Reconstruction

"Reconstruction"

Rating: mostly R, but NC-17 at one point

On a fact-finding mission for the Senate, Bail Organa is abducted and tortured. Now that he has been rescued, he must struggle to put his life back together after an ordeal that challenges all he believes in. Second in a two-part story arc that started with "Deconstruction".

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."
-- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Water sluices over him, down his skin in smooth rivulets, unimpeded in its progress until it reaches the waistband of his shorts. He still cannot bear to shower naked. The water runs over him, skin smooth and flawless, unmarked by bruises or scars. The skin is fresh, clean, a tabula rasa unmarred by experience, innocent as a newborn's, like an infant voice that cannot speak, only cry.

Your skin will be the perfect page on which the Folinas will write their story.

But there's nothing there. Bacta has erased the grammar of his pain. One would never know anything had happened. He doesn't think people should use bacta. It makes the skin a liar.

"Many things that happen to our bodies leave no physical mark," Obi-Wan points out to him. "Illnesses, bruises, insect bites. A scar is toughened tissue, too thick for the nerve endings to feel much of anything. With bacta, the skin retains its ability to feel."

But what's the point of being able to feel if he can't bear to be touched?

He wants to flay himself, to strip off that lying skin. He knows those marks are somewhere in his body, if not on his skin then in his muscles or bones or tendons or veins. His skin is mute, but his body screams with the need to tell the story. But whose story will it tell? The Folinas? The Hinnelese? His own? If he can only find those marks, he can read them and understand what they mean. But there's no record imprinted on his body, and without some sign, in the absence of any vocabulary, he fears he no longer exists.

He shivered lightly and reached up to draw the robe close around his neck, but he wasn't wearing it anymore. It was packed up safely in his bags. Since he wore it so much on Alderaan, Obi-Wan had finally just given it to him, but it didn't seem right to wear it when he entered the Temple. It was a Jedi's garment, and he was no Jedi. For him to wear it now would be blasphemy. But he still longed for it.

The shuttle continued its descent, and in the distance Bail could see the Temple rising above its surroundings. The Jedi Temple of Coruscant was as much a symbol of the Republic as the Senate Building. But whereas the Senate Building was imposing and cumbersome, not unlike the politics that clogged its bowels, the Temple was light and graceful, pointing upward as if to the heights that the Republic could achieve if it were true to its professed beliefs.

Next to him, Obi-Wan spoke softly, "We can stop by your apartment if you like. You can pick up some things to make your room in the Temple seem more like home."

"No, thank you," Bail demurred, not looking away from the window. He needed to be somewhere neutral, someplace that would not remind him of himself, of the man he used to be. Whether or not Obi-Wan understood this, he did not press the point.

The story of what had happened on Ithgar was still in the headlines, and the press had jumped all over the fact that the Jedi Order had extended its protection to Bail. The tradition of Jedi sanctuary was quite old and well known, but no one had sought it in years, at least no one as prominent as Alderaan's junior senator. The Council's decision was controversial outside the Temple, but only because everything about the Ithgar mission was controversial. Bail would be safe inside the Temple, however, sheltered from the media who were too intimidated by the shroud of sanctity that clung to the venerable Jedi institution. They would not pursue him in its hallowed halls.

Within minutes they landed at the Temple platform. Qui-Gon bade them farewell, and Obi-Wan escorted Bail to his assigned room in the visitors' wing. Bail had been here before, too, a lifetime ago when he had been invited to play with the padawans. He had been so young then, so naive and blissfully ignorant. His memory of those times scarcely seemed to belong to him. It was a different man who walked these corridors now.

They arrived at the room, his room. Bland, undecorated, wholly undifferentiated from any other room in this wing, nothing to mark the individuality of its new resident. That was good. Bail could use the sterility.

"Here's the vidscreen," Obi-Wan pointed out, as if all the room's amenities weren't self-evident. "You can download holovids or whatever you might want to watch. There's a desk over here with a communit. And there's the kitchen. We'll put in an order for basic supplies from the Temple kitchens. If there is anything special you want, we can go shopping tomorrow. You can also order meals sent up from the refectory if you don't want to eat out or cook for yourself."

"Where do you usually eat?" Bail asked.

"Qui-Gon and I almost always have breakfast in our quarters, then have the remaining meals in the refectory. You can join us whenever you want."

Bail nodded absently, his gaze wandering around the room as if seeking for a place to rest.

"Are you hungry?" Obi-Wan asked. They had arrived at the Temple late at night, hoping to avoid the detection of the press. Back on Alderaan it was only mid-afternoon.

"No," Bail replied. "I... I'm a little tired." Not exactly sleepy, but overwhelmed, anxious. It amounted to the same thing. "I suppose I should unpack."

He didn't have much, at least not by his regular standards. It only took a few minutes to get all his things settled, and they scarcely made an impression on the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at a holo of his parents on the nightstand. He pushed the button, cycling through images of his sisters and their children. They all seemed so very far away from him, waiting on the edge of his life. He missed them, but strangely he didn't feel lonely. He knew they would be there for him when he was ready to come home. He was glad they didn't have to see him like this.

But was it any better that Obi-Wan was seeing him like this? Over the past few weeks, Obi-Wan had seen him at his absolute worst. Bail could not bear to think of how he had behaved lately, yet Obi-Wan said nothing at all about it.

"I must apologize," Bail offered.

Obi-Wan looked at him in surprise. "For what?"

"For my behavior on Alderaan, the way I treated you, the things I said."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I know you didn't mean any of it. It was your way of coping with the stress."

"That doesn't excuse it."

"It's all right, Bail. I forgive you. I've already forgiven you."

Bail studied the holo of his parents, unable to meet Obi-Wan's gaze. "I will not betray your trust in me again."

"I know you won't," was Obi-Wan's soft reply. He watched Bail as he cycled back through the images of his family. "Are you ready to turn in?"

"Yes," Bail said, then realized what that meant. He stood up. "Obi-Wan," he began, then stopped, afraid to go on.

"Yes?" Obi-Wan prompted, but Bail held back, feeling he had no right to ask. Again, Obi-Wan said, "What is it?"

"You're going to go?" he asked faintly.

"Not if you don't want me to."

Bail didn't want him to. He never wanted him to, but someday he would. Obi-Wan couldn't remain with him forever. Someday he would leave, and Bail would have to be strong then. But that day was not here yet. "You wouldn't have to -- you don't have to sleep on the couch."

Obi-Wan studied him closely. "It's all right. Whatever you prefer."

"I -- I would prefer --." He clenched his hands at his sides. I would prefer you to sleep with me. I would prefer you to hold me, to make love to me -- but don't touch me, I'm still too afraid, too broken, but I would prefer, I wish, if only....

Obi-Wan took a step closer and reached out for Bail's hand, sliding his fingers over Bail's clenched fist. "Not the couch?" he offered, his voice soft.

Bail looked at Obi-Wan's hand covering his. Why couldn't he just say it? Why couldn't the words squeeze past the lump in his throat? He struggled to speak, to just nod his head. Say yes, why can't you just say yes?

With his other hand, Obi-Wan reached up and lightly stroked Bail's cheek. "It's all right."

"You keep saying that," Bail muttered.

"And one of these days you're going to believe it." He didn't kiss Bail, though he wanted to. These little touches were all they had, but it was more than he had been permitted on Alderaan. Tiny steps, no matter how small, would one day get them to their destination. Obi-Wan let his hand fall once more to his side. "Now, why don't you go change while I call Qui-Gon and tell him I'll be staying?"

A tiny step, but it was enough to transform what was to have been Bail's room into theirs.

Words had always been Bail's favorite toys. When other children played with dolls or toy starships, Bail played with words. He created entire societies where stuffed animals along with starships would assemble in a toy parliament and discuss what kind of house to build and what subjects they should learn in school and where they should take their vacation. Bail was quite a bit younger than his sisters, so he grew up like an only child, but he had never lacked for friends, both real and imaginary, and he could entertain himself for hours spinning long, fanciful stories and adventures. Words were the building blocks of dreams, the bridge of friendship, the currency of life.

All the more crushing, therefore, that words for the first time in his life failed him.

Words, the soul healers said, would lance the festering boils of his trauma, providing an antibiotic for the infection in his soul. Talking was supposed to wash out the wounds and bind them. But Bail balked, like an eight-year-old refusing his cough medicine. The words stuck in his throat, gagging him with their bile. He couldn't even talk about irrelevant subjects. Nothing could get through the logjam of syllables clogging his throat. So he sat on the overstuffed sofa of the healer's office, mute, his lips and tongue unable to wrap themselves around the simplest of sounds, swallowing those toxic words down, where they ate away at his stomach.

"Tell me about the abduction. What happened when you first arrived on Ithgar?" Even "How have you been sleeping?" or "What did you do yesterday?" yielded little response. Bail lacked the language for simple niceties. "How do you do?" and "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" might as well be an alien tongue.

Time spent with Obi-Wan was mercifully easier. The Jedi did not ask him those annoying, analytical questions. Even when Obi-Wan asked him something as simple as, "What do you want for dinner?" he didn't really press Bail for an answer. Obi-Wan was a quiet, undemanding presence that tolerated Bail's jumbled and half-formed thoughts, expecting no articulation. Bail and Obi-Wan could pass an entire evening speaking no more than a dozen words in several hours. Bail needed those periods of rest and non-reflection. Just being, as he relearned the basic tasks of eating, washing dishes, getting dressed, breathing without pain, closing his eyes without horror.

Each morning he and Obi-Wan went to the great meditation room. They could have meditated anywhere in the Temple: the gardens, the towers, or private rooms. But Bail chose this common space, a large, round room, slender columns supporting a high ceiling shrouded in darkness. Subdued lights along the walls, a bench running around the edge of the room, floor covered with soft mats and a few pillows. In the mornings they would encounter six or a dozen other Jedi there, mostly elder, scattered throughout the room in a random pattern. Bail liked the room. It hummed silently with the meditation of countless Jedi over the centuries. It was cool, dark, soft, safe - a citadel to guard against terror.

Obi-Wan taught him the serenity meditation, how to breathe, how to let all thoughts go, passing gently through his mind. Bail was glad he didn't have to stop his mind from thinking. Thoughts rose and fell and eddied in his mind like currents in a stream. He could not dam up the stream or the pressure of the collected thoughts would be too great, would burst the dam and drown him. He didn't really want to think at all, but the exercise Obi-Wan taught him helped him to float on top of the river. He imagined himself lying on his back, rocking gently in the waves. Sometimes a strong ripple would wash over his face, but he kept his breathing even, and the wave would pass.

Bail did not meditate properly. He couldn't sit with his legs folded under him as Obi-Wan did, or his legs would fall asleep in a few minutes. He could not sit still, and his thoughts were too active. So Obi-Wan knelt on the floor, his chest pressed to Bail's back, his arms loosely around Bail as Bail leaned back against the Jedi, his legs stretched out before him. Obi-Wan meditated for half an hour, and Bail would lean back, sometimes with his eyes open, staring blankly at one of the other Jedi meditating in the room. Sometimes Bail closed his eyes and practiced the breathing. Sometimes he even managed to meditate for a bit. Sometimes he just fell asleep in Obi-Wan's arms.

Bail felt clumsy in that room, although he did not move; loud, although he did not make a sound. The ruckus of thoughts jumbling in his head seemed to echo in the silence of the chamber, but the walls and matted floor absorbed the chaos and sent it up toward the cavernous ceiling. The curving walls wrapped around him like Obi-Wan's arms, and Bail felt contained, safe. He did not want to meditate anywhere but here, lying back against Obi-Wan, his breathing keeping pace with the Jedi's, absorbing Obi-Wan's serenity through their contact. It didn't feel like they were doing nothing. It felt like they were waiting, listening. It felt like water pooling slowly, like clouds gathering in the sky. Not time for rain yet, but it would come soon enough. It felt like being. And being felt good.

But outside the meditation room, being was not always enough.

One morning he woke up with his arm draped across Obi-Wan's chest. The next morning he woke up snuggled against the length of Obi-Wan's body, and that night when they went to bed, Bail wordlessly slid into Obi-Wan's arms, resting his head on the Jedi's shoulder, their legs intertwined. Tender, secure, but not erotic. The thought of anyone touching him sexually, even Obi-Wan, sent Bail into a near panic.

Yet despite that panic, it deeply bothered Bail that he felt no sexual desire. What if he never felt desire again, for the rest of his life? He could probably live without the numerous affairs that had characterized his life so far, but he could not bear the thought of being unable to love Obi-Wan anymore. Bail could not separate the emotion of love from its sexual expression. If he could not have sex, then he could not love anyone, and if he could not bear to be touched, then it followed that no one would ever love him again.

It was said that in sex two people became united, that as bodies intertwined, they entered into each other, but it wasn't really true. Even in the act of penetration, lovers were separated from each other by a thin layer of skin. Bail had always been aware of this dichotomy in sex, the fact that the ultimate union was actually the ultimate division, for not only were the two bodies separate, but the overwhelming nature of orgasm caused each partner to retreat fully into the sensations of their own skin. Sex didn't bring people together, it drove them apart. But no one wanted to admit it, so Bail never said anything about that awful loneliness. He had been grateful for that separation on Ithgar. It meant that his rapists never really touched him.

Yet he coveted the ability to crawl inside someone else, to get beneath their skin, to merge with his lover, swimming in their bloodstream And now he craved that union with Obi-Wan, wanted to hide himself in the Jedi, but he could only cling chastely to Obi-Wan in some pale shadow of consummation. He wanted to touch and to feel, but it was as if his skin had been sealed in some kind of armor. Nothing could penetrate that protective layer, no sensation could get through, and he feared he would suffocate, drown without that erotic touch, the very touch he had come to fear.

He began to obsess about his inability to have sex. He spent most of his counseling sessions talking about his impotence. He took long hot showers during which he tried desperately to masturbate, but the only erotic images he could conjure were faint and indistinct. He could not manage to touch himself, and his body remained completely unresponsive.

At night Obi-Wan held him, and during the day he took Bail's hand or rested his arm on Bail's shoulders, but the touch was wholly platonic, not arousing at all. Bail wanted Obi-Wan to take charge, to take him by force if necessary, to shatter that armor and obliterate his body's memory of rape, but his non-verbal cues were either too subtle or too contradictory for Obi-Wan to take the hint, and finally he had to address the matter outright.

They lay sprawling on the couch one evening, watching a holovid, when at last Bail mustered up the resolve to observe, "It isn't very fair to you."

"What isn't?" was Obi-Wan's mild reply.

Bail took a steadying breath. "That every night we're together...but nothing ever happens."

A slight pause. "Don't worry about that, Bail. All that matters is that you're all right."

"It must be hard for you," Bail continued, as if Obi-Wan hadn't spoken. "To not...." He still couldn't even talk about it.

Obi-Wan favored him with a wry grin. "I think I can handle it. After all, I am familiar with the practice of self-discipline."

Bail dropped his gaze, refusing to be mollified. "But it isn't fair."

"I'm fine, Bail," Obi-Wan assured him, taking his hand, but Bail only turned his face away, his shoulders set with tension. Obi-Wan studied him patiently. At last he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Bail squeezed his eyes shut. He could barely talk about it, let alone do it. He had never in his life been so shy and uncomfortable about sex. He had to master his fears. He could not let this experience get to him. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to speak, but only helpless, confused phrases emerged from his throat. "I just need to...I want.... It isn't fair, and I...."

"Shh," Obi-Wan hushed him, gently brushing Bail's curls back from his forehead.

Bail leaned desperately into that touch, starving for it, but why didn't it arouse him? Why couldn't he truly feel it? Tears of frustration spilled down his cheeks. He was so tired of crying all the time.

"Don't try to force it, Bail," Obi-Wan said. "It'll come when you're ready."

Bail looked up at him through his tears. "What if it never comes?"

Stroking Bail's hair, Obi-Wan assured him, "It will come."

Bail shook his head. "I wish I could believe that."

"Think about the last time you had a really bad cold," Obi-Wan suggested. "Your throat hurt, your nose was always running, and it seemed like there would never be a time when you didn't feel achy and miserable and feverish. But eventually you get well. Not as soon as you like, perhaps, but it does happen."

"This isn't a cold," Bail muttered, tears coming faster. "They took you away from me."

"They didn't take me away. I'm right here."

"But I can't...." He still couldn't say it. Why couldn't he even say it? "I can't touch...." He choked with the need to say it, the need to have Obi-Wan love him.

"Shh," Obi-Wan hushed him again, still stroking his hair. "Why don't we meditate?"

"I don't want to meditate!" Bail ground out.

"Humor me," Obi-Wan returned, tucking his legs underneath him as he faced Bail. He took the prince's hand between his own. "I want you to focus on your hand," he instructed, "and remember your breathing exercises."

Reluctantly, Bail closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing. In and out. In with peace, out with tension. He felt his hand, sandwiched between Obi-Wan's palms. The Jedi's hands were warm and dry, calluses scraping across Bail's palm as Obi-Wan slowly rubbed their hands together. Back and forth. Side to side. Bail's arm gradually relaxed, his fingers falling open.

Obi-Wan massaged his hand, touch gentle but firm, working the muscles of Bail's wrist, thumb rubbing the hollow of his palm, long strokes down his fingers, massaging pressure points. Bail reflected that it ought to feel erotic, but it didn't. He felt nothing.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. It did feel good, calming and soothing if not arousing. He opened his eyes and looked at Obi-Wan. The Jedi's eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even, while his fingers traced the lines of Bail's palm and wrist, the valleys between his fingers.

Bail looked down at Obi-Wan's hands, pale skin, trimmed nails, familiar calluses. He strove to match Obi-Wan's breathing, releasing a little more tension with each exhalation. He focused all his attention on his hand, on the scrape of Obi-Wan's skin against his, touch sure and confident, powerful but tender.

The Folinas' hands had been strong, too, and callused, much like Obi-Wan's. Those hands had grabbed Bail's arms and pulled his hair. The Folinas had mocked Bail's soft hands. Bail had fought and fought, but he could never break free of the Folinas' grip. Their touch had hurt. It had marked Bail with finger-shaped bruises on his arms and wrists, his hips, his chin. Their touch had violated him. It had robbed him - of his clothes, his sense of security, his ability to feel. Their touch had made him numb. It had made him afraid.

But he was not there anymore. It was Obi-Wan touching him now, not his captors. He was not completely numb; he could feel this touch as Obi-Wan rolled Bail's fingers between his own. He did not have to fear this touch, which never ventured further than his wrist, this touch which moved at a slow and even pace, no surprises or shocks. No one grabbed him, no one hurt him. He could trust this touch and the one who did the touching. It could feel good. He could take comfort from it. It could heal.

Without being aware of it, Bail leaned forward and Obi-Wan caught him, arms wrapping solidly around him as Bail buried his face in Obi-Wan's neck, his breathing deep and even, if a little rapid. Those hands stroked into his hair again, rubbed against his back.

"It will come, Bail," Obi-Wan whispered softly into his ear. "You'll see. It will come."

This was meditation: Obi-Wan's arms wrapped around him, Obi-Wan's steady breathing. Obi-Wan was a citadel in which Bail could lock himself away and be safe. No pressures. No fears. Just be. It would all come in time, and in the safety of this fortress, Bail could begin to believe it.

He loves the water so much his sisters call him the fish boy. He has been swimming since before he could walk. He never complains at bathtime. He will shed his clothes at a moment's notice and dive into the river next to their house.
He pierces the water's surface and passes from the world of clarity and light to the mute and murky world of the water. Movement is slower, sounds are muffled, light diffused. Rani stands above him on the dock. He can look up and see her waving at him, her image refracted in the broken surface of the water. Her mouth moves but he cannot hear the words. He somersaults in the water and swims away, deeper into the river. It is darker here. He hangs in the water. He cannot see the bottom or the riverbanks, only the murky light above him. He is weightless, dumb, deaf, and blind. He revels in this nothingness. This is what it is like to be an atom floating in the vastness of space. He cannot be afraid here. He has no troubles or obligations. He is free.
He hangs in the water as long as he can, holding his breath. He knows Rani is standing on the dock, timing him. He counts the seconds. The oxygen turns to lead in his straining lungs. Not yet. It has not been nearly long enough. His body screams at him to breathe, but he holds it in. The pressure mounts, his ears ring. The instinct for self-preservation threatens to kick in. Hold it back. Hold it back as long as you can. You do not need air. You can fight it, stay here in the water forever, never move or eat or shit or sleep. An atom floating in the empty universe.
But he is not an atom. This is not his world.

In an explosion of bubbles he releases his held breath, fire in his lungs as he pumps his arms and legs, breaking through the water's surface into the realm of light and air.

Reality proved to be even more magical than his dreams. From the first snap-hiss of the blades activating, he was captivated by Qui-Gon's saber, a vivid green, and Obi-Wan's blue blade, pale in color but brilliant in intensity. The blades hummed and sang like a symphony, clashing and sparking off each other like percussion instruments. And the two men were easily as elegant and graceful as their weapons, dancing around each other, leaping through the air. Every time their blades met with a resounding clash, Bail was reminded of the sheer force and power behind the movements. It was mesmerizing in its beauty. Bail could have watched it all day.

Finally the workout ran down, and the two Jedi joined Bail on the bench. "So what did you think?" Obi-Wan asked as he grabbed a towel and dried his face and neck.

"It was incredible!" Bail enthused. "The most lovely thing I've ever seen. You two are amazing! Not that I have the faintest idea what I'm talking about, but it looked great."

Obi-Wan laughed. "You have exercised remarkable restraint in never asking to see my saber, so it's only right that you should be rewarded. Would you like to hold it?"

Bail glanced uncertainly at Qui-Gon. "Are you sure that's all right?"

"Of course," Qui-Gon answered. "Just don't try to show off."

Obi-Wan brought Bail out to the center of the room, instructing, "Make sure you keep the business end pointed away from us," and handed the deactivated weapon to Bail.

Bail's hands trembled in excitement as he took the saber. It was far heavier than he thought it would be, the metal casing still warm from Obi-Wan's hands. He gingerly turned the weapon over, studying it closely while being careful to avoid the activation stud. The casing was well worn in places, and covered with nicks and little pockmarks, testifying to its years of use. Obi-Wan pointed out the various parts of the weapon and its controls, then suggested, "Would you like to turn it on?"

"Oh, I don't know," Bail hesitated.

"Of course you do," Obi-Wan urged. "You haven't held a lightsaber until it's been activated. Now take it in both your hands," he instructed, placing his own hand over Bail's, just in case the prince dropped it in surprise, "and press the activation button."

Cautiously, Bail pressed the stud, and the blade sprang to life, causing him to jump. Obi-Wan's hand steadied him and he held the blade in front of him, pulsing and singing with energy. Obi-Wan guided him, moving the blade through the air. Despite the weight of the hilt, the saber seemed somehow light, as if it moved of its own will. Bail felt as if he held some marvelous wild creature in his hands. He could feel the blade's vibrations throughout his entire body. He watched the arch of color through the air, so delicate, so lovely.

So lethal.

He remembered. His prison on Ithgar, the darkest moment of his despair. The muzzle of a blaster staring him in the eye. The kiss of death. Embrace this weapon; make love to it and it will give you your heart's desire. It will blow your mind, and you will sleep the sleep of the sated.

Firearms discharging in lethal orgasm. The chaos of smoke and blaster bolts in the narrow hallway. Blue and green shafts of light weaving a pattern around him, warding off the blaster bolts, deflecting them back to their attackers.

This was no living thing in his hands. This was a weapon. He had never held a weapon before in his life. Numbly he observed, "You've killed with this."

"Yes," came Obi-Wan's quiet answer. The Jedi deactivated the blade as Bail's hands fell away from the hilt.

Bail stared at the weapon in Obi-Wan's grip. "It's so beautiful, and yet it has taken people's lives."

"Yes," Obi-Wan repeated.

Bail could not tear his eyes away from the saber, nor from the hands that held it, hands that had killed. Bail's people were pacifists. Alderaan had renounced war centuries ago, and violence was a rare occurrence on the planet. Of course Bail had known that as a Jedi Obi-Wan sometimes used violence on his missions. Of course he knew Obi-Wan was trained in combat. Of course he knew these things, but only in the abstract. Until Ithgar he had never seen Obi-Wan's saber ignited, had never seen Obi-Wan engage in violence. He had never really known what violence was, and he had been sheltered from the reality of Obi-Wan's life and what he was capable of. Those hands that had held him and caressed him and loved him had caused others harm, had even killed. Not often, surely, and not without cause or regret. But the fact remained that his lover, sanctioned by the authorities, was a killer.

A sob tore itself from Bail's throat. Was this, then, the reality of the world? Was lethal violence a fact of life, and Bail's ideals an illusion? "I don't want you to kill!" he cried, as those hands, those murderous, loving hands, slid over his shoulders and pulled him into an embrace of strong, crushing, powerful and tender arms.

Obi-Wan merely held him, saying nothing. He would not cheapen Bail's anguish by trying to justify himself.

"During my rescue, you killed...you killed people?" Bail asked, clinging to Obi-Wan.

"Most likely."

Bail shuddered in Obi-Wan's embrace, whispering, "I'm a hypocrite."

"How do you figure that?"

"For all my pacifism, I would have died there if you hadn't used force to get me out," Bail pointed out. His fingers dug into the fabric of Obi-Wan's tunic. He couldn't let go of Obi-Wan, nor of the reality he represented. Disgusted with himself, he spat, "For that matter, it was my commitment to peace that got us into trouble in the first place. Because of my pacifism, Li and Boojara are dead."

"That is not true," Qui-Gon interjected. Bail raised his head from Obi-Wan's shoulder to glance a question at the Master. Qui-Gon further explained, "None of us can control everything in the galaxy. In the end we can only control our own actions. Or more accurately, some people let their actions control them. They react to events around them without forethought, without intention. That is how most violence in the galaxy occurs. Others act with intention, some regardless of violent effects, such as your captors. Others such as you and the Jedi, to minimize violence."

"But you're more effective," Bail bitterly observed. "My methods got nowhere on Ithgar. You had to rescue us."

"On the other hand, your Highness, our methods proved no more effective in winning peace."

Obi-Wan added, "In the end, your methods are the only ones that stand a chance on Ithgar. Violence will only beget more violence, even when used as a preventative measure. It can never build true peace."

"Well, if it's so ineffective, why do you use it?" Bail shot back.

"We use it as a last resort, to minimize harm."

Bail scowled. "Exactly, when diplomacy fails, use weapons."

"And when weapons fail, use diplomacy," Obi-Wan returned.

"You're saying that the two must go hand in hand?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "Not necessarily."

"Each of us must do what we must, your Highness," Qui-Gon said. "If diplomacy fails, there are some of us who will step in to use force to contain further violence. But when that violence is contained, then the diplomats must come in or the peace will not hold." He paused. "You know, there are Jedi who are strict pacifists. There is even a Jedi discipline that rejects the use of a lightsaber, even for training purposes."

"They're allowed to do that?" Bail asked skeptically.

"Yes. It is not a lightsaber that defines a Jedi but our discipline in the Force. That does not require the use of any weapon." Qui-Gon folded his hands into his sleeves, unconsciously assuming a teaching posture. "Pacifism is not an all or nothing option," he continued. "There are different degrees and tactics and strategies of peace-making. You choose one, Obi-Wan and I have chosen another. Any one point of view has strengths and weaknesses. That is why we must be open to working together and learning from each other while at the same time holding to our own convictions." He paused, giving Bail a pointed look. "Isn't that what peace is truly about?"

Bail rested his head on Obi-Wan's shoulder, not wanting to look at Qui-Gon, not wanting to think about what he'd said. "I don't know anymore."

Pacifism was so deeply ingrained in the Alderaani psyche that Bail had never really had to think about it before. In the contained universe of Alderaani thought, pacifism was simply a given, intimately connected to the story of the Great War which had torn the planet apart several centuries earlier. Bail didn't know how to argue pacifism without starting with the Great War. He had never read anyone else's views on the subject. Did pacifism mean different things to different people? Did it only make sense within a certain context? Could Alderaani pacifism even work anywhere but on Alderaan? Perhaps he had been wrong to try to export his beliefs to an entirely different planet, one with its own unique story.

The matter had some urgency as Senator Nereis was lobbying hard for the Senate to support the Hinnelese punitive measures against the Folinas, using their deceased colleagues as martyrs to the cause around which she called the other senators to lobby. And she was relentless in her personal attack on Bail, calling him a monomaniacal idealist out of touch with the real world. So far Senator Antilles, while staunchly defending his junior colleague, remained quietly neutral on the Senate bill. Bail did not know why. All he knew was that few senators were speaking out strongly against the bill. Most of the delegations did not really seem to care, while those who supported it made grandiose arguments about containing the threat of terrorism and brigandage, a ridiculous notion, since the Hinnelese and the Folinas were too busy tearing each other apart to bother with trying to spread their conflict to other worlds. No one, whether for, against, or neutral, seemed to actually care about the people of Ithgar.

Bail didn't want to care, either.

Whenever Bail felt the need for conversation, he and Obi-Wan went to the padawan lounge, where the prince could curl up on the couch next to Obi-Wan, shrouded in the Jedi's robe, and listen to his heart's content to chit-chat, gossip and debates. He listened to Bant speculate on who was dating whom at the Temple. He listened to Garen describe in tedious detail the latest line in starfighters to come out of the Kuat shipyards. He listened to Siri argue with anyone who had the misfortune of sitting down within three meters of her about why the Corellian smashball team had made a serious error in trading Chet Halibern to the Bothan team. He even had the rare privilege of hearing Obi-Wan complain about - well, all manner of topics.

Bail had not known Obi-Wan even knew how to complain, but he now learned that complaining was a popular pastime among the padawans. Perhaps they were so accustomed to living lives of obedience and service that they cherished the opportunity to vent with each other. The complaints were hardly earth-shattering, more the padawan equivalent of letting down their buzz cut hair, but Obi-Wan excelled at it. He complained about his astropolitics class, the decline in quality accommodation on the Interstellar Transport System, the Bojees' latest uninspiring musical release, the prevalence of Huttese cuisine in spaceport foodcourts. Obi-Wan could complain at length and in organized detail, complete with examples and illustrations, on just about any subject anyone could possibly come up with, and he did so with conviction, arrogance - and a skill that left everyone in complete agreement with him, regardless of where they started out. Bail adored listening to him, and reflected that Obi-Wan would have made a great addition to the University of Alderaan debate team.

So they spent evenings in the padawan lounge where Bail could be around people, could talk and engage with them if he felt so moved, and could also silently observe, as he was more wont to do. The other padawans by now accepted his shadowy presence. Their initial curiosity and eagerness to see this celebrity in their midst had died down and been replaced by more appropriate Jedi manners and courtesy. Everyone knew who he was. They knew what he had been through. They knew who he was to Obi-Wan. They did not bother him with unseemly questions. They did not bat an eye to see him wearing Obi-Wan's robe. They did not begrudge him his silence, and when he did choose to speak, they did not act surprised to hear his voice. Their total acceptance and gentle good will were a balm to his soul, as warm and undemanding as a good long soak in a bacta tank.

One evening they were hanging out in the padawan lounge, Bail curled up at Obi-Wan's side, watching as he and several others played a card game. Bail found that he still could not concentrate enough to participate in a game, but he could follow along as Obi-Wan played. On this evening, as on all the others, some people gathered to play games, others studied, some talked or even demonstrated katas or sparring moves. Music played in one corner of the room, and a vidscreen flickered in another. Bail leaned on Obi-Wan's shoulder, watching as the Jedi rearranged the cards in his hand.

The general cacophony of conversation, laughter, and music in the room faded into the background like an undifferentiated white noise. Bail rose above the surrounding sounds, the way he rose above his jumbled thoughts in meditation, barely registering them. If anything, the chaos soothed him, smothering the difficult words that smoldered within his heart, the words that had yet to find voice.

But tonight one word cut sharply through the din, sounding in Bail's ear with perfect clarity. One word that was foremost in his private thoughts, one that was never far from his conscience. It didn't matter how far away the speaker was or how softly the word had been said. His connection to that word made it ring in his head as loudly as a gong.

Ithgar.

He raised his head from Obi-Wan's shoulder, concentrating. Obi-Wan noticed the shift and turned to look at him. More words echoed through the room: Hinnelese, Folina. The Senate. His own name: Organa.

Bail stood, drawn toward the vidscreen, around which were clustered a dozen or so padawans watching a newscast. Someone detected Bail's approach and whispered, "Change the channel."

The picture on the screen switched to a nature program, and Bail said, "Turn it back."

The padawans turned and looked at him, concerned, but the one with the controller switched it back to the newscast. All other activity in the room ceased as the padawans, linked through the Force, turned to watch Bail watch the vidscreen. Obi-Wan hovered protectively behind him, but Bail was only dimly aware, his attention riveted on the screen.

Images of protesters, demonstrators, rioters. A ramshackle house toppled by a landmover. A line of security forces confronting an angry mob. Guns, cannons, tanks. A message painted in red on an unfurled sheet: The Republic off of Ithgar. As the images flashed by, the reporter droned on: "Due to the increased rioting, the Hinnelese authorities are taking measures to quell the unrest. The Folinas have condemned the Republic's recent fact-finding mission, saying that it has only made their situation worse. Fearing an increase in retaliatory attacks, the Hinnelese government is appealing to the Republic to lend aid and munitions for pre-emptive strikes against Folina targets. Senator Nereis of Atzerri has introduced a bill backing the Hinnelese plea."

The images switched to another story, and someone turned off the vidscreen. Utter silence filled the room, weighing heavily on Bail like an unspoken accusation: You did this. Because of you, everything is worse. Bail looked around at the sea of faces staring back at him, all these people who had taken him in, offered him shelter. Now they truly understood what he had done. "I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly.

A ripple spread throughout the room. Something shifted in the faces, but Bail could not identify the change. Someone stepped forward through the crowd. It was Siri, her blue eyes compassionate. "It's not your fault," she said. "What's happening on Ithgar now is exactly what was happening before. You didn't change that."

He weakly shook his head. "I was supposed to."

Another padawan spoke up, someone whose name Bail did not know. "We've all been there, your Highness: failed missions, where you leave things worse than when you arrived. It's the hardest lesson of all, to learn that sometimes even your best efforts don't make any difference."

Bail looked again around the room. He could identify the expressions on those faces now. Not condemnation but grief, sympathy, understanding. "You've been through it, too."

Heads nodded. Gazes turned inward. How many of these young people, most of them younger than Bail, had been tortured or raped? How many would die? How many saw missions end in disaster? "How do you bear it?" he asked in desperation.

Siri answered. "That's something each of us has to figure out on our own."

"But you do," Bail protested. "You come back from missions like that and you pull yourself together. Then you go back out there again. Anything could happen. You could be tortured or killed, and nothing may change, but you still go back out there. How can you do that?"

"What else can we do?" Siri questioned gently. "Stay at home and let the dark side win? We go back out there because we care. You do, too."

But Bail wasn't sure that was true anymore. He couldn't bear the thought of risking his life again, especially when there was no guarantee it would make the slightest difference in the end. He slowly shook his head. "I don't think I have as much faith as you do."

There was a choking sound next to him, and he turned to see Obi-Wan, his expression completely transparent and open for once. Obi-Wan always appeared so calm, so peaceful, but now he radiated a sorrow deeper than any Bail had ever seen. He stared in shock as Obi-Wan's composure shattered into dust, and he turned and ran out of the room. As one the padawans watched him go, then their collective gaze returned to Bail, puzzled, concerned.

It was too much for Bail. Somehow he had managed to hurt Obi-Wan yet again. Obi-Wan was his strength, his protection. If Obi-Wan collapsed, what would happen to Bail?

Distraught, the prince hastened after Obi-Wan. The Jedi wasn't going very fast, and Bail was able to keep him in sight as he stumbled through the corridors until they reached their shared quarters. Bail was surprised that Obi-Wan would return here, and he paused outside the door after Obi-Wan had gone in, trying to collect himself, to figure out why Obi-Wan was so upset.

At last he opened the door and entered to find Obi-Wan standing on the far side of the room, facing the wall, shoulders trembling. Obi-Wan did not turn around, but he straightened a bit as the door closed behind Bail. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice uneven. "The last thing you need is for me to carry on like this."

Bail took an uncertain step toward him. "Ben, what's wrong?"

Face to the wall, Obi-Wan softly replied, "I just can't bear to think of what they took from you."

Bitterly, Bail snorted, "What did they take, really? I'm still alive and in one piece. I'm smarter, wiser. All they took was my naivete, and my stupid, grandiose ideals."

Obi-Wan turned to face him. "Your ideals were never stupid to me."

"Weren't they?" Bail shot back. "What about my pacifism? A lot of good that did me." He shook his head, scowling. "You were right. It was just the luxury of a wealthy, pampered man."

"I never said that," Obi-Wan protested.

"You didn't have to."

Obi-Wan visibly shuddered. "Is that really what you believe I thought of you?"

"Wasn't it?" Bail retorted. He opened his arms wide, as if presenting himself to an audience. "The politician, always debating everything, talking about things in the Senate while you go out and actually try to make a difference in the galaxy."

"You try to make a difference, too," contradicted Obi-Wan.

"Yes, well, my first foray out into the real world didn't go so well, did it?" Bail returned. "Take me out of the realm of just talking about things, and I turn out to be fairly worthless."

Obi-Wan remained silent for a long moment, his eyes downcast, face turned away as if he could not bear to look at Bail. At last he said, "I remember when you used to tell me conversation was the basis of civilization."

Bail snorted in disgust. "I don't know how you endured listening to me spout such nonsense."

Obi-Wan raised his eyes. "It wasn't nonsense to me. None of it was: your pacifism, your beliefs and ideals. You used to say politics was a secular version of the Jedi's mission. I would have never believed it until I met you." His expression softened. "I've always admired you, Bail."

He didn't want to hear this, not now. How could Obi-Wan believe in him when he couldn't believe in himself? "Pretty words to fool myself with," he snorted in disgust. "It was all bullshit. None of it did any good on Ithgar."

Obi-Wan slowly approached him. "Why did you go to Ithgar, Bail?"

"Because I was a fool!" he snapped. "I thought I could help."

"But why Ithgar? Why not any of a dozen other troublespots in the galaxy?"

Bail took a step back as Obi-Wan drew nearer. "Because the Ithgar Reconciliation Council asked me to come," he replied, as if absolving himself of any responsibility.

"And why did they ask you to come?"

"They wanted me to hear the full story. No one would listen, not even the people of Ithgar."

"What did you hear?" Obi-Wan pressed.

"Not very much. We were kidnapped after a week, remember?" Bail shot back.

"What did you hear before that?"

"I heard hatred!" Bail spat. "Everywhere we went, in town halls, in school auditoriums, the same theme over and over again, no matter who was speaking: anger, outrage. I met a Folina who grew up in a refugee camp. Fourteen people living in one room. Another's wife was arrested and never heard from again. A Hinnelese woman's son was killed coming home from school one day when he was trampled in a riot. Another man had been tortured. He showed me the scars." Bail's voice grew quiet, heavy with memory. "He was young. He looked no older than eighteen." He shook himself, and the edge in his voice returned. "But maybe they deserve it. We were kidnapped and tortured. Look at what they're saying now - the Republic off of Ithgar!"

"Is the Reconciliation Council saying that?"

"I don't know! Why should I care?"

"I don't know," Obi-Wan echoed. "Why should you?"

"Fuck you!" Bail seethed.

But Obi-Wan refused to stop. "What did you feel when you were imprisoned?"

"Hatred!" Bail raged. But something stopped him. That wasn't quite right. He felt hatred now, but then he had been too frightened. He confessed, "I felt afraid. I wanted to die. I thought no one was coming and I would die there. I felt helpless."

"Would you have killed your captors if you'd had the chance?"

Bail fought the urge to run away, to curl up on the floor, to hit Obi-Wan. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he ground out, "I don't know. Why are you asking me this?"

"They were killed," Obi-Wan said. "Executed by the Hinnelese government."

Bail didn't want to hear this. He shouldn't have to listen, but he couldn't shut it out. Always, wherever he looked there was death. Grief swelled up inside him, filling his chest, climbing up his throat, and he exploded into a storm of tears, clutching at his hair with both hands as he sobbed, unable to hold it in. "Are you glad they're dead?" Obi-Wan continued.

"No!" Bail choked. "I don't want anyone to die!"

"Why not? Some people would say it's justice."

"How is more death justice?"

"I don't know."

"Then why are you saying this?" he screamed through his sobs. "Why are you telling me these things?"

Mildly, Obi-Wan observed, "Conversation is the basis of civilization."

"That's bullshit! I don't feel very fucking civilized!"

"How is it bullshit to talk about things that really matter?"

"I - I," Bail wasn't sure what to say. He retreated once more into anger. "How does that solve anything?"

"How does not talking about it solve anything?"

"Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Obi-Wan returned. "Do you want me to pretend it never happened? Do you want me to ignore it? How can I, when I wake up next to the consequences of it every morning?"

"Stop it!" Bail screamed.

"I have always admired you."

Bail covered his ears with his hands, squeezing his head as if to keep Obi-Wan's voice from seeping into his brain. "Don't!"

"I respected you. I believed in you. I can't bear what they did to you." Obi-Wan's eyes grew hard. "And I hate them for it."

"Don't," Bail wept. "Please, don't. No more hatred. I can't bear it." He stood in the center of the room sobbing uncontrollably, his very bones crying out in agony.

Obi-Wan moved close to him, resting his hands on Bail's shoulders. His eyes were gentle once more, as he asked, "What is it that you want, Bail?"

Bail could only weep and gasp for breath. "I want it to stop hurting so much," he stammered between his sobs. Obi-Wan drew Bail close, folding him in his embrace, and Bail clung to him, crying into his shoulder. "I want to stop hating myself so much."

Obi-Wan said nothing, merely held him as he cried until his sobs gradually turned to weeping and finally quieted. Obi-Wan offered no platitudes, no assurances or words of wisdom, and when Bail finally stopped crying, Obi-Wan gently led him to the bedroom and prepared him for sleep without saying a word.

He loves the little stream that runs by the Organa family's mountain retreat. Whenever they arrive at Shadowcliff, the first thing he does is shed his shoes and run to the stream.
The air is clearer, the sun brighter up in the mountains, almost blinding as it bounces off the water's surface. The water is so clean he can see straight to the bottom, unlike the silty river that runs by their home in the city. He sees flecks of golden light on the bottom of the stream and wades into the water. Melted snow from the surrounding mountains, it freezes his feet, raising goosebumps along his arms. The water is so cold it seems to leach away the color in his brown skin. The rocks are painfully sharp on his chilled feet, but he cannot resist wading into the stream.
He bends down, burying his arms to the elbow in the freezing water, emerging with a handful of pulverized rock from the streambed, mountain granite worn down by centuries of freezing winters and hot summers. But here and there the sun glints off of something shiny, like metal. Practical Burra tells him the shining bits are mica, a glass-like rock, but he knows better. It is gold, washed up from the bowels of the earth.
He spreads his treasure out on a fallen log and watches the sun sparkle on the wet gravel. When it dries he will discover that Burra is right. The shiny bits will fade. They are not gold. But he is not deterred.

He wades back into the stream, plunging his arms once more into the chilled depths. He knows he will find gold. Magic gold that melts in the sunshine; gold that you cannot hold on to; gold that has to be believed to be seen.

On this visit, however, they never ventured beyond the Temple walls. Bail thought his father fit well into the austere but grandiose beauty of the halls and chambers. It suited him, the aged, faded elegance, the hushed and learned atmosphere. Bail showed him the star map room, took him to the archives and introduced him to the librarians. Vilnis drank it all in as Bail knew he would, too enamored of everything he saw to ask difficult questions of Bail. It reminded Bail of all the times his father had taken him to museums and universities, impressing on his young mind the value of history, a respect for knowledge and learning. Bail teased his father that all his best friends had been dead for at least two centuries, but in truth he loved hearing Vilnis talk about ancient scholars. Papa seemed ancient himself, venerable, infused with the wisdom of the ages, like some grand and powerful mage whose fingertips could command the elements and draw new worlds into being. To introduce his father to the Jedi Temple was like introducing two people destined to be best friends.

Their tour took most of the day as they ascended higher and higher through the Temple, emerging at last on one of the observation decks at the top of the east tower. They stood at the railing, looking out over the cityscape and bustling traffic lanes. Surely even Vilnis could see the unique beauty of the planet up here.

Bail turned to his father with an arch smile. "It's not so very awful, is it?"

Vilnis' lips twisted wryly. "I suppose it has a certain appeal," he reluctantly confessed. "But nothing could ever be as beautiful as home."

"True enough," Bail admitted, looking out at the city once more. He had had a wonderful day with his father. Whenever he went home there were always so many people about that he seldom got to spend time alone with Vilnis. "Do you remember when it was just you and me?" he asked wistfully. "When the girls lived with Mama Juma, before you married Mimi?"

Vilnis cocked an eyebrow at him. "You resent our ladies, do you?"

"Of course not. But that was a special time, when it was just the two of us."

Vilnis' eyes softened, and he put an arm around Bail's shoulders, drawing him close. "I remember. Two bachelors, happily stuck in our ways."

"You sometimes invited your students to the house, and I would recite ancient poetry to them. You loved to show off that your eight-year-old son's pronunciation was better than theirs."

"I'm sure they would never have endured it if you hadn't been so charming." Vilnis smiled warmly.

"Do you remember how I used to hide in your closet?" Bail continued.

"How could I forget!" Vilnis protested. "I can't count the number of times I put my shoes on only to find sticky pieces of candy in the toes. Do you know how many of my shoes you ruined?" Bail made an effort to look contrite, but he could not pull it off. Vilnis ruffled his son's hair. "It was fun, but I am glad Radha came along when she did. You had gotten old enough to find new hiding places to run off to. When you stopped hiding in the closet all the time, I never knew were you might be, but Radha had an uncanny knack for finding you. You have no idea how many of these gray hairs you gave me."

"They make you look very distinguished, Papa."

"Bother," Vilnis dismissed. He fell silent, looking out across the city, but his arm tightened around Bail's shoulders. Bail knew what was coming.

"I was so frightened for you," Vilnis whispered.

Bail looked up at his father's profile. Suddenly he didn't look ancient or venerable, he just looked old.

"I have been afraid for you before. I've feared for your reputation, your career, your happiness. But this...." Vilnis shuddered. "To fear for your life, to know you were out there, the Force alone knowing what was happening to you, to be utterly unable to help you. It was the most horrible feeling I have ever known." He turned and seized Bail, cradling him with fierce protectiveness. "My precious child. When I think about what you suffered...."

Bail buried his face in his father's robe. He didn't really want to hear this. It was almost worse, knowing he'd caused his loved ones such fear and pain. "I'm sorry, Papa."

Vilnis squeezed him tightly, then pulled back, taking Bail's face between his hands, staring into his eyes. "The hardest thing in the world for parents to do is to let their children go. We want to hold onto them and protect them. I can't help but feel responsible for what happened to you."

"No, Papa," Bail protested. He couldn't bear it.

"You know that I love you," Vilnis continued, as if Bail hadn't spoken. "But I don't tell you often enough how proud I am of you. Your courage astounds me. Every day I think that I cannot possibly be prouder of you than I am at that moment. But each new day proves me wrong. I have made many mistakes in my life, but whenever I look at you and your sisters, I know there are at least four things I did very right."

"Papa --," Bail started to protest, but Vilnis pulled him close once more, and he surrendered to the embrace, let himself be enfolded in the safety of his father's arms, breathed in the dusty scent of his robes that smelled like an ancient library. Here in this embrace all the terror he had endured did not seem quite so frightening.

After a long time, Vilnis said, "My favorite son."

Bail smiled against his father's robes. "I'm your only son, Papa. What do you tell the girls?"

"I say that they are my favorite Veena, my favorite Burra, and my favorite Rani."

"And they buy that?"

"Why not? It's the truth." Vilnis released Bail so he could smile down at him. "Thank you for showing me the Temple. It was a very special privilege." He brushed the hair back out of Bail's eyes. "I remember when you first started telling us about a certain young Jedi padawan with whom you had made an acquaintance. Your mother was so relieved there was finally someone on Coruscant she could trust her boy to. Sometimes it's the only way I can bear to think of you on his wretched planet."

Bail shook his head. "He's not my bodyguard, Papa."

"That's not why we trust him with you. It's not because he's a Jedi." Vilnis stroked his son's cheek, running his thumb along his jaw, nostalgic indeed for the days when he always knew where Bail was. But those days were long gone. "We just feel better knowing there is someone here on Coruscant who loves you as much as we do."

He was now so accustomed to ignoring and being ignored by the outside world that he was taken completely by surprise when one day, as he returned to the Temple from one of his counseling sessions, the padawan who was staffing the reception desk in the lobby stopped him. "I have a message for you, Senator."

Curious, Bail repeated, "A message?" It was so surreal to have someone contact him that he almost didn't know how to respond.

"Master Yoda says that if it is convenient for you, he would like you to meet with him in his quarters this evening."

"Master...Yoda?" Bail echoed faintly.

"Yes."

"The head of the Council?"

The padawan smiled. "There's only one Master Yoda, sir."

"Indeed," Bail answered, feeling rather foolish. "Will you please tell him I would be honored to meet with him this evening?"

"Certainly, sir."

But in truth, Bail did not feel honored. He felt terrified. What could the venerated Jedi Master possibly want to say to him? Bail in no way felt up to the challenge of carrying on any kind of conversation with Master Yoda, but he knew he could not possibly refuse.

As it was, he could barely wait until Obi-Wan met him for dinner to tell him the news. Obi-Wan had scarcely opened the door before Bail exclaimed, "Master Yoda wants me to meet with him!"

Startled, Obi-Wan blinked, "Well," he struggled to say. "That's nice."

Worriedly pulling on a lock of his hair, Bail fussed, "I don't think I'm ready to meet him."

Obi-Wan fought back a chuckle. "It's not as if he's going to interrogate you."

"How do you know?"

"I'm sure he just wants to visit with you."

Bail shot him a withering look. "I doubt Master Yoda 'just visits' with anyone."

"How do you know?" Obi-Wan answered with Bail's earlier retort.

"He's the second most important being in the galaxy," Bail fretted.

"Second most?"

Bail's eyes widened in dismay, as if he had just committed a major breach of etiquette, and Obi-Wan had to laugh. "After the Supreme Chancellor, I suppose. Surely you've met with Chancellor Valorum before, so this should be less intimidating."

"On the contrary," Bail muttered, pacing back and forth across the living room, tugging nervously on his hair. "Valorum is a politician, I can relate to him."

"Well, I'm a Jedi, and you can relate to me, so you should have no problem relating to Master Yoda."

"It's hardly the same thing. I don't know how to behave." He halted his pacing to gaze aghast at Obi-Wan. "I don't know what to wear!"

Obi-Wan shrugged. "What you're wearing now is fine."

"I can't possibly meet the head of the Jedi Council dressed like this!"

With an indignant sigh, Obi-Wan pointed out, "This is not some kind of state affairs meeting. This is Master Yoda. He's just going to speak in enigmatic riddles and serve you muchek."

Bail's eyes narrowed in concern. "What's muchek?"

"You'll find out."

Bail stood fretfully in the center of the room, twisting his hair and biting his lip. At last he raised his eyes to Obi-Wan with an imploring gaze. "Will you go with me?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "Did he invite me?"

"No," Bail confessed.

"If he had wanted me there, he would have invited me," Obi-Wan pointed out. "Don't worry, Bail. Master Yoda is quite nice."

But Bail only twisted his hair more frantically.

When they reached Master Yoda's quarters, Obi-Wan bestowed a gentle kiss on Bail's cheek before leaving him. Bail squared his shoulders, took several deep breaths, and rang the door chime.

The door swished open, and a gravelly voice called out, "Come in!"

Bail obeyed the voice and found himself in a surreal room. The structure of it, ceilings, doors and windows, were sized for a typical human, but all the furniture, sleep couch, tables, and shelves, were hardly larger than doll size. A small table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by sitting pillows. Seated on one was the venerable Jedi Master. Bail's first thought was, "He's so tiny!" He knew Yoda was small, of course, but he had never met the Master personally before, and all the holopics and images of him did not provide a proper perspective. Bail was so surprised, he failed to greet Yoda appropriately.

The old Master, as if reading Bail's thoughts, cackled merrily and invited, "On the floor you must sit. Young knees bend easily. Old necks do not."

Remembering himself, Bail bowed deeply and said, "It is an honor to meet you, Master Yoda."

"Pleased I am to meet you as well, Senator," Yoda replied. "Now sit. Your muchek grows cold." As Bail seated himself on one of the pillows, Yoda observed, "Expected I did to see you in young Obi-Wan's robe. A familiar sight it is now, around the Temple. Perhaps it needed cleaning, hmmm?"

Bail lowered his eyes, embarrassed. "I apologize for my presumption, Master Yoda. I have no right to wear a Jedi's robe."

"Nonsense," Yoda dismissed with a wave of his clawed hand. "A robe it is, worn for warmth and protection. No magical properties does it have. Why should you not wear it?"

Bail said nothing. The robe had magical properties to him, but he certainly wouldn't argue the point with the Master. He studied the steaming mug before him on the table.

Noticing his gaze, Yoda prompted, "Yes, your muchek you must drink. No good is it cold."

Picking up the mug, Bail gave it an experimental sniff, then took a sip. He winced at the strong flavor, then a tingling warmth spread throughout his body. It appeared to be some kind of spiced broth. "It's delicious," he commented.

"Discovered it on Raltiir I did, several hundred years ago." The Jedi's eyes sparkled mischievously. "One mug each morning and another each night, and perhaps you may live to be my age."

"I would never presume, Master Yoda. If I lived that long, I would undoubtedly wear out the galaxy's welcome."

They exchanged a laugh, and Yoda asked, "How goes your stay here?"

"Very well, Master. I am deeply grateful to the Order for offering me sanctuary."

"Meditation Obi-Wan has taught you?"

"Yes, Master, though I fear I'm not very good at it," Bail confessed.

"Calm you, it does? Helps you find your center?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why picked you the great meditation room?"

Bail took a long sip of his muchek while he contemplated his answer. "I like being in a place where so many Jedi have meditated over so many centuries. The room is peaceful."

"Mmm." Yoda nodded his head slowly as if approving of Bail's answer. He continued, "Much time you spend in the archives."

Bail wondered if the old Master knew everything he did in the Temple. Probably. He doubted anything escaped Yoda's attention. "Yes, Master."

"What do you read?"

"Philosophy mostly." He hesitated. "I've been reading up on the Jedi position on nonviolence."

Yoda's ears perked up. "Only one position have you found?"

"Well, no," Bail confessed. "Every text I uncover puts forth a different view. It's certainly a lively debate."

Nodding, Yoda said, "From the beginning have Jedi argued that topic. Disappointed are you, that we hold no common view?"

"No," Bail began, then admitted, "I suppose there really is no answer."

Yoda tapped his gimer stick against the floor. "That is because you seek for it in the wrong place."

"Where should I look for it?"

"Already know you where to look."

Bail fell silent. Indeed he knew, and he didn't like it. At last he said, "I have no answer. I thought I did, but my answers failed me."

"Did they?"

Yoda sounded like Obi-Wan, like the soul healers. Bail was getting really tired of it. "With respect, Master Yoda, how exactly did my answers accomplish anything on Ithgar? The situation is worse now than it was before I went there." Bail shook his head, weary of all this self-recrimination. "I should never have asked the Senate to send that mission."

Yoda closed his eyes as if meditating, and Bail wondered if he was seeing something in the Force. "Difficult the situation is on Ithgar. Lost their way they have." His eyes opened, catching Bail in their penetrating gaze. "Much like you."

Bail reeled back as if he had been struck. He felt stripped once more, robbed of all his self-control, his innermost secrets exposed. He wanted to scream in frustration, to weep, to break some furniture. That last thought reminded him of his breakdown on Alderaan, when he had attacked Obi-Wan. Did Yoda know about that, too? "Well, we saw how worthless my way was on Ithgar, didn't we?" he bitterly reflected. "Perhaps we're all better off now that I've lost my way."

Yoda only gazed at him with his large, depthless eyes, and said, "Remember, I do, the great war on Alderaan three hundred years ago."

Bail froze.

"Terrible it was," Yoda continued. "All the galaxy watched as Alderaan destroyed itself. Nothing could we do to stop it. Alderaan alone could make that decision."

Yoda stopped, studying Bail closely as if waiting for him to respond, but Bail said nothing, clenching his trembling hands in his lap. He knew the story well. All children of Alderaan did.

"Know you why Alderaan decided to end the war?"

"Because one third of the entire population had been killed," Bail shot back. "Entire cities were destroyed, the land ravaged. They say the canals of Aldera ran red with blood. After a couple of decades they quit pretending like the war was about anything. They just kept fighting because they didn't know how to stop. Is that what it takes for people to decide against war? Mass destruction?"

"Remember I do the voice that urged them onto a different path," Yoda continued, almost as if Bail had not spoken at all. "Neruda Organa."

Bail turned his face away, struggling to regain control of himself. "I know where you're going with this."

"Do you? Tell me."

"You're going to say I shouldn't lose hope, that she didn't. She lost her husband and two of her children in the war, but she didn't let that get to her."

Yoda thumped his cane on the floor. "Suffered she did, and greatly," he rebuked. "Dismiss that you should not!"

Bail's eyes flashed in anger. What right did Yoda have to lecture him about his own history? "She's not actually my grandmother, you know," he retorted. "My mother slept around a lot. She doesn't even know who my real father is. I'm not actually an Organa."

"Does that matter?"

No, it did not. He had always been a son to Vilnis, who said Bail was more Organa than all the rest of the Organas put together. Softly Bail said, "I gave my first public speech on Remembrance Day when I was seven years old. I was so proud of the Organa legacy. I've always tried to hold myself to my great-grandmother's standards. My father used to tell me stories about her, how she worked so hard to get people to lay down their weapons, to talk, to find new ways to air their grievances and resolve their conflicts. I would cry when I thought about how she died before the war ended. She was my hero. I wanted to be like her. I wanted her to be proud of me."

"Think you that she is not?" came Yoda's gentle query.

"I don't know."

"I do," Yoda stated.

Bail glanced sharply at him. "Did you know her?"

"Met her I did. Several times. Stubborn she was, and very angry. But she knew the war had to end. Listen to her, the people did, because they knew she had suffered, too."

Bail shook his head in disbelief. "So you're saying the people of Ithgar will listen to me now that I have suffered?"

"No. From Ithgar you are not. From them the answer must come, not you."

"Then I shouldn't get involved?" Bail shot back, growing angry. "I shouldn't care?"

"Each of us our own answers must we find. But caring, too, belongs to each of us."

"So I'm supposed to care, but not do anything about it?"

Abruptly Yoda switched course. "Why are you here, Bail Organa?"

"It was Master Jinn's idea!" Bail sputtered.

"Hmph." The little Master frowned. "Because of Obi-Wan you are here. His own answers does he give you?"

"No."

"Then how does he help you?"

"He-he's just here." Bail drowned in a flash flood of emotion. All that Obi-Wan had done for him, quiet and unobtrusive as it was, without it Bail didn't know how he could have survived. Yet what exactly did Obi-Wan do? "He meditates with me. He takes me to my counseling sessions at the Center. We take walks together. He listens - but then I don't talk very much. He doesn't make me talk." Bail shrugged, frustrated at his inability to explain. "He doesn't really do anything."

Yoda frowned in rebuke. "Shows you he does that someone cares. Need that the people of Ithgar do."

Yes, that was it. That was it, exactly. Bail felt the tears overcome him once more. He was so very tired of crying, but this was different somehow. He cried because Obi-Wan loved him. He cried because his nine-greats grandmother never saw the war's end. He cried for the people of Ithgar, who were learning their lesson the hard way, as Alderaan had three hundred years ago. All his tears before had been for himself, but these tears were for other people, too. It felt strangely good to cry for others, as if he had something in himself to give away. He didn't have much, just a shattered and bleeding heart, only grief at the damnable pain and suffering in the galaxy, only a desperate wish that somehow, someday all the crying might end. Not much, but it felt healing to know he had something to give away after all.

When Bail's crying subsided, Yoda gently asked, "Know you, Bail Organa, why I wished to meet with you?"

"No, Master Yoda," Bail sniffled.

"Changed the Republic has. Selfish the people have become. Care only for their own interests, they do. Rules, laws, protection, safety - these are their concerns. We are losing our way." Yoda hobbled over to stand before Bail. "Find your own way you must. Look for it here." He poked Bail's chest with one claw. "Look to your heart, Bail Organa. Find what is there, and there make your stand."

Yoda's eyes took on a faraway cast, while never releasing Bail's gaze. "Dark times are ahead," he warned. "Fear for the future I do. The day will come when we will need people who are brave enough to care."

He stands in the prow of his boat in the middle of the lake, watching the storm approach. It billows up from the horizon like ink in water. Overhead the sky is blue, the sunlight reflects off the surface of the lake, but the storm cloud widens like a great maw, swallowing earth and sky, its ashen lips rushing toward him, passing by overhead.
He can see the rain coming, a wash of darkness. The air has chilled, and the waves are choppy, rocking the boat. He hangs on, watching bursts of lightning in the black belly of the storm. He should head back to shore. He is courting disaster, alone on the lake in the middle of such a tempest, but he is enthralled. He cannot move.
A loud pop next to him as an enormous raindrop explodes on the deck, followed by another, and another. The drops are hitting him now, striking painfully, almost hard enough to bruise. His skin cringes from the cold, but he does not go below deck.
With a whoosh, the rain is upon him, coming fast and furious. He can hear nothing but water slapping water in a fierce tattoo. The rain pelts him, chill and relentless, and he blinks his eyes to keep the water out. A futile gesture. He clutches the railing with both hands, standing in the prow as the waves buffet his boat, and the wind and rain lash at him, stinging drops, penetrating cold, and all around him, above and below, nothing but gray, nothing but water. He raises his face to the sky, shaking the sopping hair out of his eyes. He opens his mouth, swallows the clean rain, nursing at nature's cold bosom. She has the power to crush him, to swallow him up without a trace. She can snatch him up in her powerful arms and carry him away on the wind. But she does not.
As swiftly as it arose, the storm passes. The rain thins out and finally stops, leaving him drenched and dripping. He turns and watches the gray mantle pass by overhead, dragged behind the storm in its relentless march. On the far horizon, a strip of gold shines with an almost blinding light, a reminder that even such a storm cannot finally douse the sun.
He has been very foolish. His parents will be furious when he returns. He does not care.

It was worth it.

When he finally managed to express anger at his torturers, the angry words were accompanied by fearful ones: terror, pain, shame, and all their attendant emotions. Then came the really awful ones: self-doubt, self-recrimination, anger at his family for not protecting him, at Obi-Wan for not rescuing him sooner. Feelings of failure, of having disappointed everyone, of having fucked everything up. Guilt. Unworthiness. Uncleanness. The secret belief that in the end he had been ruined, soiled, corrupted, fouled.

The one place where he did not want to listen was in his group sessions at the Center for Survivors of Torture, called the Survivors Center, though Bail secretly though of it as the Torture Center. Bail did not want to hear the others' stories. The soul healers were always coolly impersonal, detached from the violence Bail had suffered. He could somehow distance himself from his own experience through the lens of their uninvolved perception. But listening to others' stories of torture only brought him closer to his own experience. He did not want to have anything in common with these other people, to share their paranoia, their sleepless fear and desperation. Looking into their faces was far too much like looking into a mirror, and he could not bear what he saw. He craved Obi-Wan's robe at those sessions, to hide and lose his identity in those folds. All of the people in his group were nobodies. Maybe they were important on their homeworlds, but none were famous like Bail Organa, Republic senator and prince of the Royal House of Alderaan. How could he reveal his nakedness to them, his fear, his failure, his weakness? How could he talk about his impotence, his panic attacks? He wasn't even certain what it was he feared most from them: their judgment or their sympathy. He didn't want anyone's sympathy or pity; it would imply that he was a victim. He didn't want understanding or support; it would imply that his experience was not unique. He wanted to be alone in his personal hell, self-sufficient in his misery.

But something began to happen as he sat in sullen silence, listening to the others tell their stories. They did not engage in some kind of morbid comparison of their victimization. They did not appropriate each other's stories, either by judgment or by sympathy. All those foul emotions soiling his insides, those horrific words he could not bear to give voice to, found voice in other people's mouths. Other people could talk about these things, vicious, acidic, agonizing things, and they could do so without being destroyed. They could vomit up their fearsome memories and still be alive. No one died, not in the telling nor in the listening. People were tortured. They were raped. They were abducted or arrested. They were beaten, starved, electrocuted. They were subjected to the most vile and perverse tortures a sick mind could imagine. But every single one of them survived. True, not everyone subjected to torture survived, but all the people in those group sessions did. It was truly the Survivors Center and not the Torture Center. No one learned how to torture there, they learned how to survive: to live over, to live above their experience, not to live under it. Something began to quicken and kick within Bail, to fight and struggle and swim to the surface.

Finally one day Bail opened his mouth, and the words began to come. Not all at once, and not easily. But they came.

Concerned, he wandered into the bedroom and found Bail lying curled up on his side facing the window, back toward Obi-Wan. Slowly Obi-Wan crawled onto the bed, resting his hand on Bail's shoulder. Bail was awake, staring blindly ahead. Obi-Wan asked, "Are you all right?"

A tear pooled in the corner of Bail's eye. "No."

Obi-Wan stroked his fingers through Bail's hair, hoping to offer some comfort. He waited for the prince to say something, to talk about whatever was wrong, but he remained silent. Obi-Wan rested his forehead on Bail's shoulder. He was so weary. True, Bail wasn't acting out the way he had on Alderaan, but this horrible silence was somehow worse. Obi-Wan knew Bail was in pain, but the prince refused to talk about it, which meant there was nothing Obi-Wan could offer, nothing he could do. Struggling to keep his tone even, he asked, "What happened?"

Bail blinked slowly. The tear was still there. "I just had a really bad day."

Obi-Wan mentally reviewed Bail's schedule. He would have had a group session today. Those tended to be difficult, though Bail had never returned from one in such a despondent mood. Not knowing what else to say, and wondering if he would regret it, Obi-Wan suggested, "Would it help to go out and get drunk?"

"I don't know. I don't really want to get drunk."

Even though that ought to be a good sign, Obi-Wan found himself slightly alarmed. Bail in a bad mood was never one to just sit around. He always took some kind of action, the more diverting or self-destructive the better. "Is there anything I can do?" Obi-Wan asked.

The tear at the corner of Bail's eye finally spilled over the bridge of his nose, and another one rapidly took its place. "I'm so tired. I'm just tired of it all."

Cold dread crept through Obi-Wan's veins. Bail almost sounded suicidal. Obi-Wan squeezed Bail's shoulder, burying his face in Bail's hair, fighting to hold back his terror. "Please, Bail," he begged. "Please, let me do something. Let me help you. I know it's bad, but you don't have to be alone."

Bail shifted, rolling onto his back, and Obi-Wan rose on one elbow to stare down into his expressionless eyes. "Make love to me," Bail said.

Obi-Wan froze. That was not at all what he had been expecting. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"I'm never going to be ready. Just do it."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Please, Ben," Bail pled, his tone flat. "I need it. Make that memory go away."

"I don't think it works that way," Obi-Wan observed. He started to pull away, not wanting to deal with this at all, but Bail caught his arm.

"Please, Ben, I need you," Bail begged. "Make love to me."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You could never hurt me," Bail contradicted.

Obi-Wan covered his face with his hand, trying to press the tears back into his eye sockets. This was a bad idea, he knew it, but Bail kept pleading with him, and in the end Obi-Wan could not refuse him. "All right," he reluctantly conceded.

Before he could lose his nerve, he rose from the bed and went into the 'fresher looking for some lotion. He had to compose himself. He didn't know how he was going to be able to get aroused enough to do this. While he rummaged through a drawer, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes, sullen features: he looked like he was going to his execution. Obi-Wan looked away, running through the serenity meditation, seeking to calm and center himself. When he was certain he would not fall apart, he grabbed the lotion and returned to the bedroom.

Bail had gotten under the covers. He was still wearing his shirt, but when Obi-Wan skirted the edge of the bed, he saw Bail's pants in a heap on the floor. Setting the lotion on the table by the bed, Obi-Wan removed his boots and socks, his belt and outer tunic, while Bail watched him with hooded eyes. Still partly clothed, he slid under the covers and into Bail's arms. "You can stop me anytime," he said.

"I won't," Bail whispered.

Obi-Wan shuddered, and that sick feeling returned. For a long time he just lay in Bail's arms. It was as if they were going to sleep. It was all Obi-Wan wanted to do, but he couldn't leave it at that. He had a job to do.

Obi-Wan nuzzled softly against Bail's cheek, calling up memories of all their times together, both tender and passionate, wild and serene. It had been difficult to lie next to Bail night after night, to comfort and hold him, and all the time wonder when they would ever make love again. He had been patient and understanding. He had told himself over and over again that Bail's friendship was most important, that if they were never lovers again it wouldn't matter. But he had been lying.

He kissed his way along Bail's jaw, his lips slow and deliberate, tongue flicking out to caress the prince's skin. He covered Bail's mouth with his own, drawing on Bail's lips. They had kissed a few times before, and Bail opened to him, allowing him entrance. Obi-Wan kissed him leisurely, taking his time, savoring the taste of him, letting the heat slowly infuse his body. Bail accepted the kiss willingly enough. A small part of Obi-Wan's mind said this was wrong, that neither of them was really ready for this, but he ignored it, telling himself it had to be right.

Time to move on. Obi-Wan released Bail's lips and kissed a path over his chin and down his neck, easing Bail's shirt open. Bail's arms wrapped loosely around him but he did nothing more as Obi-Wan teased one nipple with lips and teeth. Obi-Wan approached his love-making like a massage, caressing Bail's chest with his palms, rubbing his face against Bail's skin, comforting, safe -- hopefully erotic.

Down further, following the fine line of hair down Bail's belly, legs tangling together. Bail's breathing was calm and even, arms still loosely holding him. Obi-Wan quickly pulled his shirt off, then lay once more against Bail's chest, skin to skin for the first time in far too long, nuzzling Bail's neck, hands caressing Bail's sides and moving lower, the prince's breathing still steady. Obi-Wan raised his head to look at Bail. His eyes were closed, head turned slightly to the side. He did not appear distressed. It almost looked as if he were sleep. "Are you sure?" Obi-Wan asked.

Bail opened his eyes and looked up to him. "Yes. Do it. Just take me."

Do it. With one swift movement, Obi-Wan pulled off Bail's underwear. Obi-Wan still wore his pants. One thing at a time. He reached for Bail's cock. It was flaccid and unresponsive. Bail pressed closer, trapping Obi-Wan's hand between them so he couldn't move. Dark eyes looked up at Obi-Wan with a glimmer of pain. "It doesn't matter. Just do it."

Wrong! Obi-Wan's mind screamed at him, but he willed himself not to listen. He buried his face once more in Bail's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of the prince's cologne. He quickly stripped and reached for the lotion, willing himself to hardness as if this were an exercise in mind over body, but he was only partly successful. When he touched Bail, the prince pulled his legs up to his chest and said, "I'm ready."

Without letting himself think about it, Obi-Wan positioned himself. Bail was indeed ready, receiving him easily. Bail's eyes closed again, face relaxed, blank, as Obi-Wan slowly eased into him. Obi-Wan watched him, their faces so close together they could feel one another's breath on their cheeks, and yet Bail remained as far away from him as the Outer Rim, face relaxed, utterly without tension or passion. Obi-Wan had to close his eyes against the sight, but he could not ignore the feeling, Bail's arms loose around him, his body still unresponsive.

Desperately Obi-Wan moved against Bail, moved in him, but it was no use. Everything about this was wrong. He thrust quickly several times, feigning orgasm before his erection could fade completely. Bail lowered his legs, his hands resting lightly on Obi-Wan's hips as the Jedi lay across him, face buried in Bail's neck because he didn't want to see that blank face, those expressionless eyes.

"Thank you," Bail murmured, and Obi-Wan fought back a fierce wave of nausea. He knew he was going to be ill. He would burst into tears any moment. He could not let that happen. Everything was bad enough without making Bail see him fall completely apart. Obi-Wan mustered every ounce of self-discipline in a desperate bid to remain in control. Bail shifted beneath him, prompting him to move over as Bail rolled onto his side, away from Obi-Wan.

"I have to meet with Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan said, amazed at how calm he sounded. "I needed to talk with him after dinner, anyway."

"Okay," Bail said without looking at him.

Obi-Wan hesitated. He had to ask. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

He almost sounded fine. He certainly sounded better than Obi-Wan felt. Obi-Wan hastily rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes, desperate to escape the surreal scene. Without another word to Bail, he stumbled out of the room before he could completely lose his composure.

When he was in the corridor, the door safely shut behind him, he paused, digging his trembling fingers through his hair, wanting to squeeze the memory out of his head. Necrophilia, that's what it had been like: having sex with a corpse. Nausea surged within him once more, and he staggered forward, his feet carrying him back to his own quarters, to the room he shared with Qui-Gon, his home for over a decade. Qui-Gon would know what to do. He would make everything right.

Obi-Wan all but fell through the door, startling Qui-Gon from his dinner. Qui-Gon rose and moved forward as if to catch him. "Padawan?"

Obi-Wan stood rooted in place, his hand raised toward Qui-Gon in entreaty. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged. Indeed, what could he say about what had happened?

Qui-Gon gently took his arm and led him to the couch. "What is it?" he asked. When Obi-Wan still could not answer, Qui-Gon instructed, "Calm yourself. Meditate."

"I don't want to meditate!" Obi-Wan shouted. He froze, shocked that he had raised his voice at his master, then exploded into tears, weeks of tension finally breaking. He had never exercised such fierce control over his emotions for so long a time as this. "I can't take it any more," he wept. "I don't know what to do. I can't help him."

"Easy, Padawan," Qui-Gon soothed, resting a comforting hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder.

Obi-Wan fought to recover from his outburst. He could not carry on like this, especially in front of Qui-Gon. He struggled to get his crying under control, but his defenses were too weary. He had held it all in for so long.

At last the outburst spent itself, and Obi-Wan calmed down a bit. Qui-Gon gently urged, "Now, tell me what happened."

Stubborn tears escaped down Obi-Wan's cheeks, as he wrapped his arms tightly around himself. He couldn't bear to look at Qui-Gon. "He wanted me to make love to him. We haven't, you know. He wasn't really ready, but he insisted." He squeezed his eyes shut, face turned away. "It was horrible. I feel filthy."

"He reacted badly?" Qui-Gon guessed.

"He didn't react at all! He just lay there as if he were dead. It was awful." He couldn't sit still. If he remained still, he could feel it all again, how unresponsive Bail had been, how ill he had felt. He had to move, distract his body from the memory. He leaped to his feet and paced frantically back and forth, hugging himself, chin tucked against his chest.

Qui-Gon watched him for a moment, then softly ordered, "Sit down, Padawan."

Obi-Wan halted his pacing, hesitating. Reluctantly he returned to the couch. Qui-Gon took the young man's hands between his own, stilling their trembling. "You did nothing wrong, Obi-Wan."

"I did nothing right, either," Obi-Wan protested.

"Listen to me. I know you want to help him. But the hardest part is that he must find his own way. You cannot do it for him. All you can do is be with him."

Obi-Wan slowly shook his head, eyes downcast, avoiding Qui-Gon's gaze. "I can't," he whispered. "I miss him too much." His composure threatened to crumble, and Qui-Gon took the young man into his embrace, wrapping his long arms tightly around his padawan's shoulders as Obi-Wan wept once more.

"I just want him back," Obi-Wan cried, his words muffled against Qui-Gon's chest. "I can't remember the last time I heard him laugh. He used to talk nonstop. I couldn't get him to shut up, and now he scarcely says three words together. He's so haunted now, insubstantial. When I touched him, it was as if he wasn't there, as if his spirit is dead, but his body is still here to remind me of what he used to be."

"He's not dead, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon gently replied. "I can assure you of that."

Obi-Wan pushed himself away, rejecting Qui-Gon's sympathy. "What do you know? You don't know what he was like before!"

But Qui-Gon refused to be put off. "I know that he is definitely not dead." He took Obi-Wan's face between his hands, forcing Obi-Wan to meet his gaze. "There's nothing worse than watching someone we love suffer. We want to step in, to fix things for them, but we cannot. All you can do is wait and be there to receive him when he is ready."

Obi-Wan shook his head again, and Qui-Gon asked, "Will you force him to heal, then? How do you propose to do that? He needs you to show him that you can still love him, despite what he has been through. Your being with him now gives him a reason to recover."

"Not any more, not after what I did," Obi-Wan bitterly protested. "I shouldn't have had sex with him. He wasn't ready. Neither of us was."

"If indeed he wasn't ready, that is all the more reason why you should not abandon him now."

Qui-Gon's words cut Obi-Wan to the quick. Qui-Gon continued, "You need to show him that even when mistakes are made, we can recover and move on. Don't hide from him, Obi-Wan. Let him know what is in your heart. Even if he cannot speak about these things, you can."

For a long time, Obi-Wan was silent, considering Qui-Gon's counsel. At last he sighed, "The problem is, I don't know what to say anymore."

Qui-Gon chuckled. "In some ways, counseling someone in grief is very easy. It hardly matters what you say, so long as you are talking, so long as you are there. Say all the usual things, 'I'm sorry; I'm here; I love you.' It may not be very original, but it works."

At last Obi-Wan raised his eyes to Qui-Gon's. This man had stood by him through countless crises over the years. He always seemed so wise, always said the right things. Was this really true? Is that all Qui-Gon had been saying to him over the years as well: 'I love you; I'm here'? Come to think of it, it did sound rather familiar. And in the end, wasn't that all anyone ever wanted to hear? Certainly Obi-Wan wanted to hear it. He nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I think even I can manage that."

"I'm sorry I left so suddenly," Obi-Wan said. No reply, as he continued to stroke Bail's hair. "Why don't we go for a walk?" It was what they sometimes used to do after they had made love. Why not do something familiar, as if what had happened between them were normal?

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan was surprised when Bail said, "All right." The prince slid out from under the covers and got dressed. He was subdued but tractable, willing to be led. As they headed out the door, he slipped into his robe, and Obi-Wan took his hand, squeezing it gently as they left the room and headed through the wide hallways of the Temple, out the door to the promenade in front of the Temple Plaza.

It was evening. The sun had long ago set behind the tall horizon of the skyscrapers. The plaza was dark, but overhead the sky was still light. The park was full of people taking a walk on their way home from work, children playing before dinner. Old people sat at the benches playing board games, young people swooped down the walkway on their hoverboards. Street artists played music and did tumbling acts for coins. Vendors sold treats. And Obi-Wan and Bail walked hand in hand down the promenade, taking in the sights and sounds around them.

After a while, Bail said, "Sometimes in the afternoon when you're in class, I take a walk here. I always wear your robe with the hood up so I won't be recognized. But people do recognize me, only they think I'm a Jedi. They don't bother me, they don't even say anything to me, but I can tell because of the way they look at me and smile when I pass them.

"One day a little girl came skipping up next to me. She didn't say anything, just took my hand and skipped at my side the whole length of the promenade. At the end she said, 'Bye, Sir Jedi!' and ran off down the street toward home." Bail hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was hushed, awed. "It was amazing. I didn't have to do anything to be a blessing to her. I didn't even have to be a real Jedi, all I had to do was let her believe." He fell silent, worrying at his lower lip. "Do you think that was wrong?"

Resisting the urge to supply Bail with an answer, Obi-Wan asked, "What do you think?"

Bail was silent for several steps. At last he said, "I don't think it was wrong. It felt good to be able to make a child so happy without even trying. People love the Jedi."

Obi-Wan answered with a rueful smile. "Not all of them do. But when it happens like that, it's really special."

"You are special," Bail said.

Obi-Wan automatically dismissed, "No, I'm not."

"You are to me," was Bail's simple reply.

What could Obi-Wan say to that? He felt as if he had done everything wrong for Bail. He couldn't help him, and he made dangerous mistakes. He didn't feel special; he felt horrifically inadequate. But how could he deny what Bail felt? All he could do was receive it, receive that blessing merely for being.

They walked on in silence for some time; watched a chalk artist draw landscapes on the sidewalk; bought a packet of spiced nuts to share as they sat on a bench near a fountain, where small children leaned over the edge, trying to catch the splashing water in their hands.

A thousand billion people lived on this world. Out there in the jungle of buildings, people were living and dying. They were making love and being born. Some wept, some laughed, and some felt nothing at all. Each light shining in the twilight represented a life -- people behind the lit windows, people in the vehicles passing by overhead. Each light, each life told its own story, a long and complicated one filled with the entire range of sentient emotions. It would be impossible for anyone to know all those stories. Each one was a drop in the ocean of the Force. But each little drop was surely loved by at least one other person. Surely at least one person cared about each story.

They sat on the bench looking up at all those lights, feeling lost amid so much life, and yet at the same time strangely at home. Bail turned to Obi-Wan, his eyes glittering in the twilight, and asked, "Will you sing me a song?"

Startled, Obi-Wan said, "You want me to sing to you now? Here?"

Bail only smiled. "I like it when you sing to me. Please?"

Obi-Wan shook his head in embarrassment. The things he did for Bail! But after everything they had both been through recently, this would be a tiny concession indeed. Tiny, but important in its own way.

"All right," Obi-Wan conceded. He took Bail's hands and pulled him up off the bench, wrapping his arms around the prince's waist, and began to sing. He chose a silly love song, something jaunty but simple that he knew Bail would like. He sang in a low voice, but not too quietly. Loud enough, in fact, for passers-by to hear. Let them hear. Obi-Wan did not mind.

It had not surprised him yesterday when Obi-Wan ran off. Of course he would. He didn't want Bail to see how repugnant he found it having sex with him. Bail had not been too surprised at how badly it had gone. He was actually rather pleased that the experience had not made him break down into hysterics or something. In that sense, his lack of response had been good. On the other hand it confirmed what he had begun to believe, that sexual desire had permanently left him. He had wanted Obi-Wan to enjoy it, to feel some pleasure after all the crap Bail had put him through lately, but it hadn't quite worked out that way. Of course Obi-Wan wouldn't enjoy it if Bail couldn't. So Obi-Wan had run off, and Bail lay alone in a cold bed, knowing it was all over, that Obi-Wan would never touch him again.

But Obi-Wan had come back. Bail had not been expecting that, had not expected Obi-Wan to hold him once more, to touch him with affection, to take his hand as they walked, to sing him a silly love song. It had been just like old times.

Well, not quite like old times. Things had definitely changed. Bail had changed. But it had been like old times because it meant Obi-Wan loved him just the same.

He drew his arm tightly across Obi-Wan's chest, buried his face in the back of his neck, breathed in the sleep-spice scent of him. Obi-Wan had not worn a sleep shirt last night, and Bail released him long enough to pull off his own shirt so he could nestle against Obi-Wan. This was what he had been missing, soft skin sliding across his own. He rubbed his cheek against Obi-Wan's shoulder, feeling the faint stubble on his chin catch on Obi-Wan's skin. He nuzzled Obi-Wan's shoulder blade, opening his lips, tasting.

He remembered this. Pores, moles, the light sprinkling of hair over Obi-Wan's chest, and yes, the occasional scar. He remembered this skin turning pink in the sun, the flesh covered with goosebumps when they swam in the river on a too-cool evening. He remembered washing this skin in a shared bath, and drying it with the friction and heat of his own body. He remembered one time when Obi-Wan let him write on this skin. Bail had taken a pen and drawn symbols, decorations and curlicues across Obi-Wan's chest, on the flat plane of his stomach, on his palms. And over Obi-Wan's left breast he'd written, "This heart belongs to Bail Organa," in an ancient script, one he knew Obi-Wan couldn't read. Obi-Wan had wanted to know what it said, but Bail refused to tell him.

Those marks were gone now, but Bail could still read them. He knew the story of this skin because he could feel it in his own flesh. He knew what this skin looked like wrapped in silk or in linen, bathed in sunshine or darkness. He knew what it tasted like after a night's sleep, after a swim, after sex. He knew its smells and textures, had lain with his ear pressed against this skin and heard the heart beating within, watched the pulse throb in this throat, traced the blue veins on those wrists. He knew this skin, as they say, like the back of his own hand. And his skin was known as well, Obi-Wan knew all its tastes and scents and textures. Obi-Wan knew the story of Bail's body-- ticklish spots and erogenous zones, its pleasures and its pains.

So many nights Obi-Wan had lain next to him, held him, covered him with his robe like a second skin, stroked his hair, touched his face. All those nights, and days, too, Obi-Wan had told over and over again the story of Bail's flesh: I love this skin, this body, this person. It is lovely, it is beloved. Obi-Wan's fingers traced an invisible but indelible ink upon his breast: "This heart belongs to Obi-Wan Kenobi." Why hadn't Bail seen it before? It had been written there all along.

He pressed against Obi-Wan's back and was surprised to realize he had an erection. He buried his nose in Obi-Wan's hair, inhaling deeply, slid his hand over Obi-Wan's chest, down his stomach. Obi-Wan was awake now, and he shifted slightly, parting his legs and leaning back against Bail. Bail's fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Obi-Wan's sleep pants, reaching down to encircle the hard flesh. Not like yesterday.

As Bail caressed him, Obi-Wan released a long, deep sigh, his legs parting further. Bail kissed his shoulder, ground his hips against Obi-Wan's backside. Not like Ithgar. No, nothing like Ithgar. He knew this flesh. He knew this story. Their skin sang with it, vibrated, hummed, resonated. Bail could hear the blood flowing through their veins, moist breath squeezing in and out of lungs, the flutter of eyelids, two hearts speeding up, the grating of skin against skin.

He pulled Obi-Wan's pants off, then removed his own. Obi-Wan pushed back against him, legs parted, moist, warm. Bail pulled him closer, found his place. He knew what to do, and he was oh, so ready. He pressed in, slid home, entered and was welcomed. They moved together, skin singing, hearts pounding, breath in unison, Bail's arms wrapped tightly around Obi-Wan's chest, Obi-Wan's fingers digging into Bail's forearms, pressing closer together, undulating with the rhythm of this song, this primal urge to become one, to be joined, to enter into another's skin.

They did not become one, of course. That kind of union was impossible, as Bail well knew, but they did find harmony. Like a duet, twice as beautiful as a solo, singing gloriously, two voices wrapping around one another, distinct but interwoven, each with their own melody but perfectly in tune. The song increased in tempo, building up an exquisite crescendo in Bail's skin until he could no longer contain it and it burst through him, exploding through his nerves, shooting out from his pores, shredding and disintegrating him -- taking him apart and pulling him back together again, breath rattling harshly in his lungs, heart pumping wildly, muscles twitching.

He clung tightly to Obi-Wan, gasping for breath. He could not let go, but Obi-Wan, ever limber, wriggled in his embrace, turning around and gathering him in shaking arms, bathing his face with harsh, insistent kisses, lips drinking in his tears as Bail wept, gulping sobs of gratitude, joy and pain. It was so good to feel, all of it. The pain no longer paralyzed him. These tears no longer choked him. He could feel Obi-Wan -- soft skin against his hands, silky hair brushing his face, warm lips kissing him, arms and legs sliding over his. He was grateful the bacta had healed him, that it had erased his scars so he could retain this ability to feel his lover holding him. The love in his skin was deeper than the scars.

He loves bathtime. He insists on using Grandma Fiana's giant bathtub. If he asks Papa, Papa will say no, that it uses too much water for such a small boy. But Rani will say yes. She always says yes.
The water thunders into the tub, echoing off the tiles with a ferocity that makes his toes curl in anticipation. Rani fills the tub as high as it can go. It takes forever. He has his toys ready, boats and plastic fish, crayon soap to write on the walls with, his favorite purple washcloth, faded with use.
When the tub is full at last, he scrambles eagerly over the edge, splashing water all over Rani, who squeals in feigned outrage. He submerges himself completely, lying on his back and looking up past the floating toys as Rani rolls up her pants legs and sits on the edge of the tub, dipping her bare feet in the water. Despite all his efforts to elude her, she grabs his limbs one at a time, washing each in its turn, while he continues to play with the other three.
Now it is time to wash his hair. Rani is good at it. Papa scrubs too hard, but Rani's hands are gentle. She works the soap through his hair, strong fingers massaging his scalp. He holds on to the edge of the tub with both hands as she tips him back, pouring a pitcher of water over his head. He leans securely into her hand, holding him firmly at the back of his neck. She never gets soap in his eyes.
The water is cooling. She hauls him out and stands him dripping on the tiles while she wraps an enormous towel around him and scrubs him dry. She tweaks his curls and threatens to fetch her hair ribbons. She and Burra and Veena used to dress him up and put bows in his hair when he was a baby. He was too young to remember it, but at every family reunion they pull out those awful photos of their baby brother surrounded by three laughing girls, ribbons in his hair. Rani is the youngest of the sisters, all of whom are far older than him, but Rani has always been his Big Sister. She is the one who takes care of him, pretending to be his mother. When he scrapes his knees, she is the one who dries his tears, puts on the bandage, and feeds him pills of lemon drops, all the while clucking her tongue and acting concerned.

When he is dry and his hair combed out, at last comes his favorite part. Rani makes a show of inspecting him for any dirty spots she may have missed, then pronounces, "You're clean enough to kiss, Baby Bo." He raises his hands to her, wrapping his arms around her neck as she plants a kiss on the tip of his nose, her sweet breath warm on his face.

The opportunity to resume his public role had certainly appeared many times. The press had figured out the schedule of his sessions at the Survivors' Center, and they were often waiting for him when he arrived or departed. Even when Obi-Wan wasn't with him, he had learned to dodge the reporters and their holocams, walking head down, shoulders hunched, unresponsive. It was not hard to tune out their shouted questions to the point where he almost didn't hear them at all.

It was a far cry from the way he had always treated the press. Bail was enough of an egotist that he enjoyed the public attention. He teased and flirted with the cameras and had become very adept at presenting an image to the press without giving too much of himself away. His willingness to be recorded and interviewed is what had kept his popularity strong. The journalists liked him, so they hadn't pressed him too hard during his recovery. But neither did they give up trying to get him to talk.

Today, however, was different. His group session had gone surprisingly well. He had not completely recovered yet, but he was feeling much better. Obi-Wan was with him, whom he could now touch. He felt safe. So when the reporter, with cameraman in tow, appeared as Bail left the Survivors' Center, he did not tune them out completely.

"What do you think about the news of Senator Aisinton's failing health?" the reporter called out to him as he walked briskly by Obi-Wan's side. "What will happen if he dies?"

This news shocked him. Bail stopped and looked directly at the reporter. "Senator Aisinton?"

Now that he had shown an interest, the camera zoomed in on his face, and the reporter stepped forward, only to be intercepted by an impassive Obi-Wan. Ignoring him, she continued, "Some people are saying Aisinton's death will increase support for the Hinnelese Defense bill."

Bail glanced over Obi-Wan's shoulder at the camera. "Put the camera down," he instructed.

The cameraman shot an inquisitive look at the reporter, who nodded. The camera lowered, but Bail could see that it was still recording.

"Turn it off," Obi-Wan ordered.

Again the cameraman and reporter exchanged a glance, but before they could decide whether or not to comply, Bail prompted, "What about Aisinton?"

The reporter spoke into her microphone. "His heart is failing. He's being treated at Succor Hospital, but the healers don't expect him to live much longer."

The news hit him hard. Another death for which he was responsible. Tears filled his eyes, but he did not let them fall. "Aisinton is a shining light in the Senate. His loss would be a blow to us all."

"Were you close to him?" the reporter asked.

Bail studied her for a moment as he tried to rein in his emotions. He recognized her. He couldn't remember which news service she worked for, but he knew her. "I admire him," he admitted at last. He was not as close to Aisinton as he would have liked. He had not had enough time for him to get to know the aged senator better. Now there would never be enough time.

"He has made no statement on the Hinnelese Defense bill," she added, her microphone tipping toward Bail, despite Obi-Wan's scowl. The camera was still recording their words if not their image. "Where do you stand, Senator Organa?"

"I--." He hesitated. He knew perfectly well where he stood, but he didn't know how to explain it. If he said anything, they would ask more questions, and he wasn't ready to answer. He had feelings in his heart, not thoughts in his head. There still had not been enough time, never enough, but he would have to speak soon or else this time would slip away. As much as he wanted to remain silent and hidden, the world around him moved on.

He shook his head, still unable to speak, and stepped further behind the shelter of Obi-Wan's back.

The reporter lowered her microphone. "And how is your recovery coming, Senator?"

"I'm doing better," he answered quietly, peering over Obi-Wan's shoulder.

Her arm fell to her side, as she thumbed the microphone off. She offered Bail a genuine smile. "We'll be ready for you when you come back. The Senate needs you, your Highness." She signaled to the cameraman, and they moved away.

Bail watched them go, standing safely behind Obi-Wan.

Never enough time.

The next day, shrouded once more in Obi-Wan's robe, Bail slipped into the hospital through a service entrance and was escorted to the Senator's room.

The old man looked even more frail than usual, lying still on the bed, surrounded by monitors and medical machinery. A breathing mask covered his mouth and nose, but he waved a gaunt hand to a nurse, who helped him remove the mask. The nurse then slipped discreetly out of the room, as Bail pulled up a chair and seated himself next to the bed.

"Who is this that has come to see me?" Aisinton wheezed, his voice weak but still full of personality. "I thought young Organa was coming, but instead I see a Jedi!" His thin lips stretched in a smile, one which Bail couldn't help mirroring. "I always took you for a dandy with your fancy robes, young man. Have you now taken up sackcloth?"

Bail's smile faded slightly. "I have many sins to atone for."

"You haven't lived long enough to sin that much, my boy."

"Plenty long enough," Bail demurred. "And now I have to add...." He stopped before saying too much.

But Aisinton picked up on his thoughts. Wagging a bony finger at him, he scolded, "Don't go blaming yourself for my condition, young man. My heart has been ailing me for quite some time."

Bail bowed his head, picking at the edge of his robe. "Still, if you hadn't gone to Ithgar -"

"If I hadn't gone to Ithgar, then something else would have gotten to me. I'm 93 years old, boy. It was going to happen eventually." His watery eyes dimmed slightly. "I admit that Ithgar wasn't quite the adventure I wanted for my later years, but it will certainly look impressive in my obituary."

It was too much. Bail covered his face with his hands as those damned tears, his constant companions these days, began to flow.

He felt a cold hand on his wrist. "Ah, my boy, you've had it rough, haven't you?"

Bail could not pull himself together enough to reply. He had come to this dying man's bedside, only to find himself the one who was being comforted.

Aisinton continued, "I know it's hard, but you must not let this defeat you. You have many years ahead of you, and you need to use your time well."

Bail raised his head, wiping at his eyes. "I will, I promise."

"Don't make your promise to me, I won't be around to hold you to it," Aisinton quipped with a wink. "Now, be a good boy and help me with a drink of water, would you?"

Bail nodded, fetching the cup from the nightstand. He held the straw to the Senator's lips as the man took several small swallows. Aisinton lay back on the pillows, then fixed a yellow eye on Bail. "I don't suppose you have any of your good Alderaani brandy on you?"

"I'm afraid not," Bail smiled.

"Next time you come, be sure to bring some."

The senator closed his eyes for several moments, and Bail at last cautiously ventured, "Should I leave you now? I don't want to wear you out."

"No, no," Aisinton protested, opening his eyes again. "It's nice talking with someone who isn't going to stick me with a needle. Tell me what's going on in the great world out there."

Bail shifted on his chair. This was what he had really come to talk to Aisinton about. "You've heard about the Hinnelese Defense Bill?"

"Heard about it?" Aisinton wheezed. "Oh, yes, I've heard about it."

Bail waited, but when the Senator said nothing more, he asked, "Where do you stand on it?"

"What does it matter where I stand? I've retired from the Senate, young man!"

"Yes, but you're highly respected. People will want to know your opinion."

"It makes no difference what I say," Aisinton contradicted. "I'm going to die soon anyway, and people will only use the occasion to push their own political agendas in my name." He again fixed Bail with his gaze. "The important thing is where you stand."

Bail looked away, staring at the display screen on one of the monitors. It kept flashing numbers, numbers that meant nothing to him. "I've made no stand," he confessed.

Aisinton looked at him with disapproval. "I know you, Organa. You have an opinion on everything. You can't tell me you have no position on this issue."

With a wan smile, Bail admitted, "My heart tells me that it's wrong. The last thing Ithgar needs is more violence. But that's just a feeling, maybe even only a wish. That's not enough for me to take a stand."

"Hmph. It's more than enough." Aisinton reached out and laid his thin hand on Bail's. "Let me tell you, my boy, I've always trusted you. I may not agree with you on everything, but I've always felt your heart was in the right place." He tapped his finger on the back of Bail's hand. "Feeling without thought is manipulative, but reason without emotion is just as bad. Reason can be made to justify anything. But reason grounded in emotion," he closed one eye, nodding astutely, "that's vision. That's what leadership requires, what this miserable galaxy requires. You've got the makings of it in you, young man. Don't let what happened on Ithgar scare it out of you."

The senator closed his eyes again, sinking back against the pillows, and Bail could tell what little energy he had was wearing thin. He tucked the covers tighter around the old man, then said, "I've always greatly admired you, Senator."

Without opening his eyes, Aisinton nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Young people these days don't appreciate their elders." His eyes opened a slit. "But I notice your admiration of me didn't lead you to back me on that appropriations bill."

Bail grinned. "I said I admired you, not that I always agreed with you," he retorted, echoing Aisinton's earlier comment.

The senator wagged a finger at him again, then closed his eyes once more. "Go on, my boy. Get back to work and leave an old man to die in peace."

"Yes, sir." Bail helped replace the mask on Aisinton's face, then headed to the door. Before leaving, he turned back and said, "Thank you."

The old man nodded, smiling at him behind the mask, and Bail quietly slipped out of the room.

A couple of hours later, a package was delivered to the Temple. Bail took it immediately to his room and laid it out on his bed. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he tore off the wrapping.

Lying on top were his nerf-hide boots, soft and supple, polished to a soft glow. Next came a set of underclothes, made out of silk from Ythama. Obi-Wan teased him about his luxurious tastes, but that hadn't stopped the Jedi from appropriating several pairs of Bail's underwear. It seemed even padawans could appreciate a well-made pair of silk shorts.

Next the trousers, such a deep blue they were almost black. Brushed cotton from Bothawui, hand made by Bail's Coruscanti tailor. Nice underwear Obi-Wan could appreciate, but not tailor-made pants, which was a good thing, as Bail had no intention of letting Obi-Wan steal his pants. Well.... Bail laughed at the unintentional joke.

The shirt, hand-tailored again, of course. Dove grey, just a shade on the blue side. Bail picked it up and inhaled its clean fragrance. It had been pressed with hina herb water. His housekeeper spoiled him rotten.

And finally his robe. Deep blue, like the Alderaani sky just as it turns to night. Kasini wool, soft and surprisingly lightweight, with a very elegant drape. The front panels were embroidered with a wavy pattern reminiscent of a waterfall. It curled around the collar and cascaded down to the robe's hem.

Bail laid his things out neatly on the bed, lovingly smoothing out the wrinkles, then undressed. He took his time putting on each article of clothing, adjusting the fit, checking the fastenings, making sure each piece was just right. Only when he had finally slid into the robe, running his hands over the fabric to ensure the proper drape, did he turn around and face the mirror.

A well-dressed young man looked back at him, crisp, tailored and correct. But something was still not quite right with the image. He straightened his spine, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. There. Now he looked like a senator, a prince. He smiled at his reflection.

"That's what I've been missing."

Startled, Bail turned to see Obi-Wan watching him from the doorway. The Jedi slowly crossed the room to stand behind him, wrapping his arms around Bail's waist, his chin resting on Bail's shoulder so he could look at their reflection in the mirror. "You look very sexy," he purred.

"That isn't quite the effect I was going for," Bail dryly observed.

"I've always thought you look much sexier in your senate robes than in your clubbing outfits."

Bail gave a short laugh. "You have a bizarre sense of fashion, Bendu."

"Not at all," Obi-Wan protested. "Your clubbing clothes are mere costume. But this," he ran his hand over the embroidered panels of the robe as Bail leaned back into his embrace. "This is what you really are. It su