When Paths Diverge

Hyperspace - Post-Tatooine [Year 25075 in Galactic Standard]

Gingerly, he reached out, exercising a cautious nudge warily into the Force as he poked around at his surroundings. A tentative touch at first, and then a tad bit harder.

What he found, stole the breath away from his lungs.

The Force was so incredibly bright, in a way that it hadn't been for a long time. He shuddered quietly as the gentle light washed over the frayed edges of his being. A slight pressure pulsed against the barrier of his skull, but it was a good pain. It was a breath of fresh air to a drowning man - and he had been drowning for a very long time, although comprehending the full magnitude of that was another matter entirely.

For a minute, he was overwhelmed.

The rush of it was intoxicating; it flooded through his veins and fleshed out over every fibre of his being, like a deep warmth drinking up all the blood in his veins and replacing it with something much more familiar and intimate. Streaks of dark blue and bright white filled his vision, painting a canvas that was not unlike that of the jump to hyperspace, except that there were also cracks of golden light and soft reds seeping through the incredibly fine threads. The sensation was not just external, but also something that resonated keenly inside of his soul.

He had... forgotten what the Force had felt like, when it had been pure and undiluted and absolutely steeped in serenity.

Before the War, before the deaths and the betrayal. Before the clones and the Sith and kriffing Palpatine-

Rest, child.

The non-sequitur thought made Obi-Wan frown. That didn't sound like his subconscious. Oh. Oh. Then, belatedly, "I'm not exactly a child," He pointed out and then, as if it explained everything, tacking on a somewhat grumpy. "I'm old."

The Force laughed in the ringing hollow of his ears.

And then before he knew it, a surge of fatigue overtook him and settled heavily into every fibre of bones. It was like durasteel, the suggestion crawling into his bones and weighing him down. Apparently, this next compulsion was much harder and stronger, and the darkness soon invaded the edges of his vision.

The world dissolved into oblivion, cradling him deeper into the darkness as he fell.

His last thought was to marvel that, for the first time, he felt safe.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Morosely, Qui-Gon Jinn stares at the still and unconscious form of his Padawan. Worry gnawed away at the hollow of his gut, along with uncertainty, and the latter of which he was unaccustomed to and found that he intensely disliked. It made him feel helpless in a way that he had vowed never to be, and Force, didn't take bring back a lot of bad memories.

He simply couldn't understand what was happening. Perhaps a main part of it was self-recrimination, because he knew that he should have noticed something was off sooner. He should have been more observant, because even as much as he loved that boy, he also knew that his Padawan could sometimes be intensely reserved, sometimes to the point of self-sabotage and damage.

With a flush of shame, he recalled that he might also have been to blame. Force knows that their apprenticeship hadn't been the most conventional nor had it started out in the most stable of ways, but he had thought that - hoped that - Obi-Wan knew that Qui-Gon was proud of him. Damn well proud. It stung slightly that Obi-Wan apparently preferred to keep silent over confiding in him.

He couldn't blame his Padawan, though. Hell, he himself would be the first to admit that he wasn't the best of Masters.

A small hand slipped into his own palm. The warmth pulled him back to reality, and he looked up to see the worried features of the Skywalker boy. Hesitation and doubt flashed across the child's face as Qui-Gon looked up, and he worked quickly to reassure Anakin. He sent a soft pulse through the Force from where it glowed around the boy like a supernova.

Safety and warmth, Qui-Gon tried to radiate outwards. That sense of responsibility fell to his shoulders now. Remembering the promise that he had made to Shmi, the Jedi knelt down beside the boy, offering a palm outwards.

From beside him, Anakin's gratitude bled outwards into the very air, filling both their lungs with breathlessness, swamping him all at once, like a surge from a blast-radiator beside him, and Qui-Gon leaned into the warmth on instinct.

Thank you. He squeezed Anakin's hand gently.

The guilt still weighed heavily on his mind, but he couldn't deny that the company helped. The ache in his chest subsided slightly, and he sagged backwards, abandoning the form and structure of his Jedi training in favour of a more comfortable position. He knew that worrying would be more hindrance than help, but he also couldn't - wouldn't - ignore its presence entirely.

An idea took form in his mind. There was a way that he could still be useful yet.

It wouldn't hurt to start training the boy a little. In fact, it might be entirely helpful. Anakin needed to learn control, that much was clear. He shone so brightly in the Force, that at times it was almost hard to look upon. It was like staring directly into the stars, dazzlingly white-hot. It leaked out a miasma of intensive sensations, hyperawareness amplified to the extreme, to the point that Qui-Gon could almost reach out and assume the point of view of Anakin's feelings entirely.

So, shields. That would be a good start.

"Close your eyes." He told Anakin, giving what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

Then, still guiding the brilliant bonfire mind of the child next to him, Qui-Gon wrapped both of their minds together.

Together, they breathed as one.

Still breathing steadfastly in a unified breath, they reached for the Force and let go.