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When Obi-Wan was on Melida/Daan, huddling against the other children in the trenches and trying to rub their fingers between his palms to stave off frostbite, he imagined his homecoming to the Temple a thousand different ways.
Not seriously, of course. At the time he’d had no real hopes, forever distant, that he would be taken back. But he could dream about it. He thought of his friends gathered in a group on the landing pad, bursting into cheers when the ship’s hatch opened to reveal him standing there. He pictured the soft, clean ambience of the Temple’s meditation gardens as he stepped barefoot into them again. He fantasized over the Temple dining halls and their endless varieties of food, all fresh and safe to eat without fear of either sickness or someone else going hungry because of him. He imagined it all.
But he had not imagined this.
They did not land at the main Temple hanger, but instead the specialized area feeding directly into the Halls of Healing. Obi-Wan had never used this entrance himself; it was reserved for the most serious of cases, akin to an ambulance bay at a generalized hospital.
“Are you alright, Master Jinn?” Obi-Wan’s throat caught on the address. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to call Master Jinn anymore. Wasn’t sure who — if anyone — he would be passed on to after their return.
Master Jinn gave him an odd look. “Quite alright, Obi-Wan. Don’t worry about me.”
A question bubbled in Obi-Wan’s throat — then why were they using this entrance? — but fear overshadowed curiosity and he let it die against his tongue. He pressed himself against the seat of the cockpit, fingers wringing in the folds of his dirty, mangled robe. It was the same robe he’d been left with on Melida/Daan all those months ago, and it had become somewhat of a comfort object for him. The thought of parting with it made his chest prickle with anxiety.
The ship set down with a gentle clunk and Master Jinn was quickly unbuckling himself from the straps. Obi-Wan moved to do the same, but speed was not his friend. His fingers stung and shook as they pressed against the buckles, and after a few fruitless seconds Master Jinn had to do it for him. He flushed with embarrassment, but the older man showed no such signs, simply undoing the fastenings and moving to lower the hatch. Obi-Wan followed him, stumbling slightly and subtly bracing himself against the durasteel walls.
There was in fact a small crowd waiting at the base of the hatch, but they were not his friends. Instead, it was a throng of healers clad head to toe in crisp, clean scrubs. He could barely make out any faces, but he at least recognized one healer’s voice when she spoke.
“Padawan Kenobi,” Vokara Che started, though she quickly shifted at his wince. “Obi-Wan. We are so glad to see you return home.”
Obi-Wan swallowed. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. Thankfully, Vokara Che didn’t seem to expect him to respond.
“Please, come with us. We will provide all the necessary care.”
He didn’t really have a choice. This was an order, was it not? He’d already messed up before by disobeying a Jedi Master’s order. He couldn’t do it again.
Obi-Wan stumbled down the hatch towards them, but his body felt like it had lead running through his veins, weighing him down all the while his head swam into the clouds. Darkness encroached the edges of his vision with each step he took until it swallowed him whole. He hit the ground with a painful thud. The last thing he remembered thinking was that if this was the end, at least he got to see the Temple one last time.
The distinct smell of antiseptic and bacta tickled his nose. That was what he noticed first upon waking. There was an underlying current of incense and flowers and damp earth, like someone had clearly tried to improve it by filling the room with other things, but to no avail.
It was this smell that confused Obi-Wan at first, then comforted him. He’d spent the last few months waking up to the smell of sweat and grime and infected wounds and rotted food. This was so starkly different that for the first few seconds of his return to consciousness, fear and confusion gripped his mind tightly. Then it unwound slightly, and with it came tears pricking at the corners of his closed eyelids. He didn’t want to open his eyes on the off chance that this smell didn’t signify what he thought it did. Didn’t want to chance that this was just another cruel dream.
“Obi-Wan?”
The voice was soft, yet unfamiliar. His chest froze instinctually and he stopped breathing. Maybe they would think he was dead and keep walking. Maybe he could still make it out of this.
“Is he awake?” Another voice, now.
A slightly pressure near his neck as something was adjusted by the person’s hands. He had to resist the urge to shift in place. He was hot, so hot. “I’m not sure. I thought… but I don’t know.”
“How are his sats looking?”
The first person sighed. “Not improving as much as they should. 85%, even on high oxygen flow.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Ventilator?”
“Think we’re closely approaching that point.”
“I’ll let Vokara know.”
Obi-Wan’s chest was burning with the effort of keeping it still. His throat started stinging, little pricks of agony that grew and grew until he could not hold it any longer. A coughing fit erupted from his lungs and he curled in on himself. He could not stop, his chest was shuddering with the force of it and his eyes began rolling back in his head. A loud alarm started blaring. Voices began shouting. And amidst it all, Obi-Wan let himself slip away once more.
The next time he woke up was as much a surprise as the first time. He didn’t know how long it had been, but he certainly hadn’t expected to survive whatever had happened to him while he was unconscious.
His eyes opened of their own accord. His mind was blank as they caught on the pale blue walls, sleek white and chrome medical devices, soft cream blankets. And — in the corner, nodding off into his propped fist, Master Jinn.
An alarm started beeping quietly. Master Jinn startled awake, almost falling out of the chair before jumping up and peering at the machine. His eyebrows furrowed together and he shifted on his feet slightly to turn towards Obi-Wan.
Their eyes met. The alarm was blaring now.
Two healers rushed into the room, the white stitching on the borders of their robes indicating they were still in their fellowships. One of them immediately went to fiddle with the machine that was still beeping, while the other came right up to his bedside.
“Hello, Obi-Wan,” she said warmly. “How are you feeling?”
His throat creaked back into use. “Alright, I guess.”
“Can you sit up and take a deep breath in for me?” She must have known he would have trouble with the first part, because her arm carefully snuck behind his shoulder and helped him upright. He dutifully took a deep breath in, though he didn’t get far before his chest started hitching. Seemed like he couldn’t complete the second part either.
The healer did not seem surprised. Her tone stayed level and pleasant as she ran him through a neurological exam too, asking him to follow her finger with his eyes and squeeze her hands and all the rest.
“You’re healing nicely,” she smiled at the end. “Your mental faculties seem to be intact and your lungs sound much better than they did last week.”
“Last week?” The outburst startled even Obi-Wan himself.
The healer signaled something to her colleague, who left the room tapping on a datapad. She nodded. “You arrived here in the Halls three weeks ago and developed pneumonia. We think it was in your system already and just decided to show itself overly recently, which is lucky because we had the facilities to put you on a ventilator when it went downhill fast. Your throat might still be a little sore, we only took you off it a couple days ago. You also got a few bacta dips after your surgeries to remove the dead lung tissue, plus fix up all the other wounds. You had a few infected sites and poorly healed fractures that were wreaking havoc, so we dealt with those as best we could. You’ve been out for most of all this, the few times you did seem to wake a bit you were delirious. But don’t worry, your Master has been here the entire time.” She smiled teasingly, gesturing to Master Jinn, who was still standing in the middle of the room looking a bit like a disheveled bantha in the speederlights. “Master Vokara Che had to pull rank and order him to leave to take a shower last week.”
Your Master. The words rung through his ears. Your Master. He didn’t have a Master. He couldn’t, he’d given that up, he’d — he’d disobeyed and been left as retribution and he — he didn’t have a Master anymore, he knew that —
He didn’t realize his lips had been moving and he’d been speaking out loud until the pain in his throat drowned out the thoughts in his head. He was curled up into a ball at the head of the bed, rocking back and forth. His knee and hip ached sharply, as they had since he’d dislocated them a month or two back. The lights were dim and the beeping machines had been turned silent.
He lifted his head. Master Jinn was gone, as was the healer from before. In their place was Vokara Che and someone else, a Togruta woman wearing flowing, soft robes unlike Vokara Che’s tight scrubs. The other woman was murmuring a litany of comforting words and breathing exercises. Obi-Wan found himself matching her patterns instinctively. His body uncurled slightly.
“Thank you Vokara, I’ll signal if we need you,” the Togruta said. Vokara Che nodded and stepped out. The door hissed shut, sealing behind her.
“Hello Obi-Wan,” she said, sitting down in a chair by his bedside. “My name is Healer Kyla. I know this must be pretty frightening, waking up with no memory of the past few weeks. Is there anything I can clear up for you?”
Obi-Wan swallowed, hands fidgeting in the soft sheets of the bed. “How long can I stay here?”
Healer Kyla nodded, as if this was a reasonable question. “You have a long recovery ahead of you. But even beyond that, you can stay as long as you need.”
“What sort of recovery?” He made his voice as steady as he could.
Healer Kyla shifted slightly, resting her hands in her lap. “I did my generalized healer’s training but I specialized in psychology. I’ve been assigned to your case and have access to your chart, but I might not be able to explain it as well as Vokara Che could. Would you like me to call her back in here?”
Obi-Wan was already shaking his head. Something about this woman made him trust her. Maybe it was because she wasn’t someone he knew before — before Melida/Daan, or maybe it was because she didn’t look like a regular, clinical, sterile healer, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone else.
“Alright,” Healer Kyla said easily. “First, your lungs. The pneumonia, combined with a number of other environmental factors from your past few months, caused permanent damage. The healers had to perform something called surgical debridement, meaning they had to surgically remove some of the damaged and dead tissue from your lungs. They saved as much as they could, but unfortunately it did leave you with only 60% of normal function. We have a rehabilitation plan set up to help get you back to the point where you can try coming off of supplemental oxygen.”
Obi-Wan’s hand snaked up to his nose to fiddle with the nasal cannula. Healer Kyla continued.
“There was also some concerning damage to your left knee and hip, both to the connective tissue surrounding those two joints and to the cartilage that cushions the bones. The cartilage has been almost completely worn down, leaving you with post-traumatic osteoarthritis given the history of dislocation there.”
“I’m not old,” Obi-Wan said before he could stop himself. He quickly looked back down at his hands.
Healer Kyla did not laugh at him, or turn angry. “Arthritis is commonly seen among the elderly, but it can happen to anyone at any age. There are many different forms.”
“Oh. Was that — I had surgeries? So it’s fixed?”
Healer Kyla took a deep breath. “As much was repaired as could be.”
Obi-Wan frowned. “But I was in bacta too, right? That fixes everything.”
“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, but some things can’t be fixed with bacta.”
“So it’s gonna hurt like this forever?”
Healer Kyla’s facial markings bunched together, concerned. “Are you in pain, Obi-Wan?”
He scoffed before he could stop himself. Pain had been the one constant on Melida/Daan, whether it be from a fracture or cut or empty stomach. Healer Kyla reached over and fiddled with something on the bed, holding up a remote.
“Here, this is your IV pain pump. It goes into a port in your chest. You can increase or decrease the settings as needed.”
Obi-Wan grabbed it and hit the up arrow a few times. Some machine hissed slightly and whirred to life. He tracked the tubes back to his chest, just over his heart. He fiddled with them. There were so many tubes going into him, all over.
“What are all of these?”
“One is the supplemental oxygen. Another is hooked up to your chest port. The last one is a nasogastric tube that gives you nutrition. Your stomach is partially paralyzed, so this is the best way for you to eat currently. In the future, if you make significant improvement, we might be able to remove it. Or if it looks like it’d be more permanent, we can surgically implant a tube in your stomach so you wouldn’t have to deal with the nose one.”
Obi-Wan’s head was swimming. “I don’t — I was fine before this. On Melida/Daan. I didn’t have all these problems.”
Healer Kyla looked sympathetic. “We think you did, Obi-Wan. Your brain was just in fight-or-flight mode constantly, and was protecting you from the worst of everything. You pushed through because you had no other choice. Now you’re safe, and everything can come crashing down.”
He pulled his knees up to his chest again, ignoring the sharp screaming pain that warned him to stop.
“There is one more thing,” Healer Kyla said hesitantly.
Obi-Wan buried his face in his kneecaps. “Go on.”
“We have concerns about possible post-viral conditions. There were some worrying biomarkers found in your labwork. But we’ll continue to monitor you and help you through whatever comes of it.”
He almost wanted to laugh. What was one more thing?
“You’re not alone, Obi-Wan. You have no idea how many people have been pestering us asking if they can come visit you. Bant Eerin, Garen Muln, Quinlan Vos, Master Jinn, Master Ali, Master Yoda, all to name a few. We haven’t been able to allow anyone else in for fear of infection, but now we think your immune system could probably handle it as long as the proper precautions were tak—“
“No.” The word was short, staccato. “No. No visitors. I don’t — don’t want to see anyone. Please.”
“Are you sure? I can tell you from medical studies and from personal experience that having trusted loved ones close during recovery can be beneficial for a number of reasons, such as…”
As she spoke, her voice sounded like it was coming from far away. Obi-Wan couldn’t handle this anymore. He untethered himself from the dock in his mind and let himself drift far away, where he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to worry, didn’t have to exist.
The next week passed in a numb blur. He stayed in the Halls, where it seemed like there was a rotating cast of healers who cycled in an out of his room and made him do things. He had to do bacta nebulizer treatments multiple times a day in an attempt to strengthen his lungs. Every morning and evening he was forced out of bed and mad to take painful, tentative steps with a walker in front of a physical therapist. There were consultations about his nutrition and immune system. The tests being run seemed never-ending — blood tests, imaging scans, neurological exams. They even swabbed the phlegm he still occasionally coughed up to monitor him for any more lung infections. That was apparently a big concern, since everyone who came into contact with him had to go through some sort of decontamination protocol prior to even entering his room.
This did not stop his two main visitors. Vokara Che was apparently the lead healer assigned to his case, and she spoke to him multiple times a day about all sorts of things. Or she tried to, at least. He spent most of his time hiding underneath his blankets. It felt like it was getting harder and harder to do anything at all.
Healer Kyla, his other frequent companion, seemed to find this just as concerning as Vokara Che, though she did a better job at hiding it. Much of Healer Kyla’s time by his bedside was spent by her having fruitless one-sided conversations about benign matters like some new flowers coming into bloom in the Hall’s private meditation garden, or the mystery of where the crèche’s paint boxes had disappeared off to.
Obi-Wan, for his part, spent these conversations laying on his side in bed, covers pulled up over his hair, eyes blankly open. Every word was like a cloud of mist, hazy yet ever-present. They hung suspended in his mind, incomprehensible and slowly dissipating one by one until all that was left was the impression, how they made him feel. He was not real. Nothing was.
One morning, when the physical therapist arrived with his cheery disposition and sturdy walker, Obi-Wan did not stir to rise out of bed and get started. He didn’t even move the covers down over his face.
“Obi-Wan?” The physical therapist, a nice-enough Bothan man named Sakawil, coaxed. “Are you ready?”
Obi-Wan did not move. He couldn’t, not really.
“I know it’s not fun, buddy, but it’s important. We want to get that knee and hip moving, encourage blood flow. And it’ll help your lungs get better too.”
Moisture gathered at the corner of Obi-Wan’s eye. He didn’t know what was happening. He just knew that he needed to keep still or it would hurt even more. But he was so hot…
A furry hand gently removed the blanket from over his head. Obi-Wan blinked, and the tear fell, trickling a trail down his cheek until it reached the soft bedsheets.
“Obi-Wan?” Sakawil sounded concerned. Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t handle this. He felt like his bones were filled with fiery lead burning him up from the inside.
There was some sort of commotion. Each noise sent spikes of pain into his skull. Healer Kyla’s voice came next.
“Obi-Wan?”
But he would not — could not — respond to her either. Soon her voice faded and others appeared too. His chest port was accessed and another blood sample was taken. Someone pulled up his eyelids and flashed a light in his pupils. IV fluids began whirring to life, pumping themselves into his system.
Then, a firm voice, familiar.
“Everyone out. Activate our ME crash protocol.”
Footsteps. Murmuring. Machines beeped one final time then turned silent. Blinds zipping down over a window. Lights dim, dark, cool, blessed relief. He was still burning, but there was no new fire anymore.
The voice — Vokara Che — came closer now. He felt her face near his ear.
Soft whisper, hushed, delicate. “Obi-Wan, we think we know what’s going on. You have developed a chronic condition called myalgic encephalomyelitis. The stress on your body of the past few days has pushed you far past your limits and into something called a crash. I will explain more when your brain is not too overloaded. Don’t worry. We know what this is. We will take care of you. I promise.”
A lifeline, thrown to him in the dark waters. He clutched onto it with both arms, locked them and held them tight in place even as the waves tried to drag him under.
Things changed after that, drastically. The first day or two after was filled with pain wracking his body. He was nauseous and dizzy and feverish in equal measure, and he couldn’t even sleep to escape it. Vokara Che was his only visitor, and she only came in when absolutely necessary. Even thinking hurt.
But then his fever broke and he managed to slip into sleep, and when he woke up he felt weak and shivery but alive. He managed to rearrange the blankets around himself, then collapsed back into them, spent by that simple exertion. When Vokara Che entered the room later that day, he opened his eyes and croaked, “What’s going on?”
Relief burst across her face. She raised the lights just enough that they could make out each other’s face, then gingerly sat down in a chair by his bedside, leaning on her elbows to be at his eye level. “Do you remember me talking to you right before we enacted the crash protocol?”
It was all a blur. But—? “A little. Long name. Or something.”
The edge of her mouth crooked up. “Yes. Myalgic encephalomyelitis. A lot of people call it ME for short. Have you heard of it before?”
He shook his head against the cool pillow.
“It’s a neuroimmune disease, we think, that affects multiple body systems. The hallmark symptom is something called post-exertional malaise, or PEM. That means when you push your body too far, your body punishes you for it. Too much post-exertional malaise can actually progress the disease and increase its severity, disabling people even further. Other symptoms include pain, weakness, orthostatic intolerance, cognitive dysfunction, and fatigue. It was actually called chronic fatigue syndrome for a while, but the name was changed since it lead too much of the public to believe it was just mere tiredness or malingering.”
Obi-Wan’s head was swimming. “How do you… how do you know I have it?”
“Well,” Vokara Che shifted, pulling out her data pad. “We suspected you could have it when we first did your intake. You have elevated antibodies against β2AdR and M4 receptors, which is seen in a subset of ME patients. There were some irregularities in your cytokine expression, which is a class of immunoregulatory proteins, as well as some deficiencies in your mitochondrial energy production. All of these were enough to raise suspicions, but then when you had your crash we performed a diagnostic nanoelectrical impedance test on a blood sample of yours and it came back positive for myalgic encephalomyelitis.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Sorry.” Vokara Che huffed a laugh. “Got a bit lost in the asteroid field there. Essentially, we noticed some irregularities in your bloodwork that weren’t definitively conclusive but made us raise concerns, and then when you had your crash we performed further testing which confirmed the diagnosis of ME.”
“I didn’t… go anywhere, how could I crash into something?”
“Not that kind of crash.” She shifted and tilted her head. “Imagine… cutting a teepaberry in half and squeezing it to get the juice. At some point the juice runs out, right?”
He nodded.
“What happens when you keep squeezing it?”
Obi-Wan was confused. “Nothing… comes out?”
“Maybe a few drops here and there, but not much, right? And what happens to the teepaberry itself? How does it look, how does it feel?”
“Squished?”
Vokara Che smiled softly. “Exactly. That’s what happens to your body when you spend too much energy. Eventually there’s a point of no return, where nothing good can come of it and you’re just damaging yourself by continuing.”
“So I can just… never do anything again?”
She shook her head. “No, don’t worry, you can still live your life. You just have to be mindful of your body and its signals. The past few days and weeks — months, really — have put some unique stressors on your body, and that pushed you over the edge into a severe crash. But most won’t be as bad as this, provided you pay attention.”
Tears pricked at the edges of his vision “I didn’t know I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry. I’ll be better.”
“Oh, Obi-Wan.” Her eyes were soft and sad. “This isn’t your fault. Nothing was your fault, do you understand me? Nothing. It’ll be alright. We’ll teach you how to pace yourself properly, and set you up with whatever you need to help.”
He nodded, sniffling a little. “Can I stay in the Temple a little while longer, just until I figure it all out?”
She drew back, surprised. “Were you planning on leaving?”
“I — I thought — I mean, I’m not a Padawan anymore. I had to leave the Jedi Order.” His voice was quiet and small, a kicked animal.
“Who told you—“
He flinched at her tone, rising in intensity as it was. She visible calmed herself and took a deep breath.
“I think there have been some misconceptions, Obi-Wan.” Her voice was even now. “You will always have a place in the Order, should you wish it. Master Qui-Gon has been sprucing up your room in preparation for you to move back in soon, once your acute recovery is finished.”
“Master Qui-Gon?” His voice felt like it was coming from far away. “I—no. He told me I — no, I can’t move in with him. That’s for his Padawan. I’m not — I can’t — he told me to—“
The next thing he knew, Healer Kyla was there helping him with breathing exercises.
Moving back in with Master Qui-Gon was not brought up again.
His recovery shifted, then, trying to mold him into some semblance of a functioning person. He still could not tolerate food orally, so there were talks about a permanent tube in his stomach if some new drug they wanted him to try didn’t work. He started working with an occupational therapist, who fitted him with a whole host of mobility aids that he was ashamed to admit helped quite a bit. They didn’t even look that clinical either, somehow. He got to pick the color of his wheelchair — the same electric blue as his saber. And he learned about some aids that he didn’t even know existed, like forearm crutches. He liked those better than a cane; they gave more stability and he could shift the angle of the forearm rests and handles to avoid putting stress on his arm and wrist joints. Some days he was okay with walking around the Halls with just his crutches, some days even the thought of making it to the meditation garden in the Halls without his wheelchair was impossible. That was okay, his occupational therapist said. That was normal. His lungs learned to breathe better in their diminished state, and he finally got taken off the supplemental oxygen. It was his first (and thus far only) actual win, and he was pleased. After all, he couldn’t be using any of these things — not the feeding tube or the wheelchair or the crutches or the medication — if he was ever going to be able to be a real Jedi Padawan again. Which was a thought still foreign in his brain, but he tried to dedicate himself to his recovery as much as he could to show all of the healers (and the Council, for he was sure they must be watching him somehow and waiting to catch him slipping to throw him out again) just how much progress he could make.
Apparently though, he still needed some “goal,” because according to Healer Kyla he was “showing signs of severe clinical depression” and needed “something to look forward to.” It was this topic that was the center of their session one Centaxday morning.
“You have no ideas?” Healer Kyla blew on the steaming cup of tea in her hands. She’d sipped it just before and burned her tongue, causing her montrals to quiver a bit against her robe, and was now being slightly more cautious.
Obi-Wan shook his head and picked at the loose thread in his tunics. The healers had had to dig them up from somewhere, since the only real clothing the Temple made for Humans his age was Padawan attire and he knew he couldn’t wear that yet.
“Let’s stick to inside the Temple for now,” she said. Obi-Wan shivered. He never would have considered something outside the Temple in the first place. “What are some things you like doing in the Temple that you would like to do again? Maybe visiting the Room of a Thousand Fountains? Or the Archives?”
Obi-Wan considered it. The Room of a Thousand Fountains was so tempting, an oasis of nature amidst the stone and smog and shining chrome of Coruscant, but it was a bad choice since it meant nothing to what it was to be a Jedi Padawan. The Archives were on a better path but still not quite…
“I want to go back to classes again.”
Healer Kyla blinked, almost dropping her teacup in surprise. She set it down delicately at her carved wooden side table, opening her mouth to shoot him down, but Obi-Wan interrupted before she could.
“Please. I want to be normal again. I want to see my friends. Back in our regular places, not here.”
This was… not technically a lie, but not quite the truth either. He felt bad about tricking her but even with how good she and the rest of the Halls staff had been about his “no visitors” edict, he knew she wanted him to reconnect with people. This was the only way she would listen to him.
Healer Kyla nodded slowly. “If you think you’re up to it…” He nodded. She continued, “Then I think it would be a fine idea.”
A slow smile crossed his face. Soon, everything would be back to the way it was.
It was decided that he would try to rejoin classes at the start of the next term, a month away. That would give him time to get situated with everything, and he wouldn’t be jumping into lessons already in progress and floundering there. Each of his healers met together twice a week to discuss his progress and see if he was on track, and they were very encouraging with him.
Almost too encouraging, in fact.
“Excellent effort, Obi-Wan, that was very good,” Sakawil told him when his muscles shook after attempting a few simple stairs.
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault. You did everything right, and it didn’t work out, and that’s okay,” said the gastroenterologist when determining that his stomach was still partially paralyzed and he would need a permanent g-tube.
“That’s progress! Fantastic work today,” the respiratory therapist cheered when he was able to forcefully exhale into the little tube for a measly five seconds instead of two or three like before.
“Wow, I’m impressed! Usually it takes my patients a couple weeks to master that,” the occupational therapist exclaimed when he did a wheelie to get over some uneven terrain.
Every one of their words made him feel worse and worse. The days kept ticking down, and still he wasn’t better. He couldn’t run up stairs. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t breathe right. He couldn’t walk most days. How was he supposed to do anything? How was he supposed to be a Jedi?
These thoughts plagued him, an ever-haunting spector over his shoulder. As the weeks passed, they grew harder and harder to quiet.
“Alright, let’s do a few squats,” Sakawil said in their physical therapy session a few days before the start of term.
Obi-Wan grumbled. Squats were the worst, they made his knee ache and vision swim. But Sakawil said that as long as he was safe doing them, they wouldn’t hurt him and would help strengthen the muscles around his joints. He wasn’t quite sure he believed him, but he did his best to comply with everything.
Today, though…
The first rep was fine. The second, too. By the third, he was starting to feel a sharp sting in his knee. On the fourth, his quadriceps were burning. The fifth made him start to feel dizzy.
The sixth was where it all went wrong. In the grand scheme of things, having his legs buckle beneath him in physical therapy wasn’t even that big a deal. Expected, almost.
But that day, Obi-Wan was just so tired of his body behaving differently. So tired of it failing him over and over and over. He curled up in his spot on the ground and sobbed.
Sakawil’s alarm and worry permeated the air. “Obi-Wan? Did something happen? Where does it hurt?”
In my heart, he wanted to shout, but that would only bring some sort of unnecessary echocardiogram order instead of understanding what he was really saying.
Sakawil got more and more fearful as the minutes passed and Obi-Wan did not move or stop crying. He tried shutting off all the lights and equipment, thinking maybe Obi-Wan was just overstimulated, but when that didn’t work he pressed some sort of call button.
Healer Kyla arrived within minutes. Obi-Wan could tell when she did because she always brought a sense of soothing calmness with her; it was something she exuded in her Force presence almost without conscious thought. By now, he was practically conditioned to start deep breathing exercises when she showed up. He felt his chest rise and fall.
“Hi Obi-Wan,” she said softly. “I hear you’re having a hard time. Is this a crash, do you think? One finger for yes, two for no.”
It wasn’t, at least he didn’t think so. He flashed two fingers.
“Okay. Are you hurt somewhere? Did you injure something?”
Two fingers again. He didn’t want to unfurl himself. Being close together like this was safe. A smaller target, harder for Elders to find.
“Do you think you could tell me what’s going on?”
But he wasn’t on Melida/Daan anymore. There were no Elders, not like that. He could trust Healer Kyla. She’d always helped him.
He let his arms loosen around his legs until he was limbless on the mat.
“Nothing’s right.”
Healer Kyla didn’t refute him. “What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “Just. Not right.” He sniffled. “Everything.”
“Everything? Oh dear.” She sat down right next to him, montrals brushing the blue padded mat. “I thought your recovery was going well.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m still… bad.”
“You’re not bad, Obi-Wan,” Healer Kyla said instantly. “What makes you think that?”
Obi-Wan felt his throat grow tight. “I can’t do anything anymore. I’m supposed to go back to class but I can’t do anything like I used to.”
Healer Kyla hummed sympathetically. “It’s very frustrating to not have your body respond like you want it to. Those feelings are very valid. But that’s why we have accommodations put in place, and different mobility aids and medical devices to help you.”
“But —“ His lower lip quivered. “How can I be a Jedi like th—that? They’re going to kick me out again and then I won’t have anywhere to go and I’m not useful anywhere and—and—and—“
He broke down sobbing once more. But this time, Healer Kyla was there to curl an arm around him comfortingly.
“Oh Obi-Wan,” she murmured into his shaking frame. “You don’t have to be able-bodied to be a Jedi and live in the Temple and serve the Force. If anyone here has made you feel otherwise, then we are deeply ashamed and apologize. Being a Jedi isn’t about how far you can run or how high you can jump or how well your lungs work. It’s about your spirit, your character. And you, Obi-Wan, are one of the strongest people I know.”
He looked up at her, tears still welling. She met his eyes with fierce determination.
“The only person who decides your fate in the Order is you, Obi-Wan. We failed you before. We will endeavor to not do so again.”
A wild notion — truth? He wasn’t sure. But for the first time, he could imagine himself starting to believe it.
The first day of classes was a nerve-wracking experience. He was on a part-time schedule, only taking classes in the mornings so that way he would have time to rest and recover in the afternoon and evenings. He was using his wheelchair that day, which all the healers had insisted on after he tried to leave with no mobility aid at all. With how much his hip was still hurting from that, he was glad he had been nudged into it.
It was odd how different and yet strangely familiar it all felt, like stepping onto a new planet that he’d somehow seen in a dream. These were all the same classrooms as before, all the same hallways filled with chattering crowds of people, and yet he was not the same. He had changed in an indescribable way both inside and out. A bubble of fear curdled in his stomach. How could he fit in again?
Then there was a shout from across the hallway. “Obi!”
He looked up to see Bant Eerin running towards him. She skidded to a halt in front of his wheelchair, Garen and Quinlan and Luminara right behind him. It was the first time they’d laid eyes on each other in… a lifetime. Obi-Wan swallowed nervously.
“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Bant said, hands fluttering in front of her. “Can I give you a hug?”
As soon as he nodded she flung her arms around him, bending over to squeeze him tight. Soon other arms joined in, until the whole group was embracing. A familiar scent tickled his nose.
“You still smell salty, Bant,” he said into her shoulder, and she laughed, a wetness lacing her throat.
Maybe things would be alright.
There were ups and there were downs, both predictable. He didn’t click back in overnight, and he still had health complications that caused him to miss classes sometimes or fall behind in assignments other days. But he was on the right path, and he began to feel more secure in his place in everything.
Perhaps it was that returning sense of safety that caused him to approach Qui-Gon Jinn one day.
Obi-Wan was deep in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, near the spot he knew to be Qui-Gon’s favorite. The Force guided his feet and crutches as he walked up to the small grove by a babbling brook. Qui-Gon was sitting there cross-legged on the pale green grass, eyes closed in meditation but they opened as he felt his presence approaching.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon exclaimed, eyes growing wide. “I’m sorry, did you want to meditate here? I can — I can leave, let me just—“
“No,” Obi-Wan said. “I wanted to talk with you.”
Uncharacteristically, Qui-Gon looked as anxious as Obi-Wan felt.
“Alright,” Qui-Gon responded. “Do you want to…?”
Obi-Wan gingerly sat down across from him, setting his crutches on the ground next to his legs. He was glad he’d been diligent about physical therapy so he didn’t have to worry so much about how he was going to stand up from that position.
There was a long silence, punctuated only by the sound of birds chirping next to the running water.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you. I thought you wanted your space.”
“I did,” Obi-Wan agreed. “You were right to do so.”
“Why now?” Qui-Gon studied him. “Why would you want to talk to me at all?”
Obi-Wan considered this for a moment, picking a bit of the grass and twirling it between his fingers.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to be a Jedi,” he started, images of the crèche flashing in his mind. “Everything I’ve done, my whole life, was try to reach that goal. And when I was your Padawan, all I thought about was how to be the perfect Jedi, how to be just like you. And that’s what I thought I was doing on Melida/Daan, when I told you we needed to help the Young instead of saving Master Tahl. And that’s — that’s what I did, after you left. I helped them because there was no one else to do it, and I am a Jedi.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon rumbled, meeting his eyes directly. “A thousand languages would not be enough to convey the amount of regret I have about that day. I am sorry for putting you in that situation and giving you an impossible choice. I am sorry for all the horrors you faced and the consequences that came from them. But above all, I am sorry for the toughest lesson a Padawan can learn: that their Masters can be wrong. And that is what I was, Obi-Wan. I was wrong, and you suffered for it. I should have found another way. I should have returned immediately. But I was ashamed and scared and I took too long to take proper action.”
“I know,” Obi-Wan said. “I know. You were wrong.”
Qui-Gon dipped his head.
Obi-Wan continued, “I struggled in therapy for a while. It was very hard for me to accept some things, like how I have been changed by these experiences. But there is no way but forward. And that is why I came to you here now.”
Qui-Gon looked puzzled.
“That moment on Melida/Daan scarred me in a sense, more than any physical wound. I’ve avoided you for all this time because of it. I couldn’t stand being rejected again. But now… Now, I think I could handle whatever answer you give.”
Qui-Gon’s eyes widened, perhaps sensing what was coming.
“Qui-Gon Jinn, would you become my Master again?”
The words hung in the air between them. This was not how it normally went; an inverse of who asked who.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon breathed, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have to be stuck with me again. The whole Temple knows of your bravery and strength of spirit. You could have whoever you wanted. Anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone,” Obi-Wan said. “I want you.” He looked away for a moment. “We were both changed, in different ways, but I think we can still fit together again.” He met Qui-Gon’s eyes squarely. “This is my choice, to ask you. I’m not going to let anyone try to take away my choices every again, not even you.”
“Good,” Qui-Gon said fiercely, then paused once more. “Are you sure?”
The Force breathed gentle encouragement in his ear. He nodded.
A slow, wide smile spread across Qui-Gon’s face. “Then it would be my greatest honor.”
Obi-Wan had imagined being accepted back as a Padawan a million different ways. But none felt as right as this.