Without Fail

Qui Gon Jinn held the boy's hand. It was all he could do; experience and the Force would have to accomplish the rest. Some lessons were meant to be taught by a master, while others were the sole prerogative of bitter fate – or providence, depending on one's point of view.

Obi Wan groaned and thrashed a little against the soft restraints of the medical couch. The two liquid-eyed Grann assistants laid broad fingered hands on his legs and arms, but their gentle attentions had little effect.

The tall Jedi leaned forward and tightened his grip. "Hush, Padawan."

The young Jedi lolled his head sideways and squinted against the sterile light, bleary eyes barely able to keep his mentor's face in focus. Pain and confusion seeped across their bond like corrosive acid. Qui Gon breathed it away, releasing it into the Force. He willed healing energies into his apprentice's body.

The med droid and the supervising physician reappeared. The droid began poking and prodding again. Monitors and scanners spat out a dizzying string of numbers, wave patterns, colored lights. The clinician consulted a datapad, the wall-mounted diagnostic computer, the bioscanners' readout.

Obi Wan twisted again, moaning in his distress. The two Grann stroked and soothed, gently readjusted the restraints.

"It doesn't seem to be working, Master Jinn," the medic sighed.

"No," the Jedi master ruefully agreed. His Padawan had surfaced from a healing trance three times now, valiantly fighting off Qui Gon's Force suggestion as though desperate to retain consciousness, to complete some unfinished task.

"We're going to have to sedate him," the clinician said, apologetically.. "I know your people prefer your own methods, but under the circumstances.."

"I understand," Qui Gon assured the nervous physician. "Do what you need to."

The droid applied a slow-feed patch above the boy's ravaged abdomen, while the assistants looked on, fiddling with the monitors and the intravenous lines. Qui Gon felt a razor thin thread of panic leap across the Force as the drugs began to take effect.

"It's all right, Obi Wan. Relax," he commanded.

But the Padawan continued to resist, his normally clear blue-green eyes glazed over, the pupils dilated too wide. A tell-tale furrow appeared between his brows as he struggled to speak, to keep Qui Gon in focus. The medic shook his head, murmured something to the assistants. Somebody pressed a hypo against the boy's neck.

"Master…" he grated out in a hoarse whisper.

Qui Gon leaned closer, laid a hand on his forehead. "Stop fighting now."

Obi Wan's eyebrows quirked into a tragically inverted V. His eyes teared up; a single droplet escaped and rolled down the side of his nose. "…Failed," he slurred.

"Yes," the tall Jedi sighed. "It's all right."

The boy's eyes rolled back and his features slackened. Qui Gon laid his limp hand along his side and gave it a last firm squeeze. Then he slid back, out of the busy medical team's way.

Some lessons could only be learned the hard way.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

"I sense it, too." Qui Gon was loath to admit it; the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth gave him away. The tall man raked his eyes over the intricate grillwork along the curved ceiling's upper edge. "There is a hostile presence here."

Obi Wan snorted softly. "The security detail was confident enough in their ability to keep out intruders."

"Confidence does not guarantee success," Qui Gon observed absently, still peering at the suspicious stretch of grille. People began filing into the conference chamber; the echoes of their chatter and bustling, the scrape of chairs and the slap of shoes upon the cool tile overlaid the previous silence; the Force swelled with the fretwork of nervous sentience, drowning the malicious note in its mundane complexity.

The Jedi master shifted restlessly. He at least had not lost the thread; his attention cleaved through the sensory clutter, still honed in one that discordant note. "Stay here," he instructed. "Protect the premier. I will find the intruder."

"Yes, master." The premier of Tophos had not been enthusiastic about his Jedi protectors in the first place; they had, he said, been forced upon him by an over-anxious Parliament. He had been even less impressed when he discovered that one of them was an adolescent. But these things did not matter.

Qui Gon's broad back swiftly disappeared through the service exit. He would hunt down the potential assassin, stop him before he got close enough to be a threat. Obi Wan found the premier at the back of the crowd, positioned himself beside the rotund Tophosian, and ignored the disdainful look the man shot his way. He had a mandate to fulfill; he would not fail.

Deep in meditation, Qui Gon was a basin pooling and overflowing with the Force. Past and future flowed in, and out; he remained in the present moment, brimming with the Light. Here, in the Force, the planet's troubles were smoothed into the gorgeous harmony of the universe; here, his own worry and burdens were as ephemeral as a child's fleeting nightmare. He could sense his Padawan's drug-stupefied mind beside him, too; still in the Light, but unable to retain it – a sieve, not a basin. The boy's consciousness floated limply in the Force's effulgence, a hollow crystal lamp barely distinguishable from the radiance around them, its usual beacon flare muted. Qui Gon did not appreciate the spectacle.

"Wake up, young one." He drifted back to ordinary awareness, opened his own eyes by way of teaching example The habit was by now deeply engrained.

His apprentice's eyelids fluttered, cracked apart. Obi Wan's gaze wandered about the crisp white recovery room, and a frown of distaste creased his forehead.

"There you are," Qui Gon said lightly.

"Th'med cent'r?" Obi Wan asked, words still forming sluggishly.

"I'm afraid so."

The Grann posted outside the door came bustling in, soothing and fussing over her patient, adjusting monitors and tubes. Obi Wan squirmed beneath her tender ministrations.

"Do not focus on the negative," the Jedi master chided, chuckling softly.

"You mustn't move too much," the nurse warned. "I shall inform Dr. Muunac." She slipped into the adjacent corridor.

The Padawan's hands went to his midsection, where a mass of bandages and a stiff brace immobilized the lower half of his torso. He grimaced. "It could be worse," he said forlornly, in a tone that conveyed the exact opposite sentiment.

"Cheer up," Qui Gon advised. "We'll be returning to Coruscant shortly, where the Temple healers can take their turn having a go at you."

Obi Wan tried to bolt upright, eliciting an alarmed bleeping from several of the machines. His face drained of color. "Coruscant?" he choked out. "We're leaving?"

The tall Jedi pushed him back down against the pillows. "Yes. We're leaving. The mission is finished, Obi Wan."

"But…what about the assassin?"

"Long gone – he fled the system. Another Jedi team will be assigned to pursue him. Our task here is done."

His apprentice looked so miserable that Qui Gon reached for his hand again. The boy kept his gaze trained on a distant spot in the ceiling, his breathing carefully controlled. After a while he swallowed and spoke again. "What will we tell the Council?"

"We shall tell them we failed," Qui Gon replied, simply.

"I failed," Obi Wan said, and turned his face away.

The political convocation meandered through the opening ceremonies and niceties, idly working its way to a real beginning. People made vapid speeches; needlessly verbose introductions were exchanged, ingratiating and empty sentiments bandied about. Obi Wan's hand remained on his saber hilt, his attention mercifully drifting far from the proceedings. He was grateful for the present assignment; in another setting he might have been asked to attend closely to the diplomatic intricacies. On the whole, he preferred waiting for a murderous foe to strike from above without warning.

The minutes paraded lazily by…there was no sign of Qui Gon or the intruder. Yet that tingling disharmony resurfaced every now and then, a faint and ugly chiming in the Force that told him the danger had not passed. He made sure he was directly beside the premier, standing behind his chair like a serving droid. The interpreter flanked the premier's other side; they must make an odd pairing – a gleaming copper protocol unit and a slight figure hidden in a brown cloak and hood. He could sense more than one pair of curious eyes straying in his direction.

There was a disturbance in the Force….the Tophosian security had intercepted a man in the antechamber. He yelled and struggled, shouting out obscenities and raving about the corruption of the local government. But he was easily overpowered, and when they had dragged him away in binders, the sense of danger remained.

The interrupted meeting resumed; and Obi Wan kept watch, his focus unwavering.

"Your transport is ready, Master Jedi. They're docked on the third level landing pad."

Qui Gon Jinn bowed his thanks to the messenger. Munaac, the clinican in charge of the case, lingered watchfully in the doorway.

"I've just completed your discharge forms," he addressed the Padawan, who was busily and painfully engaged in strapping his boots on, the effort of folding himself nearly in half a manifest challenge. "Despite my better judgment."

"I'm most grateful for your imprudence," Obi Wan grunted, finishing his difficult task and favoring the dubious medic with a winning smile.

Munaac tried not to smile in return. He handed a datatchip to Qui Gon. "These are the medical records; I'll trust you to deliver them to your people on Coruscant. And during transit: he shouldn't eat, yet – nor walk very much. I'll have an orderly bring a hoverchair."

When the physician had departed, Obi Wan slid to his feet and wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. "I'll walk," he announced.

Qui Gon raised his eyebrows, but let the decision stand. It was a paltry consolation for the twin humiliations of injury and defeat. He could sense his Padawan's need to salvage some scrap of dignity from the situation. The tall Jedi led the way out into the medcenter's scrubbed corridors and reception areas. In the lift, Obi Wan leaned heavily on the hand-rail and closed his eyes.

"Perhaps the hoverchair would have been wise after all," Qui Gon observed.

His stubborn apprentice merely shook his head.

The public arcade adjacent to the landing platform was thronged with visitors and staff. Vendors and holo-monitors lined its walls. The scent of cheap food and the blaring noise of competing news and gossip holo-vids filled the light-drenched air. Qui Gon pulled Obi Wan's hood forward, covered his own face, anticipating trouble ahead. He gripped his Padawan's upper arm and guided his slightly wobbling steps straight along the central aisle, looking neither to the left not the right.

He felt the boy falter as they passed a holo-vid terminal replaying news footage of the recent assassination. The commentator made a disparaging remark about Jedi protection, and her interviewee heartily concurred, adding a snide witticism or two.

"Not much further," Qui Gon said firmly, steering Obi Wan forward to the docking terminal.

At the security gates, a portly official sneered at them. "Leaving, huh? It's about time. But maybe a I got a thing or two to say to you first, Jedi."

The tall Jedi's hand clenched about the hilts of both lightsabers hanging at his belt. "We are cleared to depart. We may proceed without delay."

The man's belligerence subsided into dazed compliance. "You're all clear. You may proceed," he mumbled.

The Republic courier shuttle's pilot was waiting for them respectfully beside the small ship. He promptly moved to help Qui Gon support his stumbling apprentice on the way up the boarding ramp.

"They no longer trust the Jedi on Tophos," Obi Wan lamented, sinking gratefully onto the passenger couch beside Qui Gon.

"Then they're damned fools," the pilot snorted. He retrieved a small pile of thermal blankets from the emergency storage closet. "Do you require anything else, Master Jinn?"

"Best speed to Coruscant, captain. And thank you."

The grizzle-haired man smiled sympathetically at the Jedi master. He nodded toward Obi Wan. "I have a son the same age," he said, and then went forward to the cockpit.

Qui Gon wrapped two blankets around his young charge, who mercifully refrained from protest. Instead he glared at the opposite bulkhead as though interrogating a most uncooperative prisoner.

"Why did we fail, master?"

"Ah…" The older Jedi stretched his legs out. "There is not always a why, Padawan. Sometimes the outcome of our actions and events is simply the will of the Force."

Obi Wan did not much like the answer. His shoulders rose in a dissatisfied shrug.

"We will discuss it later. Go back to sleep," Qui Gon suggested.

The boy's head drooped, tilted against his shoulder, stayed there. Qui Gon pushed the long Padawan braid behind its owner's ear and released a long breath.

At some point, the premier was called upon to stand and make an official statement. There was a palpable gathering of energy in the round chamber; but that was simply the expectation and resentment of those in attendance, resounding in the Force. The premier stood, splayed his fingers pompously along the hems of his elaborate vestment, fingered his heavy chain of office.

The Force twisted, subtly. Obi Wan's hand tightened on his saber. His eyes closed. Above; to the right; danger. He shifted the weapon off his belt and into his hand, thumb resting lightly against the activator. Any second. Where was Qui Gon? Then another point of danger flared, a sudden throbbing beat of urgency. In the antechamber, where the fanatic had so recently been apprehended – a bright hot point of fire.

Nobody else sensed it; should he leave his post and investigate? Yes – no – the choice hung suspended for a terrible second, and then a flurry of brown cloth streaked across the forecourt, visible through the translucent doors. The Force rippled again, this time a wave of golden warmth. Qui Gon hurled the bomb outside the building, through the outer doors and into the empty plaza beyond, where it exploded in a shattering ball of flame.

All in the assembly room bolted from their seats in alarm and surprise; and at the same moment, the assassin hidden behind the grillwork opened fire.

Qui Gon rescued his Padawan from the healer's ward on the third day after their return to Coruscant.

"…And don't let him talk you into anything foolish – the dojo is off limits for a full week. I recommend quiet study and meditation. And plenty of rest," Jedi healer Bento Li sternly instructed the Jedi master, fixing him with a steely look that bespoke a suspicion extending equally to teacher and student.

"Understood," Qui Gon murmured, casting a half-humorous glance at his apprentice, standing a deferent half-pace behind his mentor. Obi Wan was far too wise to involve himself directly in the exchange.

Master Li escorted them to the main entryway. "It has been a pleasure," he said to the Padawan, upon the threshold. "But don't come back soon."

Obi Wan's lopsided smile was a welcome sign of near-full recovery; his eyes held their customary mischievous light. He walked with a graceful spring in his step again as they passed into the Temple's main levels.

"We are expected in the Council chamber shortly," Qui Gon informed him.

The lingering smile was clouded over by concern as the young Jedi quickly guessed at the possible reasons for this summons. "You have not yet made a report on the mission?" he queried, mildly confused.

They made their way along a broad window-lined concourse. "I have….but the Council would like to speak to you, as well."

"Oh." The boy tapped fingers against the pommel of his saber, brooding.

Qui Gon waved a pair of burnished lift doors open. "Be at peace," he advised. "Facing our limitations and failures is part of life, and an important step on the path. Welcome this opportunity."

"Yes, master." He briefly glanced up at Qui Gon's craggy face before returning to his morose contemplation of the floor.

They were ushered directly from the antechamber into the Council room itself. The full circle of masters sat waiting, penetrating gazes resting on the pair as they strode to the center and bowed in unison.

"Padawan Kenobi," Ki Adi Mundi spoke. "The Council would like to hear your account of events on Tophos." All eyes turned to Qui Gon's unhappy apprentice.

Obi Wan's version of the story was succinct, and starkly self-condemning. When his recitation was finished, he remained standing with bowed head, the day's warm sunlight falling in a bright shaft across his dark cloak's folds.

A few of the Council members shifted in their seats. Yoda grumbled to himself. Master Evan Piell requested a clarification. "You say that you failed to anticipate the assassin's shot at the premier, and were not able to deflect it," the diminutive Jedi growled in his rich, accented voice. "But how then were you injured?"

The assassin fired, but Obi Wan was ready. Even as the killer's finger depressed the blaster rifle's trigger, he summoned the Force and flipped the massive conference table on it side, hurling datapads and pitchers of water in every direction. The slab of Argentuan marble absorbed the blast, cracked, toppled forward further and slid down the low dais' steps with a crash.

The Padawan did not hear the shrieks and panicked scrambling of the delegates. Focus narrowed to a singularity, he moved in unison with the murderer, his saber springing into life as the killer's hand squeezed at the trigger a second time. Lunging forward, he angled the saber slantwise across the premier's body, ready to catch the shot on the humming blade's luminous edge, his arms already moving, already adjusting the thrumming weapon's slant to the finest millimeter's accuracy –

-and the second shot slammed directly into his own midriff, a colossal impact of ripping pain, knocking the saber from his hand, the breath from his body, his feet from the floor, his vision and hearing from reality. He fell, disbelieving, against the cold tile, his saber clattering alongside him. Stunned, flayed apart, he watched in horror as the premier fell beside him, the third shot blasting straight through the Tophosian's unprotected chest. The Force darkened, surged, dropped away entirely, leaving him to fall endlessly into his own pain. He curled, shuddered, clawed for the fallen saber. But it was too late.

People were screaming, stampeding up the steps, thronging round the dead premier. The assassin's gleeful, victorious presence fleeted away, swift as the death it had meted out with such impossible precision. Qui Gon appeared amid the chaos, barking orders, thrusting the security detail aside to reach his Padawan.

The strong hand thrust against his belly was pure agony. "Master!" he cried out, but it emerged as a wordless howl. Another hand pressed against his face, and then more hands, pressing, pushing, grabbing. Qui Gon was there, not angry, not disappointed. Not broken, not empty, not hollowed out with failure and defeat.

But that didn't fix it. Nothing could.

Obi Wan looked up. " I misjudged. I made an assumption about the target of the second shot. I failed."

Yoda chuffed softly. "Deadly mistake, that was. Fatal for the premier, almost fatal for you. Allowed expectation to blind you to the living Force, you did. Mindful must you be of this error."

"Yes, master." Qui Gon could feel the boy's desire to crumble into dust and disappear at that moment. He forced himself to remain still and silent, a mere observer.

Yoda leaned forward in his seat. "Expecting something more are you?" he demanded of the Padawan. "Reprimand? Punishment, hm?"

Obi Wan stirred, searching for words. "I…would do whatever is required of me to make amends for my mistake," he said at last, almost pleading.

The ancient Grand master released a loud grunt of bitter laughter. "Make amends," he repeated, voice suddenly rasping low and serious. "Your burden is this. No amends can be made for loss of a life. Yours to learn from, is this. Nothing more required is. And nothing less."

The boy dipped his head again. "Yes, master." He bowed, craving a swift dismissal.

Yoda caught Qui Gon's eye and waved him away, his gold-green eyes betraying a warm compassion he had not displayed to the mournful Padawan. The tall master nodded, and guided his apprentice back to the doors with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

At the base if the spire, where the lift doors opened again, Obi Wan broke the silence. "With your permission, master, I would like to meditate…Alone."

Qui Gon studied him carefully. He looked at least a year older, somehow. The childlike eddies of mischief in his Force signature had a wistful undercurrent to them now. The master nodded, solemnly. "Peace will come in time," he said.

Obi Wan bowed, and exited. "I still have much to learn," he murmured sadly.

Qui Gon watched him stride across the empty hall, burdened with a mistake he could grow to accept, but never erase. The impulse to run after him, to offer solace or counsel, or simple distraction, was nearly overwhelming. But none of these things would suffice in the end; and there was nothing more a teacher could do. Some lessons were able to be shared, but some, like this bitterest one of all, had to be faced alone.

Peace would come...in time. He sighed one last time and walked slowly away.