When Words Fail

Ahsoka Tano checked the flight computer for the hundredth time. Eight point six nine four standard hours until reversion…

"Patience," her master advised, not even flicking a sideways glance in her direction. His eyes stayed closed, his arms crossed over his chest in a posture halfway between tired resignation and peaceful meditation. "We've got a long way to go….and this is a small ship."

The young Togruta rolled her eyes. Well, that was true. The shuttle's usable "living" space came to little more than a cockpit and a narrow passenger hold directly behind it, big enough for one inset sleeping bunk. Much too cramped an environment to contain three very, very exhausted Jedi on a non-stop twelve hour hyperspace jaunt back to Coruscant. To ease nerves and soothe tempers frayed by a grueling and not entirely successful military campaign , they had agreed to take shifts between piloting duties and sleep. Ahsoka had been stuck up front with her uncommunicative and irritable master for the last three and half hours.

"Don't you have studies to attend to, Padawan?" Anakin growled.

Ahsoka sighed, and fished a datareader from the console storage pocket. It wasn't fair: she was on the front lines of a galactic war, almost every day of her life, and yet the Temple masters expected her to continue her studies as though nothing were happening - as though the floundering Republic's problems could be solved by negotiation. She scrolled through the stored texts until she found her latest assignment – a case study in complex diplomacy. So stupid.

"Suudari," she read aloud. "Never heard of it."

"It's a famous story," Anakin told her sternly, finally opening his eyes and fixing her with a disapproving glare. "It's a standard example of last-ditch peace negotiation in a high-stakes situation. You should pay attention."

She gritted her slightly pointed teeth. "Yes, master." The first part of the training text was the usual twaddle: dates, population statistics, previous Jedi involvement in the system, blah blah blah….if only there were a way to make this more interesting. "Do you know this story well, master?"

He shrugged. "Not really. Obi Wan was never very big on it – I guess he didn't think it merits inclusion in the standard texts for a training course. But you'll enjoy it. If I recall correctly, it's a young Padawan who saves the day in the end."

Oh really? That sounded more promising. And if Master Kenobi didn't really approve of the story being used to teach the Temple's younger generations, the tale most likely involved some egregious violation of the Jedi Code, or other underhanded dealing. Intrigued, she delved into the beginning of the mission report, which had been recorded anonymously in this textbook version, to minimize distractions to the reader.

At the time of the historical events, the planet Suudari had been afflicted by a devastating plague. The only effective cure for this illness was a bota preparation cultured specifically from native protein strands. The mutated bota was being produced on-planet by the technologically dominant group, a humanoid species called the Xonas. However, the Xonas refused to distribute the medicine to anyone but themselves, because of an ancient vendetta against the more populous but less advanced Themian population. Casualties were mounting, and the devastation threatened the entire planet's economy and survival. Non-mutated bota was ineffective against the epidemic, and the mutated version would take too long to produce in quantity. Desperate, the government called in a Jedi negotiating team to resolve the dispute between the two factions before it was too late.

Ahsoka remembered Naboo, during the Blue Shadow Virus crisis….she remembered her barely contained dread at the thought of the bioweapon being unleashed. What would it have been like to approach a planet already half-dying from a deadly plague, to know that an invisible, invincible enemy would wipe out every life on the world unless one could find the right words to overcome an embittered, decades-old hatred?

The chill soaked through even before they landed. Like icy rain: death, despair, hatred. Outside the viewport, physical rain, smearing and blurring the sky, a burial shroud for a dying world. The sudden, sharp prick of the med droid's syringe. A real syringe, not a pressure hypo.

The thing's emotionless voice: "The protection will wear off within seventy standard hours."

A friendlier voice, just before they landed: "Are you uneasy, Padawan?"

"No, master." It wasn't a lie, because no one was deceived.

The spaceport smelled of lubricant, and sour chemicals. The wet permacrete was warm under the engine's dampers. The first living things they saw were two hooded Themians pushing a hover gurney. Its occupant was dead – the sheet was drawn up over the face. The rain fell harder, soaking through their cloaks. The puddles on the landing strip were tinged with sad rainbows at their edges, where oil mixed with water.

"Come. There's no time to waste."

How dry and academic the training text made it all sound, Ahsoka reflected. But she knew better. Her own recent experience breathed imaginary life into the scene, made her feel as though she had been there. The Jedi had met with the government officials first. They were at their wits' end simply containing the medical crisis and the threat of widespread public panic. It was the stubborn Xanos who held all the cards: they had the medicine which could save the planet, and they could therefore set what terms they wished. The diplomatic envoy set out at once to meet with the leader of the Xanos, a stern ruler named Narchius.

She scrolled back to the beginning of the report. What kind of people were the Xanos, again? The details were in the bit she had skipped before….oh. Humanoid, that's right. Technologically developed, but retaining their tribal customs. Monarchical leadership and a belief system based on harsh justice and a blood-honor code. Narchius had been in power twenty three standard years. His heir had been killed in a speeder accident two decades earlier, an incident blamed on Themian assasins. Ahsoka frowned. What was all that about? She referenced the Themian history briefing. They were the original inhabitants of the world. Xanos colonization had brought a higher standard of living, but left long standing resentment. The present federal government was a century old and existed primarily to smooth over the low-simmering tensions between the two peoples. That made more sense. Of course everything bad would be blamed on the other side, regardless of actual evidence.

Narchius received the Jedi civilly enough. He was more than happy to share the mutated bota supplies. He would even pay for the relief effort's extra cost – on one condition. The Themians must pay for his son's death in blood, according to the ancient tradition. He demanded that the villain responsible be apprehended and brought to him at once. Ahsoka bit her lip. That wasn't so unreasonable, was it? Capturing a single criminal would be easy for two Jedi. What was the problem?

Narchius' black mustaches trailed down his chestplate. A single ceramic bead, blood-red, ornamented each tip. "The murder of my son shall be paid in blood. That is the decree of the gods. When balance is restored in the celestial regions, then we shall act generously to all our neighbors." His eyes had slitted pupils, more like a reptile's than a man's. A tumbler of something fermented sat before him, frothing gently.

Behind him, the electrostaffs of his private guard growling in the cold air. A mosaic: colors bleeding into one another, some trick of the glazing. The pictures were of mighty warriors, harsh judges. A cosmology.

"The whole race will perish if you persist. That is tantamount to genocide."

The shrug of Narchius' shoulders. "I will save their entire race if they will but surrender one criminal. I do not hate them."

His hatred and pride, bleeding into one another like the colors of the glazed tiles.

They left.

"Your turn," a voice said.

Ahsoka started out of her reverie. "Oh! Master Kenobi…" She stood up, relinquishing her place at the co-pilot's station. "Already?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "I would think four hours in Anakin's company would be enough for any sane being, but there is no accounting for tastes."

"Ha," Skyguy snorted. "Like my taste in friends."

"Taste, Anakin, is something you have yet to acquire, in any given context."

"Really, master? Because…."

Ahsoka hastily retreated into the passenger compartment, leaving them to it. As amusing as she normally found their customary banter, at this moment she was utterly engrossed in the fate of the unfortunate Suudari, and the problem facing those diplomats of long ago. She sprawled on the sleeping berth, bracing her feet against the ceiling of the alcove and propping the reader against her legs.

The Themian premier was indignant. He insisted that the death had been due to accident, and that there was not a single one of his people guilty or deserving of death at the Xanos' hands. He adamantly refused to surrender any Themian to the Xanos and allowed the Jedi full access to the criminal investigation records. The documents did indeed suggest that the death of Narchius' heir had been due to mechanical malfunction, and there was no evidence of an assassination attempt. Ahsoka let a long breath escape between her teeth. Now that made matters more complicated, didn't it?

Sal'chu was his name. Impossible for a human tongue to form the sound rightly – the vowels like a trumpet blast through wide nostrils. Liquid amber eyes regarded them beseechingly. The smell of Sal'chu's six wives' cooking…slightly nauseating. Like the fear and the stench of new death.

The hospital ward was full of dying Themians. Sal'chu visited them each day, splayed toes trudging a well-worn route of defeat through the crowded corridors. He would surrender none, yet in so doing he surrendered them all.

"Have you made this demand known to your people? If one is guilty, without your knowledge, perhaps he will come forward of his own accord, to save the others."

How sad Sal'chu's eyes were. "You wish me to select a sacrificial victim for you, Jedi? These are my children. I will not send a child to be slaughtered."

The glare of the too-bright medcenter lights, reflected in the polished floor.

Sal'chu's tail gently dragged behind him as he continued his rounds.

The Jedi made another attempt to reason with Narchius. They requested that the criminal investigation be handed over to the Republic Judiciary Committee, in exchange for the distribution of the bota. But Narchius refused, citing the inefficiency of the Republic's criminal investigation forces. The religious mandates of his people would not be fulfilled by Republic federal law, either; on Suudari, a death must be repaid in blood, in a traditional execution. That's what the text said. Ahsoka wondered what details had been omitted.

The dark humanoid's eyes narrowed. "Twenty lashes for the twenty years since my son's death." In his hands, a thin electro-wire. His long fingernails shrilled against its edges as he twisted it in his lap. "And blood. After the traitor's head is severed, I shall replace my tears with his blood. Thus the sin will be expiated."

The balcony overlooked the courtyard. A swell of benches, rising in halting tiers. The scaffold, black and cold in the center. A basin and a drain…Rain fell again. It pooled in the basin and overflowed, trickling and crawling down the steps…dark against the dark flagstones.

A new report form the city. The death toll was rising fast…a dark wind clawed at their innards. Destruction opened its maw to swallow the whole planet. The cries of mothers echoed in the Force.

Ahsoka woke blearily from a long nap she hadn't menat to take - a shifting kaleidoscope of dreams in which Naboo and the story of the Themians and the Xanos mingled together in an unwholesome phantasmal medley. Rubbing at her gritty eyes, she retrieved the datareader form the floor, where it had slipped from her lax fingers. Where had she left off? Oh, yes. Here:

The situation worsened. That night, a group of Themians and others, desperate to thwart disaster, attempted a break-in on the Xanos warehouses. They were easily overcome and repelled. The Jedi intervened to prevent Narchius and his security forces from slaying the intruders in cold blood. The government had not notified the Jedi of their intentions. Narchius' response was an intensification of the ultimatum: he gave the Themians until sundown to yield over the murderer, declaring that he would burn the bota supplies if they did not cooperate.

News of the ultimatum spread like wildfire. And chaos erupted. In the capital city, mobs roamed freely. A terrorist group seized and held hostage seven separate Themians, intending to hand them all over to Narchius as guilty parties. The Jedi team divided, the master returning to the capital city to forcibly release the hostages and quell the fighting, the Padawan remaining behind to continue reasoning with Narchius, in an attempt to buy more time.

That was a hell of an assignment, Ahsoka thought. Skyguy had never thrust her into anything quite so awful. Dangerous, yes. But not so..hopeless. Impossible. She wouldn't have wanted to stay. She would have begged to go with him. How in the universe was Narchius to be persuaded?

"Trust in the Force, Padawan." A brief squeeze of the shoulder, and that was all. There was no time for more. The prayer, the sheer desperate hope in the master's eyes.

Lengthening shadows as the sun sank toward the horizon. Hours turned to minutes. The Dark laughed and sang and howled, and the world began to burn with fever. Narchius laughed, refusing every suggestion. His teeth were stained. His hands were stained.

"The gods decree is for blood. I will yield nothing, until I am yielded blood for my son's blood. Your words are bloodless, Jedi. You have failed."

The sun dipped on the horizon. A phalanx of guards, armed with flamethrowers, poised to burn the last hope from this world. Millions of beings, dying in a matter of weeks.. Sudden vertigo. The terrible pressure, the excoriating emptiness in the Force.

"Stop." That word, escaping lips before thought could moderate it. Stop the dark, stop the death, stop the madness. There was only one way. "You shall have blood."

Ahsoka's eyes widened, the white marks above her brows arching into twin lines of disbelief. She read the last line again, and then again. No, that was insane. Was this really a training text for Padawans? No wonder Master Kenobi thought it was unsuitable. That couldn't possibly be what it said. She turned back to the page. But it did say that. The Padawan offered his own life as blood remuneration for Narchius' son's death. The Xanos ruler accepted the offer and ordered the bota to be distributed.

"No," she whispered, horrified.

"No what?" Anakin asked, his tall shadow darkening the threshold.

Ahsoka blinked, and stared. She swallowed. "Uh…."

"Okay, Snips, clear out. I'm officially commandeering that bunk. You can go gape and stutter at Obi Wan instead."

She stood, slid out past him, clutching the data reader to her chest. Why was her heart pounding so fast? Shakily she found the pilot's seat and dropped her weight into its padded contours. Stars….since when did a little homework give someone such an upset? You would think she was a youngling again, trembling at a frightening holo-image…

"Ahsoka?"

Guiltily, she slewed round. Master Kenobi was gazing at her, a thin line of concern appearing between his eyebrows.

She managed a weak smile. "Just reading a mission report for …um…a diplomatics assignment…it's a little difficult.."

He waited. He was so much more patient than Skyguy. She would have preferred a quick dismissal, a sharp rebuke for stammering. Anything. But no. He waited, so she stumbled on, helpless. "I just…it makes me feel…" And still he waited. Blast, blast, blast! "I feel inferior. Weak."

His eyebrows lifted fractionally. "What mission?" he asked, simply.

"Suudari. The phylaxi plague crisis. Did you study it when you were a student, master?"

He shook his head, gently. "No. They didn't use that one when I was young. It must have been added in more recent years. But I'm familiar with the story."

"You read the full report? In the archives? Master," she blurted out, unable to stop herself now, "I don't understand. What the Padawan did. I mean…is that required? Is that the path? Is that what a Jedi is expected to do in such a case?"

Master Kenobi looked grave. "Expected and required are not the words I would choose, Ahsoka. There is no being in the galaxy who is required to choose his own death over that of another. If you are faced with that choice, Ahsoka, then you will act not according to expectation or rule. You will act because the Force shows you the way."

She didn't like how he put it. If you are faced with that choice, Ahsoka. That was her problem, precisely. "Master," she admitted, "I don't think I could make that choice. Not in cold blood like that. Not for the sake of some crazy tyrant's warped idea of justice. That's not dying to save a friend. That's playing into some madman's delusion."

"Well." Master Kenobi considered her words carefully, as though he took her objection quite seriously. "In the circumstances, Padawan, it was the only thing to be done to save millions. That would outweigh the absurdity, don't you think?"

She looked down at her lap, where her hands were clenched tightly together. She wasn't explaining herself very well. "It's not….I'm not questioning the Padawan's judgement. Or courage. I just…I don't think…"

He could feel her distress. She wasn't shielding very well. "You feel ashamed?' he supplied, gently.

She nodded miserably. "If it was me, master," she explained in a small voice, "I wouldn't have been able to behave like a Jedi. I couldn't. I'm too weak. I would have felt fear. I would have been too scared."

He gave her the strangest look, then. "Oh…he felt scared, Padawan. Believe me."

There was something about the way he said it that made her look up, sharply. Her heart skipped a beat. And everything fell into place. She gasped. "It was you!"

He gave a wry smile, and a half shrug, evading her stunned admiration as fluidly as he might slip to the side of a clumsy saber blow. He gazed forward, out the viewport, at the lazy sworls of hyperspace, eyes lost in remembering.

There had been little time to feel terror, but it flooded through him nonetheless.

"You are more honorable than the entire Themian race," Narchius declared. His hands were knotted, and stained with dark freckles, like spattered gore. "I will kill you myself."

The bota was being sent…life for thousands. For millions. Life. The Force whispered inside him, a thin golden breath of warmth, fluttering in the cold.

Hands seized him, hustled him forward. His saber was taken.

A gong, some grating trumpet or horn, the sound of a crowd shouting. His belly was a pit of cold, of panic. Sweat dampened his skin, and he shuddered. The Force whispered lightly, a golden hand held out. He took it, like a child. Lead me. Somehow his legs held his weight, though he could not feel them. Every breath hurt. His heart was racing. He had faced death before, in the heat of combat. In the wild motion of a second's desperate decision. With Qui Gon. Always with Qui Gon. Not alone. Not of his own choosing, cool and calculating.

The electro-wire was razor-hot-sharp-cold-fire. It screamed through the darkness, trying to break his golden thread. Pain began to roar behind his eyes. The crowd was roaring too. Somewhere, in the Force, Qui Gon was shouting out with him. I'm sorry, master, there wasn't another way.

The thread didn't break. He held on. Lead me. Help me. The Force had his spirit, the guards had his body. They were shoving him forward. He smelled burnt fabric, burnt skin. Blood. The crowd was roaring…so loud that it darkened his vision at the edges. The steps were black stone. There was a block, and a basin. Narchius was there. The blade was long and serrated. Heavy. Cold. Breathe. He couldn't breathe anymore. The golden thread held him and he held it…only a moment. He knelt. He bent down, forehead touching the blessed sweet coolness of the rock. Qui Gon running, pushing, but not fast enough.

Narchius was a black smear in the Force, the crowd was a crimson blare of noise…but the thread held. Panic clawed at his every fiber. But he held it down. He held still, eyes squeezed shut, face pressed into the rock, soul pressed into the golden light…

And then the blow fell.

"Master Kenobi?" Ahsoka didn't dare ask more, and yet she had to. The datareader had dropped from her fingers. It lay unnoticed upon the shuttle's deck. "I…what happened? I mean…you're not dead. What happened?"

He released a breath of laughter. Or was that relief? "He didn't kill me."

She looked back at him, uncomprehending. "But the …the bota…and the planet…"

"It all ended happily, Ahsoka. Didn't you finish your reading?" He Force-flipped the reader back into her lap. "For shame. "

She grinned abashedly. "Right." And found the place where she had left off, the abstract emotionless words that related the bare details. The desiccated historical remains of what must have been a tremendous, timeless moment…

The blow fell.

Pain, sudden and burning. And yet….the roaring of the corwd, the screaming in the Force, the gentle embrace of the light, went on and on. His heaving lungs drew a breath in, out…

Hands forced him backward, up, and pain stabbed through his neck, head, shoulders. His hand went to his neck. Hot blood seeped through his fingers. Before him, pooling in the basin, blood. Crimson, hot. His life, spilled out. Something hot trickled down his collarbone, between his shoulder blades. Glancing down, there was crimson on his tunics, his arm. His hand came away hot and sticky. The roaring grew louder.

Narchius dipped two fingers in the blood, and smeared two trials of wet crimson down his cheeks, beneath his eyes. Tears of blood. "The price is paid – balance is restored!" he thundered.

The roar of the crowd drowned out the leader's words. His teeth were stained, his hands were stained. The edge of the huge blade was stained.

"You didn't kill me," he protested.

The huge Xanos looked down on him, face gleaming wet with Jedi blood. "I would have - had you flinched," he declared. In his eyes, fierce approval. Respect.

More hands were grabbing at him, pressing into hot, moist cloth. Narchius was barking soundless orders. …"Medics," his stained lips mouthed. "…my quarters.."

The roaring became a silent roar, as silent as the golden light. He clutched at it dizzily. And then Qui Gon was there. His hands were bloody, too. They held on, held him in the light, while the silent roar thundered into blackness.

"It doesn't say much. I mean, he nicked your neck. That's all? And then what? Did you just …walk away?" Ahsoka demanded, glaring at the datareader.

"Not precisely," Master Kenobi replied, with a tiny expression of disgust. "I don't remember much of the aftermath – apparently I finished the performance by collapsing in a dead faint. I later discovered – to my undying mortification- that Master Jinn carried me like an infant all the way to Narchius' private quarters, where his very efficient medical staff repaired the muscle and tendon damage. The wound wasn't particularly deep, you know. There's no need to make a melodramatic fuss about it."

"I still don't understand why he didn't kill you."

Master Kenobi smiled a little. "That is the question, isn't it. Perhaps he realized that killing a Jedi – especially a mere apprentice – would have repercussions beyond what even he was prepared to weather. Or perhaps, as he said, he was ready and willing to strike a fatal blow. He told me himself that he would have had I flinched. In either case, I'm grateful for the reprieve."

"And the Suudarians?"

"Narchius kept his word. The bota was distributed and many lives saved. The plague was eventually contained, and the government retained stability afterward. I remember that the Council was pleased with the outcome of the negotiations."

"Negotiations?" the young Togruta repeated. She shook her head, sending her braid rattling against her headtails. "You have got to be kidding me."

"You might make a fine diplomat yourself, one day, Padawan Tano."

She tucked her legs under her and keyed the datareader to the next assignment. "No thanks," she smiled, before turning back to her studies. "I'll leave the negotiating to you, Master Kenobi." She tapped the screen. "You've got quite the touch."

"Yes…" he said absently, looking out the viewport again. "I've heard that before. Master Qui Gon always said I have quite the head for diplomacy."