Shade of Grey

Thysse sensed him long before he reached the door.

There were those among his kind that didn’t believe humans had the capacity to emote on deeper levels. Some even went so far as to say humanity lacked emotions altogether, aside from anger and fear. That bitter proclamation did hold some truth, he thought, but they hadn’t known as many humans as he had.

Due to his chosen profession, he often kept his abilities in check, unless the situation called for his skill. The Infirmary’s Force-enhanced design kept often high emotions from running rampant, which aided him from being overtaken.

What he sensed from Qui-Gon Jinn was blunted, to be sure, every bit as dulled as a practice ‘saber compared to its original counterpart. Yet even blows from practice ‘sabers left welts, and Thysse felt himself stiffen at the other Jedi’s approach.

“I am a bit early,” he said, ducking his head as if the doorway was too short to allow him passage. “If you’re not ready, I’ll wait.”

“That won’t be necessary. Please come in.” He waved at Qui-Gon, sweeping a large stack of datareader’s from Bel-San’s chair. Since his trainee’s arrival, his once-pristine office had seriously declined to the point of resembling one of Coruscant’s lower levels. “Have a seat.”

For a moment it appeared he might refuse, but he hesitantly sat down, lowering the chair several notches. “Must be Bel-San’s,” he said softly.

“The mess is his as well,” Thysse added, chancing a bit of a smile. “Before we start, I feel like we haven’t had much of an introduction. Well, I shouldn’t say I that—I was involved in one of your stays here previously—but you were unconscious at the time…” He stopped, bringing his palms together. “I’m Thysse Medlion.”

Qui-Gon stared for a moment. “You cured something.”

“I did. Awhile back.”

“What was it…Fanai syndrome. On Tindaris. Am I right?”

He shrugged. “Beginner’s luck, as they say. One of my first field assignments. I don’t do as much traveling as I used to.”

“I know a little about that.”

“Beginner’s luck, or not traveling?”

There was darkness in the other’s eyes as he spoke. “Both.”

Taking a short breath, he leaned closer across his desk. “I asked to meet you because I want to update you on our findings with Xanatos. The Council has asked for the report, but I am withholding it until after our conversation ends, at the insistence of several Healers.”

A cloud of fear, mixed with sorrow, seemed to rise from Qui-Gon’s body. “This is bad news.”

“Xanatos has been afflicted by a number of medical problems, ones we didn’t identify immediately. He—“

“Is he going to live?”

Thysse met his gaze directly. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“Yes or no? Will he live?” Qui-Gon’s voice had not changed its timbre, but a new fierceness glowed beneath his words.

He sighed. “Ultimately, from my vantage point at this precise moment, he cannot continue to survive as he is.”

“Meaning exactly what?”

His hand smoothed across the datareader on his desk, fingers leaving ghostly smudges on its clear surface. “His system has been ravaged by toxins. Most of his major organs are functioning at less than half their optimum rate, and several are approaching critical failure.”

A bit of a gasp jolted the other Jedi’s tall frame. “Toxins? You mean he was…poisoned?”

“I mean he’s an addict.”

Qui-Gon rose to his feet, steadying himself on the back of the chair, and turned away for a moment. The wave of grief that crashed from his mind struck Thysse like a physical blow, and he took the break in their conversation to buffer himself more thoroughly.

When Qui-Gon did speak, it was only in hushed tones. “He did this to himself?”

“There are traces,” Thysses said slowly, “of drugs we’ve not seen before—ever—in his system. The levels of certain chemicals in his bloodstream would be enough to kill most other humans. It is a miracle his brain is even functioning, given the substances he’s taken.”

“But…if it’s his organs that are failing, you can clone new ones.” A sliver of hope, thin as spidersilk, hung in his gaze. “They did it for Bel-San, and that was years ago. Surely we’ve come farther than that.”

Thysse worked his jaw for a moment before speaking. “Bel-San’s heart replacement was extremely complex, and he exceeded all expectations. Any Healer will tell you that.

“Xanatos, unfortunately, needs more than new organs. He needs more than we’re capable of doing.”

“But there has to be something. There must be therapies, medications, something to—“

“He is dying, Master Jinn.”

The strong lines of Qui-Gon’s stance fell away, and his shoulders bent as if he carried a great weight. “How long does he have?”

Thysse sighed, studying the current readouts. “Once his body temperature returns to normal, he’ll start to deteriorate. Even with supplemental amounts of the drugs he’s on, it won’t be more than a fortnight.”

“But the drugs are killing him!”

“If we cut him off entirely, he’ll go into shock and not last the day.”

The shreds of composure that hung on the other Jedi’s face wavered as he spoke. “Will he even be…responsive?”

“We’re not entirely sure, but he may regain consciousness for a time.” Thysse held up a hand to keep him from speaking. “He is no longer connected very strongly to the Force, whether dark or light. It eludes him. It’s part of his addiction. The more drugs he used, the less he sensed the Force, and the more he needed to even come close to replicating the same sensation of connectedness. He may become volatile, or he may be simply exhausted…even nonverbal. We can’t say.”

Qui-Gon shook his head, his breathing ragged. “I appreciate your honesty. I think…I should go. I need to get back to my padawan…”

“I think you should. As soon as there’s a change, we’ll contact you.”

Qui-Gon hesitated near the door, turning back to face him. “If there is none, can I still see him?”

“Of course. By tomorrow morning he should be stable enough.”

Qui-Gon’s chin fell forward, but Thysse didn’t think the nod was directed at him. He slipped from the room, soundless as a ghost.

Thysse folded his arms, leaning forward on his desk until his forehead rested against his wrists. He’d seen it both ways a hundred times or more, and had lived it once one way, but it was truly impossible to tell who grieved more: the padawan left without his master, or the master left without his padawan?

It had less to do with darkness than anything, he knew. No master wanted to see a pupil turn, but the pain sliced deeper than that. It was the ending of it all that twisted the ‘saber. There was no chance for the padawan to get better in any sense, and no hope for anything beyond a quick passing.

“I thought you were going to let me tell him!”

Subconsciously he’d known Bel-San was already there, but he didn’t lift his head until his trainee spoke. Thysse looked up as his sense receptors buzzed with the other man’s heightened emotion. “I thought he might take it better from me.”

Bel-San’s expression was controlled, but his voice betrayed any sense of restraint. “I am his closest friend! I was there the day he took him! Through the whole thing! The day he left—“

“All the more reason you’re not the one to tell him.” Thysse could smell the very anguish on Bel-San’s person, and he sighed, frustrated that his actions translated as some sort of betrayal. “He needs you as his confidante, not as a healer. It is literally impossible to be both. You’ll have that burden soon enough.”

“I passed him on my way here. You should have seen his face.” Bel-San gestured sharply with his hands, resentment lacing his words. “He’s more fragile than you think.”

“I did see his face. And, no offense is intended,” he said softly, though his voice had a razor’s edge, “But I experience some of these things a bit more personally than you, thanks to certain genetic predispositions. If you think that conversation was easy for me, you’re very sadly mistaken.” He held Bel-San’s gaze a moment longer before dropping it. “I know that this has a great deal of personal meaning to you, and I sympathize, but I think you need to concentrate more fully on your other patients. Xanatos isn’t on your caseload.”

“Are you criticizing my work? You think I’m not doing enough? I’ve worked harder--”

“Bel-San,” he said, holding up a hand in a gesture of peace. “You’re doing your share, and your work is not in question. But a part of you is grieving, and for you to spend your time here involved in that grief isn’t helping any of us, least of all our patients.”

He could see from the tense lines in Bel-San’s body that it had been a long while since someone other than a Council member told him what to do, and Thysse didn’t relish being the one who did it. Their working relationship thus far had not been hierarchal, and suddenly their positions seemed to overtake their persons. It unsettled him. “I need your best, and it’s not what I’m getting at this moment. While you’re on duty, stay clear of his rooms. Is that clear?”

Bel-San nodded, his movement as clipped as his tone. “Abundantly.”

He made a move to turn towards the door, but Thysse spoke his name, and he stopped. Humans could be nearly impossible when it came to their feelings, but Thysse rather liked Bel-San, and he sensed things would be awkward unless he tried to make amends somehow. “This isn’t a punishment. I’m trying to be a help to you in this, but I’m not sure you can see that yet.”

The other man nodded, and Thysse felt a sense of relief, but it vanished when he heard Bel-San’s words. “You’re right. I can’t see that at all.” Bel-San picked up his charts and left.

***

A peculiar smell met Qui-Gon’s nostrils as he approached the doorway to his apartment.

Something was cooking…something good.

He palmed the door, stepping inside only to be surrounded with the wafting warmth of spices. Laughter sounded from the kitchen, and he heard the gravelly chuckle of Kerge’s changing voice mingle with his padawan’s infectious laugh. He stopped, pausing to savor the joy of this one moment, which hung like a bright jewel on the dark string of days he’d been living.

“Master!” Obi-Wan stuck his head out of the kitchen. “We made food. Real food, not the kind that you stick in the defroster.”

A table, albeit a rather strange one, had already been set, displaying a mismatched grouping of plates and cutlery. “Kerge made most of the food, but I set the table.”

“I can see that.” Although he truly had no stomach to eat, he pulled up a chair as Obi-Wan indicated where he should sit.

“We thought you were probably sick of takeaway, because we were.” Kerge emerged bearing a pot of bubbling stew. “My Master prefers this a bit more…room temperature…but I’m assuming you don’t.”

The two padawans had expectant smiles on both their faces, as if his reaction would either make or break their efforts. He saw they were trying to comfort him in the best way they knew, and despite his low spirit, he couldn’t help but throw them a crumb.

“You’ve really outdone yourselves, guys. Thank you. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for me all week.” He reached out for the stew, spooning far more than he thought he’d be able to eat.

Sly glances moved between the two of them, and he almost felt like smiling. If any good could ever come from such sadness, the bond that had started to grow between Obi-Wan and Kerge was at least something to be thankful for. Since the night when Kerge had returned to the Valeriant, a bit of peace seemed to have found the boy, and it couldn’t have come at a more opportune moment. He’d stepped up during the times when Qui-Gon had been called to the infirmary and the Council for various meetings, and had proved that at least in a crisis, he could be rather dependable.

It wounded him, though, to think that his previous padawan, through his selfish actions, was now encroaching on his time with his current one, and beneath Obi-Wan’s good-natured chatter, he sensed the boy’s deep concern and anxiety.

“That’s when I told him he could shove his outdated, ignorant opinions right up his sorry…” Kerge glanced at Qui-Gon, pausing for a moment. “Butt.”

“You told that to your Teacher?” Obi-Wan’s eyes were round.

“He should have kept his views on Shistavanean wolfmen to himself.”

Obi-Wan’s stare grew brighter. “Did you get in trouble?”

“Eh. Just a few demerits.”

Well, dependable doesn’t necessarily mean a role model, I suppose, Qui-Gon thought.

The boys spend the rest of the meal talking about their days, keeping topics light and inserting funny moments whenever possible. Part of Qui-Gon couldn’t help but feel grateful for their attempts to give him a brief respite, but the other part of him felt guilty for making children use diplomatic tactics around the table.

“Master Jinn,” Kerge said as he threw the last of the dishes in the washer, “I’m heading over to Dar’s for a bit. ‘Kay with you?”

“Thank you for all your help. You’ve been great.” He knew his words couldn’t convey his sincerity, so he waved the boy off. “See you later.”

Qui-Gon walked down the corridor to Obi-Wan’s room, where he found his padawan at his desk, forehead wrinkled in concentration.

“Mind if I bother you for a minute?”

Obi-Wan’s fingers stopped on his datapad, and he turned in his chair to face him. “No, it’s okay.”

Moving a few steps to find a seat on the boy’s bed, he sighed. “It’s good to see you, padawan.”

Obi-Wan looked at him a bit strangely, but the expression quickly vanished. “You too, Master.”

“This has been really hard on me,” he said softly, running his hands across the worn blanket beneath him. “I know you don’t want me to think so, but it’s been really hard on you too.”

The boy took a deep breath, and he pursed his lips before he spoke. “Kerge said something yesterday, and I think he’s right.”

“What’s that?”

“He said that he thinks it’s harder to watch someone get hurt than it is to get hurt yourself.”

“A wise observation.”

Obi-Wan twisted his left hand inside his right, looking away. “Does he look really bad?”

“I only saw him for a minute, yesterday. He doesn’t look good.”

“Do they think he’s going to die?”

“They do.”

Obi-Wan took this news silently, though he could sense the boy’s surprise, and perhaps even relief, through their bond. He met Qui-Gon’s gaze before he spoke again. “Someone in my class said if Xanatos woke up that he would try to kill you.”

“I don’t think that he’ll be able to get out of bed, much less try anything else, if he wakes up, and they’re not sure he will.”

Obi-Wan got up, moving across the room to sit cross-legged beside him. “Someone else said that he doesn’t have both his arms.”

Rubbing the line of tension that seemed permanently fixed between his brows, Qui-Gon nodded. Force, the gossip chains worked far better in the crèche classes now than they had in his day. “That’s true.”

Obi-Wan winced, the air hissing between his teeth. “Is it… because you cut one off?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Qui-Gon tried to recall the stumbling conversation he’d had with his padawan the night after Xanatos had arrived. He’d tried to keep the story simple, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to frighten him further. “I told you that we fought before he left the Order. I didn’t want to have to tell you the details.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “Everybody is talking about it, Master. People that don’t even know you or me are talking about it. I’d rather you tell me and then I’ll know what to believe.”

Nodding slowly, Qui-Gon reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry that you’re hearing things from other people. It’s none of their business, but even Jedi seem to have trouble remembering that. I promise you that I’ll tell you the truth, no matter what questions you ask.”

“You won’t get upset?” Obi-Wan stared into his eyes, as if looking for something he’d lost. “I don’t want you to be more upset, especially because of me.”

“I won’t. Go ahead, ask me whatever you want to know.”

“Okay.” There was a new hesitancy in the boy’s voice, but he continued unabated. “If you knew that he was bad, that he was leaving the Jedi, why didn’t you just…”

“Kill him?”

“Um, yes.”

It was a question he’d been pondering on his own for years, one that quite a few had posed to him, and he had come up with at least one good explanation, one that he hoped Obi-Wan could understand. “I couldn’t.”

“You cut off his arm! Why couldn’t you kill him?”

“I couldn’t take away his chance to come back to us. There was always a chance, a very small one, that Xanatos would see that he’d made a big mistake. If I killed him, I took away his choice.”

Obi-Wan took a handful of blanket, his fingers tightening around it. “Did he hurt you too, when you were fighting?”

“I wounded him far more than he did me, but yes, I do have scars from that fight.” He lifted up the edge of his tunic, revealing one faded pink mark along his side. Its twin ran along the length of his other side. He knew that if he chose, he could have a healer smooth them over, perhaps even remove them, but they’d been a part of him for so long, it seemed unnecessary.

Obi-Wan took an audible breath, and his mouth twisted. “He was the one that did that to you?”

“The dark side makes people do things that in their right mind they’d never even think of doing.”

The boy remained silent for several minutes, finally falling back against the bed, his arms thrown up as if in defeat. “I guess I don’t know why you’re so sad then. I mean, I know he was your padawan, but he was a mean person, who hurt you—he hit you with his own lightsaber!—and he left the you and the Jedi. It just seems like…maybe he got what he deserved.”

“I’m sad,” Qui-Gon said, sighing, “because I know that the person he was…the one that I knew…will never come back.”

“But if he’s not that person anymore, then why do you care so much?”

There was no malice in the boy’s words, only sincere confusion. “I care because whether light or dark, he was my padawan.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“You can.”

Obi-Wan rested his hands on his stomach, which rose and fell with each breath. “Do you feel the same way about Alla? And about me?”

“Alla was my first padawan, and she will always be like a daughter to me. I wasn’t always a perfect master; I made mistakes with her, because I had never been a master before. But I loved her, and I still do, no matter what she chooses to do. Xanatos was my second padawan, and I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I knew him far better than I did. But the way I felt about Alla, I still felt for him, and I still do.

“You, Obi-Wan Kenobi, will be my last padawan. I’m still not a perfect master, and I still make mistakes, but there is one thing that I did right where my other two padawans were concerned, and it is true for you too. If you left the Order tonight, I would still love you. There is nothing you can do to change that, whether light or dark or any shade of grey inbetween.”

“Why do you think I’ll be your last padawan?”

Qui-Gon sighed, still not sure why he’d shared that sentiment with Obi-Wan. It was something he knew, a deep truth that had resonated even in their early days together, but not something he’d ever spoken of. “I couldn’t imagine anyone taking your place.” He ran his hand lightly across the boy’s hair. “You’d be a pretty hard act to follow, you know.”

Obi-Wan touched his side gently, running his hand down the fabric where his scar lay. “I know why you cut off his arm now. You did it to save him.”

“I suppose.” Qui-Gon nodded, his gaze falling absently on the faint light glowing from Obi-Wan’s fish light. “I think I did it to save both of us.”

TBC