Sylelians revered the Jedi. Just their luck that the one assigned to take Obi-Wan's statement was part of the one-half of one percent who didn't.

"Let's go over this one more time." The lieutenant arched one eyebrow at the drooping Padawan, leaning over the table between them with his clasped hands under his chin. "You raced out of the alleyway before a shot was fired because you knew Miss Hindegar was in danger."

Obi-Wan nodded wearily. "I felt the danger in the Force."

"And you led the way directly to where the kidnapped children were hidden, going across a city, through a spaceport, and into one particular room aboard one particular ship without once losing your way . . . how, again?"

Obi-Wan sat up straight at the confrontational tone, firming his shoulders and looking his questioner directly in the eye. "I knew where to go. The Force directed me. I was so tired that I could barely think, much less walk, and I just threw myself entirely over to the Force. That's the only way I could have made it through those hours."

"Mm hmm. I see." The man made some notes on his datapad. "And when you were fighting the five men on the street, you simply knew where the bolts were coming from."

"Yes." Obi-Wan shifted in his seat, almost rocking in agitation. Qui-Gon threw him a concerned glance. "That's how Jedi reflexes work. The Force shows us things before they happen."

"Right." The skeptical eyes flipped up for a second to stare at the youngster, then looked back down at the pad. "If you just know things before they happen, why didn't you know this even earlier? Why couldn't you have saved that homeless child before he was kidnapped?"

Obi-Wan's shoulders slumped suddenly, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. "I—I should have known. I . . . I felt as I was leaving Nibbi that, that, I needed to get him out of that place, but I shrugged it off . . . . And, and I still might have been able to save him, if I'd fought better. If I had been faster, more in control, aimed better, maybe I could have ended it sooner, gotten back to him . . ." His voice trailed off into a low, miserable whisper. "But I didn't."

Qui-Gon put a hand on his shoulder. He tried to send comfort and reassurance across their bond, but it was suddenly choked and silent, closed off by the Padawan's self-blame as he instinctively drew in on himself. Not good.

The lieutenant just looked at the young Jedi for a moment. Then he sighed and spread his hands as if in conciliation, though his eyes remained sharp. Exasperation laced his tone. "Look, kid, you'd better not be trying to play me. You knew everything beforehand because you were part of it, weren't you? You were in on it all along."

"Enough!" Qui-Gon jumped to his feet and leaned over the table with both hands braced on the cool surface, his face centimeters from the lieutenant's. He was gratified to see the constable lean back a bit. "Obi-Wan told you what happened. This is a debriefing, not an interrogation. You have no right to treat him like a suspect. We are your allies in this, and I find your attitude toward a young boy who has had very difficult day already distasteful in the extreme."

The man sputtered something, but Qui-Gon ignored him, turning back to pull Obi-Wan to his feet. "We're finished here."

The boy was shaking. He followed Qui-Gon into the hallway and leaned against the wall for a moment with his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around his torso, fighting for control. Qui-Gon stood next to him, continuing to pour warmth and support through the narrowed bond.

"I'm proud of you, Obi-Wan," he said quietly. "You acted exactly as a Jedi should. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You trusted the Force, and you saved Nibbi from a horrible life of slavery. I don't have words to tell you just how proud I am."

Obi-Wan's eyes opened to slits, murky and distant. "He was right, though. If I were truly a Jedi, I would have saved Nibbi earlier." The blue-green eyes widened, staring at the Jedi Master. "They touched him. Nibbi told me, while he was crying so hard just after we left the ship. Those . . . creatures . . . laid their hands on him, in places no one should touch. Like buyers inspecting their wares." He shuddered. "It shouldn't have happened."

Qui-Gon grabbed his shoulders, pulling him away from the wall, and bent slightly to look him in the eye. "Padawan, it wasn't your fault," he said fiercely, willing his conviction to transfer over to the boy who shivered beneath his hands. "You did all you could. No one can do more than that."

"But I should have—I should have . . ."

"Should have, shouldn't have—Obi-Wan, listen to me. Look in my eyes." He waited until the blue-green gaze met his, watery and wavering as it was. "Not even a Jedi can see every possibility, prevent every harm. Nibbi is going to survive this. He already proved that he was able to overcome past abuse and trust you, who were a stranger to him two weeks ago. Just now he attached himself to Nilla with the same childlike faith. No, it shouldn't have happened. Nothing like this ever should. But that doesn't mean that you are to blame any more than any other being in the universe."

He drew in a deep breath, continuing to hold the boy's gaze, refusing to let him look away. "By the Force, Obi-Wan, blame me for not being there. Blame Chief Tooks for not clearing this problem away earlier. Blame President Hindegar for failing to control every happenstance on this planet. Or, place the blame where it belongs—on the criminals who dared to hurt your little friend, and in so doing, hurt you as well."

Obi-Wan winced and tore his gaze away, unable to bear the weight of his master's eyes for another moment. His hands were wadded into trembling fists. "I . . . I'm not going to be able to sleep now," he whispered. "Not for a while. Master . . . I need to . . . be excused, please."

Qui-Gon released his shoulders gently, straightening to his full height again. "Very well. I saw a refresher just round that corner at the end of the hall."

Obi-Wan nodded and walked shakily away, holding himself upright by force of will alone. Qui-Gon watched him go, feeling weary himself, as he had just a fought a battle or run a race and still did not know the outcome. Had he won or lost?

"He's hiding something from you."

Qui-Gon turned to face the Sylelian woman. She stood looking at him with her head cocked to one side, Nibbi propped on one hip. The child looked more alert now, eyeing the Jedi with dark eyes both solemn and bright, tousled head still leaning on the clinic worker's shoulder.

"I knew it the moment I saw him," Nilla continued. "Something in that child is closed off, silent and sad. At first I thought he was being mistreated." Humor lightened her voice. "I think I even asked him if it was an uncle."

"Silly Nilla," Nibbi said around a yawn, lifting his head to look at her. "Uncle Quig'd never hurt our Obi."

Nilla laughed softly and turned her head to rub her nose against the little boy's. "I know that now, my Nibbi-kins."

He grinned back, then laid his head on her shoulder again, one small hand touching the warm skin of her throat as if to assure himself of her continued presence. Nilla's sharp gaze found the Jedi again. "Something's wrong," she said seriously.

"I know," Qui-Gon said, and was unsurprised to hear the waver in his voice. "I've known for some time, now. He won't speak of it to me, no matter how many times I ask. I've just now decided that I'm going to have to order him to tell me. He'll obey. I just hope it doesn't destroy the trust we've begun to build."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Sometimes you have to hurt in order to help." A warm grin spread across her friendly features. "Not too often, though, we hope."

Qui-Gon sighed, glancing at the door he had exited in as close to a fury as he'd been for many, many years. "Is Nibbi going to give his statement now?"

At the woman's nod he drew himself together, carefully packing his concern away, though not very deeply. "I'll sit with you. I want to make sure that lieutenant treats Nibbi kindly."

Nilla's forehead wrinkled inquisitively, but she accepted with grace. The lieutenant's eyes widened slightly as the big Jedi darkened his door once more, and his questions were very gentle and non-intrusive. Still, Nibbi clutched Nilla more and more tightly as the debriefing continued, both his voice and his body trembling. Nilla held him close and murmured comforting nonsense in his ear, and the little one told his story bravely despite it all.

At one point Qui-Gon thought he felt a muffled spike of distress through the choked bond, and he jerked slightly, but decided not to intrude on his Padawan's privacy just yet. Knowing Obi-Wan, he had probably lost what little he'd been able to eat in the past few hours. Better to let him regain his composure a bit before Qui-Gon pressed another confrontation on the exhausted boy. But it could not wait much longer. He knew that.

When the tale was told, Qui-Gon walked them to a back room, one meant for counseling sessions, and left Nilla to settle Nibbi on the couch with several blankets and a stuffed toy she had produced from somewhere. The child asked after "his Obi," innocent face suddenly taut with concern, and before he went Qui-Gon told him gently that Obi needed some time alone, but he would be back to see him soon.

Before chasing down his apprentice, Qui-Gon made his way slowly to the kitchen room where Tooks and Hindegar still sat with cups of tea, trying to coordinate constables all over the city by means of a dozen or so communicators. They really ought to relocate to a new base, and they probably would within an hour or so, once the children were taken care of. Already parents and guardians had been contacted, and even as Qui-Gon stood there one pair arrived, frantic to see their little girl, barely listening to assurances that she was safe and unharmed.

He stood there, knowing that he was putting off finding Obi-Wan, and he shouldn't do it much longer. He was loathe to break the fragile equilibrium they had found, loathe to demand more from a boy who had given more than anyone could rightfully expect in this long, treacherous day. But this could no longer be ignored.

Then came the urgent cry over a bond that was abruptly wide open once more, though it transmitted only pain and distress. Master! I need you!

Qui-Gon stood quickly from where he'd been leaning against the wall. Obi-Wan? What is it?

Bring President Hindegar with you! Please, Master!

I'm coming, Obi-Wan.

Without a word, he grabbed Hindegar's elbow and hustled him out. And the president let him, after a startled glance.

It was not hard to find the Padawan. His presence was a beacon in Qui-Gon's mind, a deceptively tiny candle-flame that shone with the power of a neutron star. He was nothing but Light, this boy, Light brimming over to spill in generous waves over everything he touched. At the moment, Obi-Wan was intensely focused on someone else, and his pain was sympathy. No, even deeper—it was empathy.

The apprentice was feeling the pain of another. It was a rare quality for one so young, and Qui-Gon marveled. But it was also dangerous—an empathetic Jedi could get lost in the constant sorrow that could be found on every planet in the galaxy. This would have to be dealt with, too, and Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh. My poor Padawan. Didn't you have enough to contend with already?

They had entered the medical portion of the clinic. Most of it was dark and silent now, patients and personnel departed for the night. But not far ahead, the Jedi and the president could see warm yellow light spilling from a half-open door.

A young boy's voice, taut with worry, sharp with urgency, gentle with pleading; "You have to talk to somebody. You can't keep doing this."

A young woman's voice, high, angry: "What makes you think you can tell me what I can and can't do? You don't know anything about it! You couldn't possibly understand! There's no way you could ever understand!"

The two men reached the door and stepped inside, but the young people didn't even glance up. They were completely embroiled in their private battle, Amora sitting on the exam table, Obi-Wan standing beside her. Obi-Wan held Amora's wrist in his left hand, a blood-stained cloth in his right. Hindegar's breath caught at the sight of long cuts littering the girl's inner forearm, perhaps a dozen of them in various stages of healing. Qui-Gon leaned heavily against the doorway, knees suddenly weak.

Obi-Wan blotted at the two new cuts near Amora's wrist, his hand trembling delicately. "But I do understand," he whispered. "I do."

Fractured thoughts whirled through Qui-Gon's mind. Obviously, when Obi-Wan went to the refresher, he had discovered Amora harming herself. The boy had been right all along. But what did he mean, that he understood how she felt? He truly did—Qui-Gon could feel it. Obi-Wan understood. Qui-Gon did not, and neither did the man beside him, judging by the confused horror and pain that spun out from his presence in the Force.

"It's like pressure building up inside you," Obi-Wan said. His voice was very quiet and still, yet every word seemed to ring in the small exam room. "You stare at the wall, or look up at the sky, and all you feel is the pain under your skin, trying to get out. It doesn't go away. It just gets worse and worse, every day. So you think, 'If I just had a little hole in me to let it out, that would help.' You fight it for a long time, but one day you just get so very, very tired. You cut. And it helps. That pain is on the outside. You can see it. It has a shape and a color and a smell. It distracts you, and you think that everything will be all right now. But the pressure inside is still there. It doesn't take long to come back.

"So you cut again. And again. It helps. But only for a little while. And it just keeps coming back."

Carefully, he bent back to cleaning Amora's cuts, then reached for the bacta strips set on the counter beside them. The girl stared at him with watery blue eyes, her mouth slightly open in shock and comprehension.

"Did you . . . did you ever . . ."

"No." He glanced up, then quickly down again. "But I thought about it."

"But you're so young . . ."

Obi-Wan smiled mirthlessly and shook his head. "It's not only about your mother, is it? But it's connected to her."

Amora drew a deep breath and nodded slowly, her eyes on the bandage the young Jedi gently wrapped around her wrist. "She was the only one who knew . . . knew about Korbin. She told me to tell Father, but I was afraid. Before she died, she made me promise to tell. But I couldn't. And now Korbin is dead—dead on the street with a blaster bolt through his head."

"Korbin?" The name lurched from Hindegar's lips in a soft groan, and he stumbled forward to stand by his daughter, his shoulders bent and head bowed. "Your chief guard . . . for five years I trusted him . . . . What did he do to you, Amora?"

Her golden head drooped and she pulled her bandaged wrist from Obi-Wan's loosened grip, hugging it to her chest. "Oh, Daddy . . . I saw him die. I thought it would die with him. But it didn't. It's still there!"

The last statement was almost a scream. Rothis reached out for her slowly, and when she didn't jerk away at the first tentative touch to her shoulder, he pulled her firmly against his chest. "Oh, my darling, my darling," he whispered, his lips against her hair. "Tell me. Please, tell me."

The man's actions seemed to break Qui-Gon's shell of paralysis. He stepped forward to grab Obi-Wan's arm, drawing him away and out of the room. Though he felt strongly that the two Hindegars needed to be alone, another urge drove him. He pulled Obi-Wan back toward the counseling section of the clinic, and the boy followed without a word, though he stumbled slightly as Qui-Gon's haste proved too much for his weary feet.

The Jedi Master barely noticed. Another room, like the one he'd left Nibbi and Nilla in, a big, comfortable couch. He sat, dragging Obi-Wan down with him, and held the thin, shaking shoulders in his big hands, more firmly than gently. "Tell me," he demanded softly.

"What?"

"Tell me. Please, Obi-Wan. The fact that you even thought about . . ." He trailed off with a shudder. "Please. Tell me what is causing you such dreadful pain. I can't stand it any longer, my Padawan. Neither can you. You can't deal with this alone. Tell me. Please."

Obi-Wan stared at him for a brief, trembling moment, then dropped his head into his hands.

Chapter Text

"Obi-Wan? Please answer me."

The boy uttered a muffled sound of distress and began to rock slightly where he sat. His face was still hidden in hands so tight with anxiety that the slender tendons stood out, the knuckles blanching white against the gold-hued skin. Qui-Gon realized that his grip on the Padawan's shoulder had stiffened to the point that it was probably hurting the boy, and let go at once.

Qui-Gon reached down and pulled the rigid hands away from the pale face, folding them tightly in one of his own. Obi-Wan tried to grip back, his fingers seeming to spasm in pain and need. Qui-Gon's other hand gently curled around a cool, sweat-damp cheek, his thumb brushing over a red mark left by those frantic fingers.

That at last, seemed to elicit a response.

"Can't," Obi-Wan half-gasped, half-whimpered. "Sorry, Master. Please forgive."

Without any other idea of what to do, Qui-Gon continued to stroke the clammy cheek with his thumb, wordlessly trying to encourage that dimpled chin to tip upward, those luminescent eyes to meet his.

"Why?" he murmured. "What made you think that you couldn't share your burden with me, my Padawan? You can tell me anything. Why do you feel that you cannot?"

Obi-Wan gasped for air, choking on the words. "Because—I'm . . . wrong. Wrong, Master! It's wrong inside . . . ."

He turned his head, straining away from the Master's touch, and tried to free his hands with a convulsive jerk. Qui-Gon was not to be so easily dissuaded, though. He released Obi-Wan's hands, but only to lean forward and envelope the young face between his broad palms. "It's doesn't matter," he said earnestly. "It doesn't matter how wrong you feel, Padawan, you can always tell me. I would never turn you away. Please tell me what is causing such suffering in you, my son."

Obi-Wan froze.

Slowly he let Qui-Gon urge his face upward, his eyes wide, features lax in shock. "Wh . . . what did you call me?"

Qui-Gon had to think about it. "I . . . I called you my son," he said slowly, marveling, feeling the words on his tongue and lips, sensing the weight of them in the air between them.

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear coursing down his cheek to wet the Master's fingers. Qui-Gon's heart twinged.

"Would . . . would you rather I didn't say that?" he asked hesitantly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No!" It was a quiet shout, an anguished wail, all the more intense for its near silence. Obi-Wan began to weep in earnest, a hoarse sob ripping from his chest. "Master . . . help me . . . I don't know what to feel anymore . . ."

"Oh, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon leaned forward just a little more and folded the boy into his arms, tucking him under his chin. Obi-Wan did not resist, but actually seemed to relax a little, allowing his master to hold him. "Is that what this is about? Feelings?"

The still-tense young body seemed to flinch at the word, and Qui-Gon felt the tiny nod against his chest.

"Why can't you tell me? Can they be so terrible?"

Again the minute twitch. "Ashamed," Obi-Wan managed, his voice breaking. "Afraid."

"Afraid of me, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon could not keep the dismay from his voice. This was like earlier, when they were walking back after the fist-fight, but ten times worse. "Why? Why would you fear me?"

Obi-Wan's voice hitched as he fought to bury his sobs. "Because . . . about . . . you. All about . . . you."

Well. Now they were getting somewhere. Qui-Gon only realized that he had been unconsciously rocking the boy when surprise caused him to suddenly stop, and an involuntary jerk from his apprentice urged him to start again. So the thing he had sensed buried in Obi-Wan's psyche was a feeling about him.

Could it be that the boy was angry about those early rejections and didn't know how to deal with it? Or, oh, Force, what if it truly was fear? That would be . . . terrible, to have this bright young being fear him. Or . . . could it possibly be even worse, darker? He certainly couldn't blame the boy, whatever it was. He had made enough mistakes in their first few months, hurt the hopeful child enough, to justify any of those.

Dread tightened Qui-Gon's chest, and his arms about the shivering body that lay against him. "If you can't tell me, do you think you could show me?"

Obi-Wan's hands had been laying still, curled up and crushed between the press of their two bodies. Now they turned and twisted in Qui-Gon's tunic, and the boy's breath came faster, his shoulders rock-hard with tension beneath Qui-Gon's arm. "All . . . all right."

The bond blazed between them, bright with trust and dark with pain, the two mingled in weeping sparks of pure power. If they could purge this bond of the things that choked it, it would be incredible indeed, far stronger than any bond Qui-Gon had shared before, perhaps even than any he'd heard of in the current age.

As Obi-Wan focused entirely inward, trying to open himself as much as possible, Qui-Gon leaned back into the couch and pulled him fully into his lap, holding him as the boy had held Nibbi. It would be easier to meld this way, and would prevent any mishaps while they were unaware of their physical bodies. Obi-Wan didn't seem to notice the shift—his head lay limply against Qui-Gon's shoulder and neck, the tension in his body easing slightly as all of his failing energy turned inward.

Qui-Gon drew his awareness into a thin thread and carefully poured himself down the bond, ready to slow or draw back if Obi-Wan panicked at the mental invasion. But the Padawan let him in, not quite with eagerness, but at least with acceptance. He knew that this was the best—and perhaps only—way to free himself of the chains that bound his spirit.

Here, Master.

Obi-Wan led the way deeper, past surface thoughts, past memories and burdens and griefs, down into deep-seated desires. They were desires to please, to make his teacher proud, to be a good Jedi and strong man. And here, at last, they reached the problem, the thing that had been sucking Obi-Wan's strength away like a spacer guzzling a drink, weakening him, crippling him, demanding more and more as it burgeoned with the passing of every hour.

It was a box. Obi-Wan had made it himself, Qui-Gon saw—the youngster's Force-signature shone there, inexperienced and pure. The box had begun a decent size, and had bloated since, straining against the powerful control that suppressed it. And it contained . . .

Something huge, Qui-Gon knew. Something with the ability to blow him away, out of Obi-Wan's mind and into a netherworld of forgetfulness. It would have to be handled with great care.

Feelings, my Obi-Wan? Did no one ever teach you how to release them to the Force?

It was an irrelevant question, uttered out of a stunned awe at just how big this problem was. But Obi-Wan answered, his mental voice small and ashamed.

I—I never could figure it out. I always tried to release my emotions, especially the anger that was always tripping me up, but I never quite managed. I finally found a way to make them go away, but now I see that it wasn't release. I was just hiding them from myself. They're all still here.

Let me show you how, Qui-Gon said gently, trying to soothe the boy's crushing sense of failure. No one ever showed you, did they?

No.

The overwhelming relief flooding from the apprentice pricked the older Jedi's heart. That something so small could make such a difference for his poor Padawan . . . No more neglect, he vowed. Obi-Wan would not suffer for lack of such simple guidance any longer.

Together then, my Obi-Wan. This is too much to deal with all at once. Release your control very gradually, do you understand? Let out only a little bit at a time. Too much could cause permanent damage, not only to your mind, but also to mine.

A shiver rocked the inward space as Obi-Wan trembled at the magnitude of this task. I . . . I understand. I'll do my best.

That's my Padawan. That's my brave boy. I'll help you. Everything will be all right.

Together they touched the chained box, held it firmly in an envelope of Force power. Carefully, slowly, Obi-Wan loosened the chains, just a fraction. He pried up the lid just enough to let out an ephemeral wisp of smoke, dark gray, shining red within.

Pain. Terrible, gut-wrenching pain, caused by whatever else was in that box. Qui-Gon captured the wisp in a mental hand before it could expand to fill this place, immobilizing the boy. He molded it into a small, quiescent ball, holding it firmly.

Feel it, Padawan. Allow yourself to feel it. You must acknowledge and understand yourself, and this is part of you, as hard as it is.

Obi-Wan reached out and touched the ball with a mental finger, shuddering as the pain passed over and through him.

That's it, my Obi-Wan. Now you know what it is, and you don't need it any longer.

Carefully, Qui-Gon breathed on the gray-red thing, changing it into a weightless puff subject to the winds and currents. And he let it go, floating away on the Force that flowed through Obi-Wan, as it flowed through everything.

These are only images to help you understand what is happening within you, just as these bodies we wear in this place are only projections, not reality. Eventually you'll be able to feel and release your emotions with a passing thought. But for now, we will go through this process slowly, step by step, to let you get used to it.

Again that overwhelming relief, a warm shining in the boy that spread a gentle smile through Qui-Gon's spirit. Yes, Master. Thank you. Thank you so much.

You're welcome, my Obi-Wan. That wasn't so very hard, was it? Let's continue.

Shame came next, so powerful that it licked over Qui-Gon as well, turning his innards to stone and his mind to a burning, spinning spark. They dealt with it as quickly as possible. Then guilt, partially wrapped up in the shame, a deep, dark blue that wanted to sink to the floor. It took quite a lot of effort to transmute that weight, enable it to float away.

Then came questions and doubts like a horde of stinging, buzzing insects. "It's all wrong, isn't it?" "I'm violating the Code." "Jedi don't have this feeling." "Will I ever be rid of it?" "This can't be right." "Why can't I control myself?" "I'm a failure!"

For a moment both Master and Padawan were entirely occupied with simply slapping the big, dark things away before they landed and stung. Then Qui-Gon gathered in a great breath and blew them away with a powerful wave of the Force, banishing them. Obi-Wan didn't need to feel those fully, he decided, frowning darkly. They had already done enough damage to the tender psyche.

Yet the box did not seem much diminished. Only one emotion remained, Qui-Gon knew. This was the heart of it, the feeling that had caused all the others, that had started Obi-Wan on this downward spiral and had been troubling him for weeks. It was incredibly powerful, and growing stronger every day. It could not be ignored for another heartbeat.

Obi-Wan hesitated with his hand on the latch, his heart in his eyes as he stared at his master. Another stinging doubt flickered into existence, and Qui-Gon blew it away immediately, before it could touch his Padawan.

All is well, my Obi-Wan. Whatever it is, we'll deal with it together.

Obi-Wan nodded shakily. In the physical world, his arms slipped around the Master's neck, tightening desperately as hot tears surged and fell. He thought Qui-Gon would push him away once he saw what was within that box. Qui-Gon pressed him closer, firmly denying that fear.

Hurts.

I know. Let it go, my son. Let it go.

That was the push Obi-Wan needed. He only lifted the lid by the slightest margin, but this last emotion was too powerful to be constrained. It burst out, bright and pure and blazing white, forever obliterating that tiny box in a flash of heat, and flooded instantly through every corner of Obi-Wan's mind.

But it did not expel Qui-Gon presence. It enveloped him, folding around him in liquid waves of warmth and welcome, rejoicing in the fact of his existence. Admiring him. Cherishing him.

At last Qui-Gon understood what it was, and the realization drove him gasping to his knees. It was love. Pure, blinding, complete. The love of a student for a much-respected teacher, of a child for a parent.

Of a son for a father.

Qui-Gon's first reaction was awe. His second was humility. This boundless devotion, this depthless admiration . . . What could he have ever done to deserve this?

Oh, Obi-Wan.

Even in the ether, the blue-green eyes were watery with tears. I'm sorry, Master.

Whatever for, my Padawan?

Obi-Wan sank slowly to his knees, exhaustion creasing his features in deep, ragged lines. This wrongness in me. My failure to control my emotions. I'm sorry.

Qui-Gon shook his head in stunned disbelief. My Obi-Wan, look around you. How could something so beautiful be wrong?

Jedi aren't supposed to . . . supposed to . . . The boy lowered his head into his hands, huddling in himself even within the shelter of his own mind with the beauty of a thousand stars gleaming around him. Can we release this, too?

No. it's much too powerful. And it's constantly being renewed. You would tire yourself out trying to be rid of it as much as you have trying to hide it.

I'm sorry, Master. If it were possible, the Padawan sank even lower, his voice a mere wisp.

Qui-Gon crept forward and wrapped himself around the boy mentally as he had physically. I'm not. I'm deeply honored. And humbled. Amazed, awed, happy to the core of my being . . . but not sorry.

Obi-Wan didn't seem quite to hear him. That's very kind of you to say. I know that you are a true Jedi and could never care for me as I've been longing you to. It's too much to expect and I would never ask for that. I didn't want you to know—I didn't want to offend you. I'm sorry for that, sorry that I couldn't . . . couldn't . . .

Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon interrupted with infinite tenderness. The boy stilled immediately, quivering like a small, trapped animal, his face hidden against Qui-Gon's chest. Oh, my Obi-Wan, my precious Obi-Wan. Would it shock you very much to learn that I already care for you in that way?

Even the trembling stopped as Obi-Wan froze, rigid in Qui-Gon's arms. Silence spun out between them, fathomless, fraught with unspoken questions.

What?

That one word, barely audible, seemed to contain all of the questions, all of the boy's hopes and fears, his darkest dreams and brightest aspirations.

I love you, Obi-Wan.

Still the stunned silence. The Padawan seemed entirely unable to move or speak.

Here, let me show you.

Qui-Gon had only allowed a corner of his mind to enter his Padawan's, to minimize the inherent risk in such an encounter. Now he took the time to deliberately widen his end of the bond, as the boy had already done, opening his mind as much as he could, lowering well-kept shields that had stood untouched for what must have been endless ages, so crusted they were with time and bitter loss. Yet they fell easily enough, once Qui-Gon put his mind to it. They had been slowly crumbling for months, the cracked, frozen blocks of stubbornness melted and perforated by the boyish warmth that had steadily beat against them.

But Obi-Wan did not move to explore the wide-open bond, perhaps still too shocked, perhaps too weary to perform even that simple mental exercise. So Qui-Gon picked him up and carried him there, with the ease of a river carrying a leaf. Qui-Gon held him secure and showed him something that had been hidden from himself, unsought and unrecognized, until the boy's revelation had made him realize what he carried in his own spirit.

It was just as deep and boundless as Obi-Wan's, though steadier, anchored, slow to develop and slow to ignite, though it had finally managed to do so. It had been building for weeks or months now, steadily and inexorably, without Qui-Gon noticing. That strange, sweet ache in his chest, the foolish, unthinking desire to shield the Padawan from all hurt, to heal even the tiniest wounds the moment they appeared—it all added up to exactly the thing Obi-Wan had been longing for with all the quiet desperation of his lonely young heart. The fathomless love of a father for a son.

You see, my Padawan? We are perfectly matched. Do not doubt the ways of the Force.

Obi-Wan responded with overwhelming relief and joy, an outpouring of love that spread a grin across Qui-Gon's face and made his heart ache at the same time. Then a sudden hitch, a hesitation, doubt rising once again. But . . . attachment . . . the Code . . .

We will discuss that more tomorrow, Qui-Gon deflected gently. But right now, my Obi-Wan, my son, you are too tired even to think clearly, as you told that lieutenant. This has been a very long and hard day for you. Sleep.

He didn't have to use a Force-suggestion. Just the mention of sleep was enough to send Obi-Wan tumbling into the restful, peaceful depths of a healing slumber. Free at last of that draining box within him, this sleep would finally begin to restore the weary boy.

Qui-Gon carefully untangled their minds, keeping the bond open between them, and left Obi-Wan to his rest, rising carefully out of the formless world of mind and spirit to blink with gritty, sleep-worn eyes. Obi-Wan slept in his arms, his damp face still pressed against the Master's neck, thin arms still twined about him. He was completely limp now, at last, every last bit of tension drained away.

It took a bit of tricky maneuvering, but Qui-Gon managed to get out of his robe without moving the boy and wrapped it around his Padawan, still shivering slightly in his Sylelian garments. Obi-Wan made a small, contented noise in his sleep and nestled into the warmth, settling even closer to his master, if that were possible. Qui-Gon smiled gently down at him, firming his grip around the slight form.

Before long, he, too, was fast asleep and dreaming of pleasant things.

Chapter Text

Sometimes they didn't know if they were speaking aloud or in their heads. They were completely entwined, and perfectly content to stay that way for as long as possible. Whether they were awake or shared a dream was irrelevant. They were together, working as one to heal all the wounds, large and small, that had kept them from this wonderful haven of peace and joy before this time.

Both apologized, though the other was quick to insist that it wasn't necessary, and both forgave, whole-heartedly and without reservation. Both wept tears of sorrow and regret, followed swiftly by tears of joy that made the first tears only a ghost of a memory, forever powerless. Both listened to the wisdom of the other, and they came together to a place of understanding, peaceful and complete.

"Love is never wrong," Qui-Gon explained gently, the complete openness of his emotions removing any sting there might have been in this rebuke-that-wasn't-a-rebuke. "You should not hide it. You should not fear it. It does not make you weak, or a failure, or less of a Jedi or a person. It makes you stronger. It makes you more."

Obi-Wan rested in the warm outpour of his master's unveiled spirit, utterly content. "I see that now. I feel a little foolish for thinking otherwise. Thank you for showing me a better way. I guess I was just so focused on following the Code, on never making another mistake ever, that I did not pause to consider the other wisdom I've learned. I let my fear guide me, and that was wrong."

"But perfectly understandable." If it were possible, the affection streaming from Qui-Gon to his apprentice increased in warmth and intensity. "I see now that you don't need the criticism of the Council. You are hard enough on yourself for a dozen oversight commitees. I wish you wouldn't judge yourself so harshly—you don't deserve it." Humor lightened his tone. "Please stop trying to correct yourself, my dear Padawan. I'm going to feel quite useless and superfluous if you don't need a Master to help guide you."

"Oh, I will always need you, Master. Never fear on that account."

"And I will always be here for you. Never hesitate to bring your troubles to me in the future. Are we agreed?"

A soft, happy sigh. "We are agreed."

They talked more about the Code, about how attachment and unconditional love were two different things. The first held the shades of greed and jealousy, and the fear of loss, which was a path to dark side. A Jedi was encouraged to feel compassion, deep caring for all who lived, but he must be ready to let go at any time, for life and the Force were unpredictable, and grief could easily lead to anger and darkness. It was not merely a rule, just another line in a dusty set of them, but a necessity for those who lived by the light side.

One day I will die, my Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon said very gently, softening the blow of these hard words with a tender kiss to the boy's forehead, now wrinkled in pain as he considered this inevitability. You must be ready for that. Of course you will be sad, of course you will grieve, but it must not stop you from living. You will have to remember that I am one with the Force, and that your sadness is not for me, but for yourself. And then you will let that go and continue as the wonderful Jedi I know you will be, for you will be as selfless then as you are now. Do not fear death. It is only another step into a larger world.

I . . . I understand. Obi-Wan drew in a deep breath, felt Qui-Gon's ghosting through his hair. But now, you are here, and for a long time to come, I hope. Can we think about death later?

Qui-Gon's chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating in Obi-Wan's ear. Ah, I do believe that my apprentice is asking me to focus on the moment, live in the here and now. How can I refuse such wise advice?

He let the subject drop, knowing they would come back to it eventually. For now, the moment was too sweet to spoil with such gloomy foresight. Time enough for hard truths when the boy was rested and well, not beaten down as he was by weeks of unending strain.

For now, Qui-Gon was perfectly happy simply to aid in the healing of his Padawan's exhausted spirit and mind. It was not a difficult task. Rather pleasant for both parties involved, actually. Qui-Gon had once loved another as a son, but that one had not returned his feelings with such immense joy, such innocent, unabashed freedom. It was a new sensation, this childlike love that poured into him. Words did not exist to describe how much he enjoyed it, how it continually astonished and humbled and exalted him, how the light of it in his once cold and dim spirit was like that of the Force itself, though infinitely more personal, carrying the unique flavor and scent that was this bright young Jedi who had earned a place in his soul.

Then again, perhaps Obi-Wan was not the only one being healed by this time of intimate connection and sharing.

They talked, they sat in silence, they slept, they reveled in this newborn closeness. The bond had been purged, and it was as strong as Qui-Gon had suspected it would be. It was amazing. Everything was.

X

"Obi?"

Qui-Gon half-opened one eye, barely enough to see dimly by the faint light entering from the corridor. Nibbi stood just inside the doorway, hugging a stuffed bantha to his chest and dragging a blanket behind him. His eyes seemed even wider than usual, probably because of the unusual sight of two Jedi sleeping on a couch, slumped upright and wrapped in a single robe.

Obi-Wan stirred against the Master's chest, hauling himself out of sleep to respond to his little friend. Qui-Gon felt no need to move at all. He was entirely comfortable just as he was, thank you kindly. Obi-Wan finally managed to lift his head slightly, though.

"Mmph. Yeah, Nibbi? 'M here. D'you need me? What 'z it?"

"I just wondered where you were," Nibbi said meekly, slowly making his way closer to the couch with the blanket trailing behind him.

"Well, here I am." Obi-Wan stifled a yawn against his palm and turned slightly to lift a corner of a robe, waving a hand for the child to join them on the couch. Nibbi hurried the rest of the way and clambered up next to his friend, hauling the blanket and bantha with him.

The little one stood on the thick cushion beside them, peering closely into the Jedi's faces. "Were you cryin', Obi?" he asked in a sympathetic hush. Qui-Gon felt a small hand brush his cheek, tracing the path of dried tears, and knew that the same little fingers had just touched his Padawan's face. "I told Nilla that Uncle Quig'd never hurt you. Did I do a fib? Huh?"

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably, jabbing an elbow gently into Qui-Gon's stomach. The Master didn't react.

"It was happy crying, Nibbi," the boy said hesitantly. "You understand what happy crying is, don't you?"

"Oh, sure." The child leaned confidently against them, half on Obi-Wan and half on Qui-Gon. "That's what I woulda done if my real mama and papa'd ever come and taken me back from that foster home."

"That's right. And you know . . . uh . . ." Obi-Wan lowered his voice to a bare whisper. "Quig isn't really my uncle."

"Oh, I knew that, Obi. He's more like your papa, isn't he? 'Sall right. You're Jedi. You don't hafta tell me everything."

"I'd like to, though."

Nibbi sat down beside them, wriggling down into a comfortable position and pulling his blanket over himself. Obi-Wan reached over to share the robe, and pulled the blanket over Qui-Gon and himself so that all three were encased in a double layer of warmth. A bit sluggishly, Qui-Gon drew his arm back and wrapped it around the little boy, pulling him against his side and Obi-Wan's leg.

"'Sokay, Uncle Quig," Nibbi whispered loudly. "You c'n go back to sleep now. 'M fine."

"Very well, little one," Qui-Gon whispered back, and let his one half-open eye slide shut again.

He heard the boys whispering a bit more, felt the jostling as they squirmed until they were comfortable, now with one of Obi-Wan's arms around Nibbi as well. Obi-Wan told his little friend their true names—though Qui-Gon suspected that Nibbi would always call them by the ones he'd first learned—and explained something of their purpose here.

Nibbi asked a few questions, like any child interested in the famous order of warriors and diplomats, and Obi-Wan answered in as much detail as he could, his voice slurring as weariness returned. But it was natural now, the ordinary reaction of a youngster trying to keep himself awake far past a decent hour. That worrisome exhaustion was finally defeated, and Obi-Wan was fast regaining his equilibrium. Eventually the boys stilled and quieted, breath evening out, and Qui-Gon knew they were asleep.

Qui-Gon opened his eyes, just for moment, to gaze down at the two children who slept so easily and trustingly against him. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. But this joy seemed too deep for a smile, somehow. Too deep for words, for petty little phrases and gestures. This was the kind of joy that tumbled mountains, that moved oceans, that ignited stars. He could not quite explain why he believed there to be such power in this, but he knew it was there.

A figure stirred in the doorway and the corner of his vision, and he sleepily turned to look. Nilla stood there, leaning on the jamb with her arms folded over her stomach. "Oh, where is my holo-camera?" she murmured loud enough for Qui-Gon to hear, then walked away.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and slept once more. Soon enough the waking world would demand the attention and assistance of the Jedi. They would enjoy this interlude of quiet for as long as they could.

Chapter Text

"No, I don't wanna stay here ever again," Nibbi murmured.

They stood in that dank alley a couple of blocks from the clinic, staring at the little box that had been Nibbi's home for far too long. The box was empty, the top broken in, and the Jedi robe was gone, no doubt stolen during the street vrelt's absence. Obi-Wan had his arm wrapped around the child's shoulders, and he gave them a squeeze, offering wordless encouragement.

"I felt safe here for a long time," Nibbi said, looking up into the Jedi's face with wide dark eyes. "No one bothered me here, 'specially after you fought Tronak for me. But then those men came and dragged me out . . ."

Obi-Wan felt an echo of that memory, the terror and confusion, the rough hands grabbing slim arms and legs with bruising force, heard an echo of the child's scream instantly cut off by a callused palm that almost suffocated him. He shuddered as the little boy shuddered. Nibbi's arms slipped around the Padawan's waist, tightening convulsively.

"Let's get outta here, I don't wanna stay here . . ."

They hurried out of the alley, Obi-Wan fighting the urge to simply pick up his little friend and carry him. This return had been by Nibbi's request, and Obi-Wan understood the need to look back, to understand what had happened. But he was just as glad that the boy didn't want to stay. He didn't have any good memories from that place, either.

"Where 'm I gonna go now?" Nibbi whispered. He didn't seem to be asking anyone in particular, his gaze far away.

Obi-Wan gently untangled their arms and knelt on one knee to face the little one, completely serious. "Nilla will find you a good home. Will you let her help you? You know she would never do anything to hurt you, or put you with anyone who would."

Nibbi took a couple of deep, shaky breaths, blinking rapidly, then nodded slightly, just once. He lunged forward to wrap his arms around the young Jedi's neck, trembling. "'M scared, Obi. Really scared."

"Of course you are," Obi-Wan said gently, rocking the child in his arms. "Big changes are always scary. But this is for the better, Nibbi. I know that truly—the Force tells me so. Do you believe me?"

Nibbi nodded against the older boy's neck, his grip loosening not at all. "I b'lieve you. You're a great Jedi, and you'd never lie t'me."

"That's right. That's right."

Nilla was waiting for their return to the clinic, her face opening in relief when the two boys came back in the double doors. While Nibbi chattered out the story of why they had needed to leave, she picked the little boy up and set him on her reception desk, offering him a lolly from the jar she kept by her datapad. He sucked it, legs swinging, and solemnly requested that she find him a good home.

The woman agreed, just as solemnly, then grinned widely, her entire face shining. "I have the flimsies right here." She picked up the small pile setting on the desk next to the child. "We'll go through it together, make sure you agree to all of it, all right? Now, first off, I need you to tell me your full name."

Nibbi made a sour face, despite the stickiness beginning to spread over his cheeks from the lolly. "Renibferth Delancrox."

"Ah." Nilla nodded gravely, writing the information with a stylus. "I can see why you prefer 'Nibbi.'"

Obi-Wan hid his mouth behind his hand, stifling a squeak of laughter. Now he understood why the little one liked nicknames.

"Now, here, the names of your new foster family," Nilla continued, tapping the flimsy thoughtfully with her stylus. She wrote something, then held it up for Nibbi to see. "How does that look to you?"

Nibbi took a few moments to work it out, his lips moving soundlessly as he processed the syllables. Then his eyes widened, bright with joy. He turned to the clinic worker with a huge grin and threw his arms around her, sending the flimsies flying. "It looks great!"

Nilla hugged him back gently, eyes sparkling, apparently unaware of the lolly that was now stuck in her hair. "I think it's wonderful, too."

Obi-Wan picked up the flimsies and looked for the name, curiosity all but eating him alive. Ah. Riger and Nilla Crolin. Yes, the young Jedi found it perfectly wonderful, as well.

"I'll be your Nibbi-kins for a long time, right?" Nibbi's question was muffled against the woman's shoulder.

"Oh, a very long time indeed," Nilla said. "Even after we find the perfect family to adopt you, you'll still be my Nibbi-kins. How does forever sound?"

The little one sighed happily. "Just fine."

They had to depart for the refresher to get the lolly out of Nilla's hair. Obi-Wan leaned against the desk, whistling an old tune, utterly content. Nibbi was going to be all right. He carried wounds that would scar as they healed, but at least the healing would come. Obi-Wan had managed to accomplish some good, even if it wasn't enough.

"Obi-Wan?"

He looked up, surprised and pleased. It was the first time she had used his name. It sounded nice. "Hello, Miss Hindegar."

She smiled, cautiously moving closer. It was a genuine smile, a true expression of greeting, gratitude, even . . . fondness? He'd never seen such from her. That was nice, too.

"I . . . I wanted to thank you, Obi-Wan. You were right. Everything you said was exactly right. You saved my life twice, yesterday. Maybe three times."

Obi-Wan flushed, his gaze dropping to the floor. "You're very welcome. I . . . I hope things go well for you."

"They're starting to." Amora's voice was very near, now. He could see the edge of her colorful skirt in the corner of his vision, still fixed on the floor. "I'm starting to understand. Korbin . . . what he did . . ."

"You don't have to tell me." Obi-Wan looked up quickly, earnestly, to meet her gaze. "I know it's hard. You don't owe me a thing."

"You deserve to know, though." She drew in a deep breath. "My father was elected president of Sylelius when I was twelve, and Korbin was the IS commander in charge of my safety. He used that position of authority against me, using me for his own gratification, for about a year . . . it gets a little fuzzy in my memory. But it hasn't gone away, not at all."

She paused. Obi-Wan wondered if she was done now. He meant what he'd said—she owed him no explanations. But he was willing to listen to whatever she had to say.

Amora looked him in the eye. "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you these past couple of weeks—you were just trying to be a friend, but I wanted nothing to do with you. I'm sure I hurt your feelings. It wasn't you, truly. I was reacting to the idea of any boy showing interest in me. It's been my pattern for years, and only now have I come to understand why." Her mouth quirked in a smile. "You learn a lot in that first counseling session—rather exhausting, it was."

He smiled back, rather sadly. "You'll be all right. Your father loves you a lot. He'll help you."

"I know." Amora hesitated for a moment, biting her lip. Then she grabbed the astonished Padawan in a fierce embrace, much as her father had done with her. It seemed to be a Hindegar trait. "You're amazing, Obi-Wan Kenobi," she whispered against his ear. "I just wanted you to know."

Obi-Wan felt his cheeks flaming as he nervously returned the hug. "Not so much," he squeaked out, not entirely in control of his mouth.

She rocked him slightly, then pulled back, holding his shoulders. "Yes, you are," she insisted, her blue eyes earnest. "I think everyone knows it but you."

As seemed to be the general state of affairs around this brilliant young woman, Obi-Wan had no idea of what else he could say.

X

"Master, may I go for a walk?"

Qui-Gon looked up, a small grin tugging at his mouth. "Outside?"

Obi-Wan's laughter sparkled in the small cabin, bright and childlike. "Yes, Master," he said, grinning. "Outside, please."

"Will you stay within six blocks?"

"The clinic is only three blocks away, so that would be a yes."

Qui-Gon looked through the hatchway to the cockpit, catching the attention of the small transport's pilot. "How long do we have?"

"Twenty-five minutes, Master Jinn."

"Can you be back in twenty-five minutes, Padawan?"

"Yes, Master. I just want to say good-bye to Nibbi."

"I suspected as much. Go on, then." He aimed a playful swat at the boy as he swung down the ramp, purposefully missing. Again Obi-Wan's laughter trailed behind as he jogged out of the docking bay.

Qui-Gon watched him go, his broad grin fading to a soft smile. After a moment he moved into the cockpit and sat in the co-pilot's chair, gazing out the windscreen, seeing beyond. The bond was brilliant almost past the bearing now, strong and open and pure. Neither of them had bothered to shield at all in the past three days.

Perhaps eventually they would tire of this ceaseless sharing. It was exhausting, and could be a bit disconcerting, to feel another so completely. Eventually one of them would feel the need to draw back a little, and the other would accept that need. It was part of maintaining long-term relationships, the desire for privacy and introspection. Nothing lasted forever.

But for now, the moment they lived in required only giving and acceptance. It was entirely pleasant. Qui-Gon would enjoy this for as long as possible.

They had said most of their good-byes to their Sylelian friends. There had been several luncheons and banquets, a few more meetings, and a number of ferocious Hindegar hugs. Now Obi-Wan made his last farewell, the hardest of the lot. Qui-Gon almost felt that he was there.

You won't forget me, will you, Obi?

I could never forget you, little brother.

Yeah, I figured you'd say that. I'll miss you, though.

I'll miss you, too. Let me know how it's going. You have my holo-comm frequency, right?

Yeah, I think you wrote it down 'bout five or six times . . .

Qui-Gon smiled and closed his eyes, just watching the bright beacon in his mind as the boy left the clinic and began to head back to the ship. Deceptively small, but so very bright, indomitable and beautiful. Like a candle against the sea.

(End)