DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment purposes and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author. Not to be archived without permission of the author(s).
The tiny thump of the knobby cane rang through the stone corridors like a bell, augmented by a shuffling footstep patter.
The tiny, green, wrinkled figure slowly made his way through the ivy-covered Naboo balconies and passages, finally coming to a small templelike structure. In the center was a stone pyre, its gray surface marred by a few remaining ashes.
"Leave soon I must," Yoda commented, leaning his cane on the pyre and slowly slipping to sit on the cold floor. "Sorry I am, that return with us you will not."
He paused, and folded his small, clawed hands. He sighed, then continued, "Obi-Wan's padawan, young Skywalker is. Safe, the queen is, and dead the Sith. Everything you hoped for, came to pass."
He paused, then burst out, "Terrible things I foresee, because of young Skywalker. The Chosen One he may be, but too fast events moved! Why did you do this?"
As if on cue, a breeze wafted through the tiny structure, stirring the low green trees that grew in the huge gardens below. Yoda bowed his head for a moment, closing his pale eyes. "Terrible things I see for Obi-Wan... for the Jedi. Perhaps because of Skywalker it is... perhaps not. But over, this will not be for a long time."
He shook his bat-eared head ruefully. "If only... if only LISTENED you had! If only heard my words you had. But always stubborn you were. Always taking risks. Always im-pa-tient!" He grasped his cane and accentuated the syllables with a sharp rap on the ground.
He glared fiercely at the empty pyre, as if daring some ghostly apparition to disagree. Then, his round, wrinkled face softened, and he dipped his head slightly.
"Always good-hearted, you were," he said quietly. "Kind... kind, to everyone. Both your weakness and your strength, it was, perhaps." He paused, weighing the words. "One of my best padawans, you were, like a son in some ways. Sorry I am, that you are gone."
For a long time, the tiny Jedi Master simply sat in the temple, hunched forward. A small tear made its way down the deep lines of his face, and were quickly wiped away by a clawed finger.
He stiffly rose to his feet and picked up his cane from the floor. As he turned to the door, he paused, and glanced over his shoulder. "Well you did," he said quietly, then slipped into the shadows of the Naboo balconies.
By the pyre, unseen and unheard, a tall man watched Yoda walk stiffly away. He bowed his head slightly and whispered, "Yes, Master."
The room was dark, the sand-colored furniture turned deep brown, the windows shrouded by shades.
Obi-Wan's eyes roved over them, misted over by a fog of memory. The shabby, creaky chair, where Qui-Gon had often slumped sideways, his long legs propped over the broken arm, his blue eyes roaming over through some old book or journal. He could almost see his master now ...
It felt wrong, all wrong to file away his few, simple posessions now. Felt like a final declaration, "He's dead," that Obi-Wan still didn't want to hear.
He shook himself and began to go through the various papers and dataclips lying around him, falling off the small table and somehow inching under the chairs and table legs. There were leather-bound notebooks filled with doodles, bad jokes, and tiny stories. Dataclips filled with messages to his family and friends...
Qui-Gon had been a packrat, Obi-Wan thought with a faint smile, a twinge of sadness blossoming inside him.
He stuck his hand back into the box, and felt the cool weight of a picture frame under his palm. He gripped it and pulled it out, sending another flurry of papers flying. He grimaced, swept them into a pile with his free hand, then looked at the holo.
It was a woman, tall and slim to the point of emaciation, dark-haired and dark-eyed, clad in a simple black gown. Her long arms were curled around a stocky child, whose small feet were set uneasily in her lap. His chubby arms were twined trustingly around his mother's neck. His wide blue eyes seemed to stare, unabashedly, from the small black frame.
Obi-Wan shivered and ran a finger over the child's face, whispering, "Master..."
He slowly put the frame down, and picked up one of the letters. It was addressed to Qui-Gon's cousin. Obi-Wan wavered for a moment, torn between delving further into the past and privacy.
The letter fell open in his hands. It was an account of incidents during missions, both funny and sad. And—Obi-Wan's eyes widened—there were accounts of him, Obi-Wan. What he had accomplished, what he had done, how fast he was learning, how tall he was. The accounts of a father speaking of his son, proud and happy.
... He actually won a practice sparring match today! I don't know who was more surprised and happy, him or me. He was terrified that I was angry with him when he went to pick up my saber... if only he knew how delighted I was!
I wish you could see him now. Down in the arena, debating philosophy with Master Yoda. He won't win—nobody wins against Yoda. But it's admirable just to try.
He's going to become a great Jedi. I know it...
Obi-Wan quickly folded the letter and stuck it into the box, keeping the single tear that dripped down his cheek from staining the paper. The consuming knot inside him, that had tainted every moment of every day, had faded to a tiny ache. He smiled a little, gathered up the papers and notes, and carefully placed them in the box. He rose and walked to the door with the box tucked under his arm.
As the doors opened with a flood of artificial light, Obi-Wan glanced over his shoulder, then walked out. The room was dark once again.
The Temple was darkened, a few floorlamps lining the corridors for the few nocturnal Jedi and anyone who had to leave their room during the night.
The rooms were cold, too big and too dark. Goosebumps rose on Anakin's chilled skin as he curled up in the reactor room, a huge, cathedral-like room in the basement, but warmer. Not as warm as Tatooine, but warmer than the big, cold Temple.
He remembered lonely nights on Tatooine when Watto had made him work late, remembered how his mother had sneaked in and held him, hugged him. But she was almost as far away as Qui-Gon was, bound to Tatooine by an explosive device.
Tears rose to his eyes as he thought of Qui-Gon. The tall, solemn Jedi had been one of the few people who believed in Anakin, one of the few that had actually cared about him. As a hot, wrenching wave of misery hit him, Anakin curled up against the reactor shield. Burning tears streamed down his cheeks and soaked his sleeve, as strangled sobs echoed through the dark, empty room. Alone.
Suddenly he felt arms around him. Solid, yet intangible. He felt the arms draw him into a firm, comforting hug, rocking him back and forth a little. Then the hug dissipated on a soft breeze that rushed out the door, leaving the tear-stained little boy sitting alone in the reactor room.
Anakin's reddened face broke into a relieved smile. He curled up again on the bench by the shield, feeling a warm aura of comfort surround him. He wasn't alone.