Chapter Text
"But, oh! Fell death's untimely frost
That nipt my flower sae early."
Robert Burns - "Highland Mary"
Chapter 1: Celebration
Coruscant was an infinitely fascinating, infinitely colorful, infinitely seductive world, but it was not beautiful. At least, not usually, and not at all in the depths concealed by the marvelous upper-level façade that was the only section of it ever seen by those privileged enough to live there. But even that rarefied region - reserved for the social elite - was no feast for senses starved for natural beauty. Stylish, smart, skillfully crafted, and tastefully adorned it certainly was, but not beautiful. Except for a very brief period that occurred every year as the Capitol region poised on the brink of winter, or, at least as much winter as the long-established mechanism of planetary weather control decided to allow. Winter Festival - the season of fellowship and camaraderie - a feast honoring the formation of the Order of the Jedi, an event wreathed now in the mists of myth and legend but attributed to have happened at this very season of the year, in the dim times, when Coruscant was still a world with seas and open plains and snow-capped mountains, and the galaxy was still, relatively speaking, young and innocent and uncrowded. The season in which those who ordinarily forbade even the briefest spate of freezing temperatures, relaxed their ban and even went so far as to allow a thin frill of snow to obscure the unavoidable ugliness of so much life in so limited a space.
The Jedi gardens, in particular, ordinarily quite lovely in their own right, were transformed into a place of magic and whimsy, a feast for a soul jaded by too much civilization, too much culture. Unfortunately, the transformation did little for a heart almost atrophied with loneliness.
It was the Eve of Festival, and there was much scurrying about within the confines of the Temple. It was, perhaps, the only time of the year when the formality and solemnity of the Order was relaxed, or even - for a while - forgotten, as the spirit of celebration encouraged the open exchange of affection and amity, not to mention gifts and tokens of remembrance. For most, anyway. But not all.
He knelt in the shadow of an ancient jaquanda tree - the oldest in the entire garden - and noticed little of the activity around him. It was growing late now, and the light was fading rapidly, but some few hardy souls, enamored by the frosting of brilliant white that rendered a place of such prosaic familiarity suddenly strange and exotic, lingered to savor the singular stillness of the moment. He ignored the laughter, the breathless whispers, the pounding of running feet.
Had anyone paused to take a real look at the figure poised in absolute stillness in the shadows, the observer might have been stricken speechless by such a perfectly beautiful vision, but, of course, no one did. No one had time for such a pause.
The last glow of sunset seemed to thread through the needle-like foliage of the old tree, to form a roseate halo around the young, lovely face - the face of an angel, some might have said, and often did - but not today. Soft auburn hair, bright as polished copper, cut spiky short except for a long braid that snaked over his right shoulder, framed a sculpted face, featuring a strong jaw, and an imminently touchable cleft chin and a straight nose and a mobile, sensual mouth which would almost certainly be exquisite when - and if - it smiled. But most striking of all were the eyes, framed amid long, thick lashes, eyes as changeable as a tropical sea, now as blue as a cerulean sky over a pristine glacier, now as gray as clouds bursting with rain, now aquamarine green, and now, shading just slightly to violet, and, occasionally, in certain light, a bare shade away from polished platinum. Only right now, at this particular moment, their color was impossible to determine, as the lids remained firmly closed, preventing him from seeing the diminishing turmoil around him, and, perhaps more importantly, preventing anyone else from seeing whatever it was that resided within those sea-change eyes on this most special, most loving, most cherished night - (loneliest night) - of the (lonely) year.
Beneath the traditional rust-colored robe, and sand colored tunic and trousers, the body was a suitable match for the face, tall without being towering, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, well-muscled, and long-limbed, dusted with just a light suggestion of golden down across the sculpted chest. Perfect. Beautiful. Solitary.
Obi-Wan Kenobi sank deeper into his meditation, and did not hear (refused to hear?) the murmurs and whispers and soft comments and gentle laughter, and not so gentle snickers and occasional less-than-discreet questions. "Who is that? What's he doing? He's meditating? In the snow? Why isn't he inside? Doesn't he know there's a party going on?"
He knew more than he wanted to know.
Natural light faded and was replaced by the igniting of a series of tiny, brightly colored lanterns strung haphazardly through the garden, a concession to the merriment of the season.
But Obi-Wan did not notice.
As the night deepened, there were occasional sounds of revelry from within the great Temple; once or twice, small parties darted through the garden paths, en route from one place to another; in the distance, far out over the cityscape, the explosive brilliance of fireworks sporadically dispelled the gloom of night. Nothing pierced the shield that hovered around him.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Except one small tear, which escaped the corner of one eye and trailed down his face and traced the curve of his chin.
Only one. A single response to one moment of weakness. One moment when he impulsively dropped the shielding that was so much a part of his life, and sought the presence which had been the touchstone of his existence for lo, these many years. Immediately, he regretted the impulse.
The presence that was closed off from him, almost completely. The bond between them was not broken; they were, after all, Master and Padawan. But it was a professional bond. No more. It allowed them to exchange information, as needed. To function together as a team in the confines of their missions. It had not always been so, once pulsing with light and life and shared enjoyment. Now it existed only in a state of near dormancy. It was unfailingly courteous, polite, restrained, cultured. Just like the Jedi Master who defined it.
It was also cold, barren, and lifeless, and Obi-Wan, once so filled with wonder and warmth and a will to live and experience and learn, was slowly shutting down. Slowly becoming a shadow of what he had once been. Slowly dying, but only on the inside, where no one else could see. Or almost no one.
He had had no difficulty in locating his Master. Qui-Gon was within the Temple, in the company of some very old friends; in the party, but not of it. Had he been allowed to have his way, he would have spent this wondrous night as he spent all others - alone, in contemplation of lost opportunities. But his friends and companions had refused to allow him such solitude on such an occasion. So he sat now, surrounded. Welcomed and wanted by those who cared about him, but completely disassociated from their presence. For, in his mind, he was where he almost always was these days, when unoccupied by a mission; he lingered in memory; he walked and talked and relived his life with his beloved Tahl. The woman who had claimed his heart. The woman whom he could not save. The woman he had lost, because of his Padawan's failures.
Oh, he had never quite said it, and never would, Obi-Wan was quite sure. But it was there, nevertheless. Always there, lying between them, like the pink draigon no one was supposed to notice or speak of.
Sensing Qui-Gon's preoccupation, he had withdrawn immediately from his Master's consciousness, having no wish to intrude. This was a night for family.
And Obi-Wan was not family. At one time - very briefly - he had begun to hope that there was some chance he might become family, but those days were long gone.
Nevertheless, discreet as the searching tendril had been, Qui-Gon Jinn was far too skilled in the Jedi Arts not to notice. He briefly toyed with the bare touch of the boy's consciousness, debating whether or not to trace it, to learn the reason for the intrusion. But he was much too enthralled in his pleasant memory of the moment. Memory was all he had, he reasoned; all he would ever have, and much of the responsibility for that lay squarely on his apprentice's shoulders. Not that he believed the boy had deliberately sabotaged the search for his beloved Tahl; there was no darkness in Obi-Wan. Just incredible ineptitude. A clumsy awkwardness that had proven to be fatal, for the only person Qui-Gon had ever allowed himself to love.
Except, of course, for Xanatos.
The Master sipped at a beaker of something warm and spiced. Now there was a name he had not dared utter to himself for many long years.
Xanatos.
An image - unwanted - rose in his mind. Tall, almost as tall as Jinn himself, rugged, raven-haired. Beautiful. Graceful.
If only . . .
But, no. There was no point in following that path. Xanatos was gone, just as Tahl was gone.
The two great loves of his life.
The child was all right; there was no danger. He required no further thought.
The Padawan felt the faint echo of his Master's thoughts, and knew he had been dismissed from contemplation. He deliberately did not sigh. He had, after all, chosen to be where he was. Earlier in the day, his friends - creche friends, friends of his childhood - had done everything they could think of to lure him into participation in their own intimate festival celebrations, but he had politely declined all invitations, for the same basic reason.
It was a night for family. The other Padawans would share familial traditions with their Masters.
He could not bear to watch.
Finally, as the hour grew steadily later, he rose, shook the snow from his robes, and walked into the Temple. Stretching out with the Force, he made his way through the corridors, avoiding contact with any of the many revelers still roaming the halls, and arrived at the work-out complex, encountering no one.
The apprentice had no further need for meditation; he was already as centered as he ever was these days.
Quickly, he discarded his robe, sash, belt, and tunics, until he was stripped to the waist.
He didn't bother to activate any lighting. For this routine, none was necessary.
The azure glow of his lightsaber fell pallid on his skin, and reflected silver in his eyes.
It was a 17th level kata he initiated. Very advanced. More advanced than any he'd ever attempted before.
Ordinarily, a Padawan was not allowed to attempt anything beyond 12th level without his Master in close attendance, as it was believed - and rightly so - that such strenuous complex exercises, performed without supervision, were intrinsically dangerous.
As Obi-Wan leapt, without conscious thought, to a beam high above his head, performing a demanding lateral twist as he did so, he wondered for a minute why he was doing this. He certainly knew better.
As he reached the beam, and balanced perfectly, he recognized the answer.
It didn't matter how dangerous it was, because it didn't matter if he got hurt.
Maybe - if he hurt enough physically - there would be something within him that would feel again.
Maybe, he would be alive again.
But he didn't think so.
Running as fast as he could and leaping for a platform all the way across the vast exercise room, he belatedly realized that he was no longer alone.
His focus faltered, and it came to him, as if from very far away, that he wasn't going to reach his goal. He was falling. Clumsily. Awkwardly. Just as Qui-Gon would expect.
"No!" shrieked a voice from beneath him.
He felt the desperate grasp of Force energy reach for him and attempt to slow his descent. He even, in a rather desultory fashion, reached for some measure of control himself, but his efforts achieved little. He did not, in fact, land on his head, a little fact which might have saved his life, but he did land on his shoulder. It didn't kill him; it just made him wish he were dead.
"Son of a Sith!" he muttered through clenched teeth, as bright starbursts of pain spread through his upper body.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!" cried a disembodied voice, as the owner of the voice raced to his side. "What in the name of wookiee whiskers do you think you're doing?"
"Trying," he replied, trying to draw breath, "to maintain focus, which is really hard when someone sneaks up on you."
"I did not sneak," said Padawan Ciara Barosse. "I was looking for you. Why is it so dark in here?"
"Because," he answered in a hiss, "some people might want to be alone."
"Alone," she echoed. "On the Eve of Festival. Oh, Obi-Wan, please. What are you doing in here in the dark, by yourself?"
He pulled his hand away from the throb in his shoulder, and stared. "Bleeding. Apparently."
Stretching out through the Force, she flipped light switches, and the cave-like great room was suddenly subdivided into pools of radiance, one of which was centered on the fallen apprentice.
"Well," she said softly, probing the wound with gentle fingers, "I have no idea why you're in here alone, but I figure your Master should be pounding through that door just any second now, so you can bet you're not going to spend the rest of the evening by yourself."
"Don't count on it," he replied, busily channeling bright pinwheels of pain into the Force.
The girl sat back on her heels. "You're still blocking him. Aren't you?"
"No point," he replied, "in ruining his evening."
"He's your master, for criminy's sake," she snapped. "He needs to know."
"No, he doesn't."
"And just how do you intend to hide it from him?" she demanded.
Gingerly, he rolled to a sitting position. "I don't. It won't be necessary. He won't notice, if you'll just help me along to the Healer's wing."
"Obi," she said softly, forcing him to meet her eyes, "this is not right. When you're hurt, he's supposed to be there to help you."
He ducked his head. "He would be, if I needed him. I don't. Not for this."
Ciara waited, until she saw him begin to squirm. "This is getting scary," she said finally. "You're hurt, Obi, and I'm not talking about your shoulder. You won't let any of us help you, and I guess he just . . . can't. I know he's never really recovered from losing Tahl, but it's destroying you. He needs to know."
He refused to meet her eyes. "He knows."
The dark-eyed Q'harian girl tossed long, silky curls off her face, and tried, without much success, to conceal the spark of anger in her eyes. "But he just doesn't care. Is that what you're saying?"
Obi-Wan, using her strong arm for leverage, managed to get off his backside and up on his feet - barely. "Nowhere is it written that a Master and padawan must have a family bond. All he has to do - all he promised to do - was to teach me how to be a knight. He's done that."
"A knight, huh?" she echoed. "Better yet, how about a machine? One that never cries or hurts or needs or disobeys. Because that's what you're becoming - a damned droid!"
"Are you going to help me get to the healers," he asked softly, "or just let me bleed out all over the floor?"
"If I thought it would force you to call him," she retorted sharply, "I'd do exactly that."
"You talk too much," he said with a wry smile, reaching out and touching her cheek with a rough thumb.
"Obi," she said softly, "you're really scaring me. It's like you're just pulling away from life. We love you, you know."
He nodded. "I know."
"And, if he doesn't, he's just plain stupid."
He shook his head. "He's not stupid. He's just . . . . . ."
"Just?"
His grin didn't reach his eyes. "All full up. No room for new arrivals."
"Obi . . ."
"Give it a rest, Chi," he said, silencing her with a gentle finger pressed against her lips. "Boys have grown to manhood all over the galaxy, without benefit of a loving relationship with a mentor. They do just fine, and so will I."
He accessed the Force to call his discarded clothing to him and limped toward the exit.
Ciara stood for a moment, looking after him. "Sure they do," she murmured, finally, "but they don't love someone the way you love that man, and if I were ten years older and 50 pounds heavier, I'd just knock him down and sit on him to make him understand what a total fool he's become."
Obi-Wan was conscious of her muttering but chose to ignore it. "Coming?"
"I ought to make you crawl," she grumped.
She drew abreast of him, and he leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. "You are not cute when you're grumpy," he said.
"Stop that!"
"Stop what?"
"I hate it when you're charming. You know that."
"You'd rather I growl at you?"
"I'd rather you . . ."
"What?"
She stopped and turned to face him. "I'd rather you got mad. Really mad. Punch-somebody-in-the-mouth mad."
"Anger . . ."
"So help me," she almost snarled, "if you tell me it leads to the Dark Side, I'll smack you myself."
He just smiled. "By the way, what are you doing here?"
"I forgot," she snapped.
"No, you didn't," he said reasonably. "You just don't want to tell me."
"This is what I get for being nice to you. I was bringing you a box of caroba fudge. Master Gallia made it for you."
"So," he drawled, looking around as they were leaving, "where is it?"
"Probably still accelerating into orbit," she replied, a tiny grin twitching at the corners of her mouth. "When you fell, I just - threw it - somewhere to try to get to you."
"Wow!" he said softly.
"What?"
"You actually sacrificed a box of Master Gallia's fudge, for me?"
She draped his good arm across her shoulders as she noted a slight waver in his stance. "Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head. I must have been delusional or something."
He winced, as something within the shoulder, annoyed no doubt by his cavalier attitude, shifted, and sent a bolt of pure, sweet agony all the way down through his body.
"Besides," she said, busily accessing the Force to try to deflect some of that awful torment, "you're the one who's going to have to explain what happened to it, when she asks."
The skin of his face went through several changes of color, in rapid succession - from flushed pink, to ghastly pallor, to a slight greenish cast, as the throbbing pain caused his stomach to flex and twist and threaten to expel what little food he had eaten on this holiday.
Quickly, but gently, despite the speed of her movements, Ciara pulled him closer against her and hurried down the corridor. "You'd be a whole lot better off," she muttered, "if you forgot about that triple-damned shield that's 'protecting' your master, and worried about making yourself better."
"I'm fine," he mumbled, eyelids fluttering.
"Don't you pass out on me, Kenobi," she commanded, feeling him sag further against her. "Don't you do it. Don't you . . ."
She managed to brace him as he went down. "Son of a Sith!" she sighed, "I told you not to do that."
His head lolled against her shoulder. She reached for her comm unit, but paused long enough to tuck his padawan braid behind his ear, her eyes bright with affection. "OK, my friend. I'll do it your way. I won't call him. But someday - someday you'll bat those big baby blues all you like, and I'm still going to have the pleasure of telling him what a big prick he is." She sighed. "But, just for you, not today. But I can't carry you by myself, not even with the Force. So . . . ."
She raised the comm link to her lips. "Master Ramal," she said softly, when her Master replied to her hail, "I need some help."
**************** ********************* *************
The grand ballroom of the Jedi Temple was not a ballroom, nor was it particularly grand, except that it was very large. It was used when space was the only requisite for a meeting or an enclave or, very rarely, a social gathering. Like Festival.
Initiates, novices, and some of the younger Padawans had spent a great deal of time within the past few days hanging boughs of greenery and swags of ribbons and strands of tiny multi-colored lights, and placing urns overflowing with seasonal blooms atop every available surface in the room. On a dais at one side of the cavernous chamber, a small group of Jedi musicians sat and improvised melodies that, while not exactly traditional Festival music, were near enough to the original to ruffle no feathers - or furs or hair or scales or whatever biological material might cover the skins of the various species in attendance.
Early in the evening, the noise level was very nearly deafening, as Masters and knights, with rueful smiles and rolling eyes, simply stood back and allowed the very young to - well - to run wild, for a time. Jedi discipline was notoriously firm, but not tonight.
Children ran and shrieked and climbed and scampered and did whatever children wanted to do, as Masters, knights, and other accompanying adults indulged in a pre-holiday feast and forgot to behave like fabled Jedi, for just this little while.
As the hour grew somewhat later, creche masters and caregivers appeared to herd little ones off to the quiet of the nurseries and initiate's wing, as yawns became more and more prominent.
Later still, the younger Padawans, with sheepish smiles, bade their Masters fond farewells, and retired to their quarters, awaiting the coming of Festival morning, when the celebration would continue.
Finally, it was only knights, Masters, and a few Padawans - these last old enough to be allowed to join the adults at table - who lingered in the ballroom. The musicians continued to play, but their improvisations became somewhat more daring, and the conversation strayed to slightly more adult subjects.
Master Yoda moved among the several dozen Masters still present, greeting many with murmured comments or, sometimes, just friendly smiles. Until he came to Qui-Gon Jinn, who was deeply engaged in gazing out into the night, beyond the nearby tall windows.
"Here, are you?" asked the diminutive Master, finally, after waiting for several minutes, for an acknowledgement of his presence that did not come.
"Of course," replied Qui-Gon, pulling his eyes away from the darkness with obvious reluctance.
Yoda's crystalline eyes swept the room. "Your Padawan, I do not see."
"He's around," said the tall Master. "Somewhere."
"Ummm. A nice Festival you have planned for him?"
Qui-Gon smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Obi-Wan is far too old for such foolishness."
Yoda merely stood silent, regarding him with those huge, liquid eyes that always seemed to see too much.
"Besides, I'm sure he has plans with his friends."
The tiny Master moved closer, and then stood waiting until Qui-Gon took the hint and bent forward to hear him. "To raise a fool, I never intended. But somewhere, a mistake I made."
"Are you . . . "
"Destroying the boy, you are."
Resentment flared in midnight blue eyes, followed by a bottomless, ageless, eternal rage, smouldering still. "I will fulfill my obligation to him."
Yoda sighed, and his ears drooped noticeably. "Find your Padawan, I must. A message I must give him."
Thumping the floor with his ever-present gimmer stick, he turned away.
"What message?" called Qui-Gon, his interest piqued in spite of his anger.
"An apology," replied the troll.
"For what?"
Yoda turned back and regarded the tall Master with glistening eyes. For a heartbeat, Qui-Gon almost believed he saw a tear there, but that couldn't be; in all the years he had known the tiny Master, he had never seen him cry.
"Ruined his life, I did. Entrusted him to you."
Qui-Gon surged to his feet. "Ruined his life? His life?"
The troll blinked slowly. "Obvious it is, you think he ruined yours."
"I am the one who is alone," said Qui-Gon, through clenched teeth.
Yoda's eyes scanned the room around them, where knights and Masters, all friends of Qui-Gon Jinn, in one way or another, laughed and talked and enjoyed each other's company.
"Hmmm," said the troll. "But he is the one who is not here. He is the one who is alone tonight."
"He's not . . ."
"Silence," said the troll, with a mighty whack of his stick. "You have no idea if he's alone or not. For you haven't bothered to check. Live in your bitterness if you must and feel sorry for yourself. And punish him for the sins you believe he committed. But honest with yourself, you should be. Destroying him, you are, and it is as you wish it to be. Fool yourself, if you cannot face the truth, but fool me, you do not."
"Master, he . . . "
"Was a child," roared the tiny Master, totally unconcerned with the startled glances that darted toward them. Abruptly, much faster than most people would have believed he was capable of moving, he raced forward and laid a clawed hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Tahl would have willingly laid down her life to protect him, to protect the child. You dishonor her with your foolishness."
Pain flared bright in Qui-Gon's eyes. "No. I would never . . . Master, I can't. I have tried to regain the feelings that I once thought I might have, but . . . "
"Find him unworthy of your love, do you?"
Qui-Gon sank back into his chair, and thought for a moment about his Padawan. "No, not unworthy. I can't explain it. Just . . . "
The tiny Master's eyes closed slowly. "Love someone you cannot, just because you should."
"No." It was a barely audible sigh.
"Ummmmm," Yoda mused, then looked up into the face of his one-time Padawan. "Deserves more, he does. One day, find more, he will. But you . . . alone and empty, you will remain. Your last hope, is he. Throw him away, and your heart will never recover."
"I can't trust him," came the whispered response.
"Ahhh," said the tiny Master, "the truth, at last, I see. About Tahl's death, this is, but also something more. Much more. Much older. About Xanatos, this is. Love him still, you do. And because of that, you have no room within you for Obi-Wan." Once more, there was that curious glimmer in those huge eyes. "A fool, you are, Padawan. For the one is worth ten times the other. But see the truth, you will not."
He turned away and moved toward the exit.
"Where are you going?" Qui-Gon asked, his voice rough and raspy.
The troll paused, but did not turn back. "To make certain that someone, someone other than a stranger, wishes your Padawan a happy Festival. Alone for the holiday, no child should be."
"But he's not. . . ." whispered the towering Master, too softly to be heard. He didn't complete the sentence, for he realized abruptly that Yoda was right; he had no idea whether or not Obi-Wan was alone. But the other part of the tiny Master's remark, the part about a child on a holiday - that, he did know about. He pictured for a moment the face and form of his Padawan, from the spiked, ginger hair, to the strong, young body, and, finally, those marvelously expressive eyes. Eyes that, lately, seemed less expressive; less open; more shadowed. Eyes that sometimes reflected such a marvelous innocence that Qui-Gon, when caught unawares, was stricken speechless by such purity. Eyes that had once laughed easily, openly, infectiously. Eyes that laughed hardly at all, any more.
The eyes of a child, a wounded child.
The Master sipped his drink and considered all that had been said and knew that he should rise and go to find his Padawan.
But he didn't, finally. Because he knew that any gesture he could make would be futile. He knew the boy too well; knew what the boy wanted - needed - from him. Knew, ultimately, that it was something he could not give. Absolution, benediction, redemption, forgiveness; these he could not offer.
His heart burned still with grief and envy and unresolved anger. Yoda was right, as usual. There was no room within him for love.
************** **************************
TBC