In Confidence - 10.098

[Abarai Loki]

It was late in the afternoon when Loki was laughed from the scrapyard and stumbled onto an empty road. Guss, the resident droid-mutilator, appeared in the doorway to his workshop with four arms folded over his swollen gut. He had a grin like a scimitar. When the young Jedi tossed him one last scathing glance, he was overcome with another fit of phlegmy laughter which put a wobble in his bulbous folds. The wind picked up, buffeting the Jedi onwards with hot lashings of dust, while he nursed his wounded arm. He clutched tight with a wince and glanced down to survey the damage for what must've been the tenth time. His sleeve was torn, exposing his once-white undertunic, which glistened ruby red in the sun, and beneath, there was a deep angry gash that stretched almost the length of his forearm. Between hisses of pain, he sighed.

Abarai Loki was a creature of habit: his every day was a regimented timetable of Jedi duties and inconvenient necessities like washing, and sleeping, and eating. Although, admittedly, he was rather fond of that last one. In recent months, his air-tight schedule had wavered, owing to an inexplicable need for an extra hour's sleep in the morning. And, succumbing at last to his new biological requirements, Loki had adjusted his routine accordingly, and all had been well once again. So, it was a source of great personal frustration to him that his one single dalliance with spontaneity had been met with such sanguineous misfortune.

It came about when his fellow Jedi, Wei Wu Wei, had offered to oversee his afternoon class. In the wake of a recent dueling incident between Draiya Naaianeya and Akasha Khan, Wei had taken an interest in the ebon-furred Orryxian and wished to have a hand in her training. Had it not been for the fact that Wei was an exceptional swordsman himself, Loki would've never agreed to such an imposition, but, as it was, it provided him with a perfect means of escape. Besides, he suspected a temporary change in teacher would not go unwelcomed by his troublesome students. Was it they he'd been escaping from?

Whatever had been the cause of his flight, his place of refuge took the form of a scruffy scrapyard on the outskirts of the site, where he sat amongst small mountains of ancient droid parts, encircled by a feeble wire fence. If there was one thing he knew how to do, other than swing a lightsaber, it was mend droids. It was a skill he'd honed from a very young age: he started by disassembling his master's dullard of an astromech droid one uneventful morning; then, he progressed onto reprogramming his personal tutor, a quavering protocol droid, to give it better manners; there was much he learned from the maintenance droid, especially once its head was removed, and then there was the probe droid he had stalk his brother, Roku. Years later, once he was able to not only dismantle droids, but rebuild them, he'd used his skills to barter passage from one nefarious world to the next, until at last he found his Jedi brethren. And in the time since, he'd learned a hard-hitting fact of life: droids were much easier to fix than padawans.

Unfortunately, it appeared he'd bitten off more than he could chew in an especially large load-lifter, upon whose sad decomissioned bulk he'd attempted to operate. His tool of choice had been a small fusioncutter, which had once been part of an astromech's arsenal, by the look of it. The cutter gave an angry hiss as it came alive, spitting blue flames at the rusted metal, which at once started to glow and split. The load-lifter woke with a lurch and a great mournful groan of rusted joints. Loki, who had been so startled by the sudden resurrection, did not react in time to avoid the flailing plate-like hands and suffered a grizzly wound to his arm, courtesy of the jagged weathered metal. He had attempted to stem the flow of blood using his own Jedi healing powers, of course, but with no success at all. Perhaps it had been his state of shock or the severity of the wound that hampered his efforts; it could've been Guss's obnoxious rolling laughter that had driven him to distraction, or perhaps something else...

When he finally arrived at the medical center, he was filthy and weather-beaten. Outside, a storm howled, churning torrents of dust and sand through the air, which began to quickly accumulate about his feet, until the door closed behind him with an indignant huff. Pale-faced, and bejewelled with flecks of crimson, he trudged forward and slumped miserably into an empty seat. Around him, the waiting room was quite empty, and he hoped it would not be long before his arm was treated, and he could put the whole sorry affair behind him. Far behind him.

[Serena Laran]

The doors swished open, the entry swirling with wind and dust as a cloaked figure walked inside. After the first set of doors closed, the person took a moment to peel off their outer cloak, giving it a shake before the inner doors opened. Serena Laran walked inside the newly completed medical center after a long afternoon of Council business, finding the lobby empty save for the admittance droid at the desk. Check that - almost empty.

She walked over to the lone occupant of the modestly sized waiting room, her cloak folded over her arm, and placed a hand on the slumped Knight's shoulder. "Knight Loki, there is no need for you to wait, I can see to your injury." It had been easy enough to diagnose his problem just by looking at him. She nodded toward the doors that led into the treatment area on the first floor. "One of our medics is sick, believe it or not, and I suppose Doctor Aras is seeing other patients."

As she spoke she ushered Abarai through into the inter sanctum, pausing only to hand her dusty cloak to a startled orderly, and found an empty exam room. "Take a seat and I'll see to your arm."

[Abarai Loki]

By the time Loki had noticed the arrival of Serena Laran, she was already towering over him, with her hand planted upon his shoulder. On his feet in an instant, he greeted the Jedi Master with a bow, or the closest approximation of one he could manage, given their sudden proximity. She smelled clean, but that was not important. And in no time at all, he was being led from the waiting room and into a bright and immaculate room. In the middle of the room there was a repulsor bed, floating beneath a convoluted web of criss-crossing diagnostic implements, attached to slumbering computers and a humming droid. There were sealed cupboards and chests around the edge of the room, all sterile white and new, and worktops adorned with datapads and tools. What a long way they had come from the tents that divided examination rooms and operating theaters with screens of canvas.

Loki did as instructed: he took a seat upon the floating bed, and peeled back his soggy sleeve to expose his lacerated arm. In the stark light of the examination room, his wound was revealed in all its splendour: five inches in length and, after a ginger probing, he figured it to be about an inch deep. He shook his head at the sight of it, and when Serena approached, he offered his arm for inspection with a hint of sheepish regret.

"It's just a flesh wound."

[Serena Laran]

"It will need to be cleaned," she said, after taking his arm and giving the laceration a look. Serena pulled a tray from the wall, it's extension arm allowing it to be placed in an appropriate position, and Knight Loki rested his injured arm on it while she found the cleansing foam to spray into the wound.

"And how did this happen?"

[Abarai Loki]

"I was salvaging old droid parts in the scrapyard, when a load-lifter... took exception to my work."

He finished with a slight nod, partly to conclude his story, but mainly to acknowledge his own success in colouring the incident with the most neutral tones in his palette. The blanks were left for Master Laran to fill in, which she did with one look at his dark glistening wound. She resurfaced from an open cupboard with a silver cannister in her hand, which Loki assumed to be some sort of sterilising agent, and gave it a shake. Eyes on the cannister, he found himself nodding again, absently, as he pictured the great hulking droid that injured him.

"It was an ancient thing. Rusted and rotten," he said, and then scowled, "A scrapyard is the best place for it, really."

[Serena Laran]

Serena "mmm"ed neutrally to his suggestion, and liberally sprayed the wound and surrounding arm with a pink foam. It would sting initially but there was a mild anesthetic in the foam that helped soothe the exposed flesh. The foam bubbled up and then disappated, and Abarai barely even blinked.

She pulled up a rolling stool, and sat by the bed. "There don't appear to be any metal slivers left behind. A clean wound. Still, you should probably have a shot of antibiotics to circumvent any infection from bacteria that was on the lifter." Serena looked at him. "I can start the healing process with the Force, but it will need some stitches as well, to keep it closed. Or, just stitches, it is up to you."

[Abarai Loki]

First, Loki drew himself up with a measured intake of breath, and then, nothing. He froze, eyes fixed on the wall, as if searching for an answer upon its blank and wholly-uninteresting surface. There were implications in both of his options, woven with subtlety deep into Serena's words, whether she realised it or not. If he asked Serena to use her healing powers on him, that was almost an outright confession that he, a Jedi Knight, was incapable of tending his own wounds. However, to refuse Serena's offer would be pig-headed and disrespectful of her generosity. No, he would take the healing. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to be marked with battle-scars from a decrepit load-lifter. Then, when he opened his mouth to speak, words failed him. But, he thought, what if that made him appear vain, or worse, a coward? Did Serena Laran expect her Jedi to be tough and unflinching in the face of bodily mutilation? And how long could the silence go on before she thought him a complete fool?

"No," he blurted, then, after a beat, "I mean, yes. Please do encourage my wound to heal, Master Laran."

And, as he felt his face starting to prickle pink, he explained, "My lightsaber instruction will suffer the longer I am wounded, you understand."

[Serena Laran]

"Of course," Serena agreed, readying the thread and curved needle. She needed only to steady the edges of the wound so that it no longer gaped. A full healing session could be done, the entire thing done with the Force, but it had been a long day and she wanted to conserve her energy for the rest of the evening at the hospital. The spray would have numbed the area by now, and whatever pain remained the knight was more than capable of resisting.

"Try to hold still," she murmured, and began the first stitch. "How is that going, by the way? The lightsaber instruction." She tied off the first stitch and began another.

[Abarai Loki]

"I am... mostly pleased with the progress the padawans have made in recent months."

And it was true. He was pleased, mostly. His expression betrayed not an ounce of satisfaction to his superior, however, as she busied herself with his wound. The threading needle created phatom pricks of pain in his arm with every stitch, and he imagined what it would feel like without the anesthetic, with its acrid smell and unmanning shade of pink. In the silence that accompanied Serena's work, he considered his words: that he was not completely satisfied was, in itself, a confession of sorts, so he decided to elaborate.

"Since our arrival on Ossus, we have experienced an influx in the number of new initiates joining our ranks. In the past, the padawans were divided into three different classes, each determined by skill. Now, there are four classes, to accomodate the broader spectrum of lightsaber proficiency."

He hesitated, in an attempt to identify the source of his displeasure. And then, he frowned and said:

"It seems to me, now, that there is more that divides the students than skill alone."

[Serena Laran]

Serena tied off another stitch and pondered the Knight's words...and the possible meanings behind them. "And what else is it that divides them, Abarai?" Four classes, four different proficiencies. It was no wonder he had had an accident and hurt himself, the teenager was most likely exhausting himself with the workload he had taken on. He performed his duties without complaint, a stoic young man whom the Council had great trust in, but she decided he was being stretched too far, too fast.

In fact, she knew very little about him, other than what she had observed first hand. The previous council members had never had doubt in his abilities, and she did not either. He was, however, one of the youngest Jedi knights she'd known, even if his skill was not in question. The young reacted to responsibility in different ways - some by shirking duties and rebelling, others by remaking their whole life around said responsibilities. It didn't take a Jedi to know which one Abarai was.

[Abarai Loki]

He could sum up his complaint in one word:

"Discipline. Some of these initiates possess not a shred of it, and as a result they lack the will to learn and the capacity to improve. Frankly, such students are a detriment to the training process and their fellows suffer for it."

And so did he. His wound was already half-sealed by Serena's effortless needlework. If she had heard him speak, she showed no sign of it, engrossed as she was in her work. It seemed to him that Serena Laran was not given to lengthy speeches: she listened patiently, and offered brief and courteous replies. Normally, that was all Loki ever wanted in a conversation, and it was scarcely what he got. And now that he was faced with someone who was delightfully tactiturn, he found he wanted the exact opposite. What was wrong with him? Must he tease words from her once sentence at a time?

"Master Laran, have you ever had a... difficult student?"

[Serena Laran]

She thought for a moment, and shook her head. "No - and also yes. All students are difficult in their own ways. Teaching Morgan and Rhianna was challenging, but once I figured out how best they learned and what their strengths were it became easier." Serena tied off the second to last stitch and pressed the curved needle into the damaged flesh for the last time.

"Draiya is not an easy padawan," she smiled ruefully, pulling the thread tight carefully, "and she certainly could use more practice with concentration and concern for her fellows. Perhaps you should get back to me in a year." Serena fastened the stitch and cut the thread.

"There you go."

[Abarai Loki]

He looked down. A row of neat and perfectly symmetrical stitches punctuated his wound at even intervals. So perfect was Serena's work that not a speck of red showed between the folds of knitted skin. Once she had kick-started the healing process, Loki was certain there would be no scar - a thought which provided him with a disproportionate amount of relief. He gave a stiff nod.

"You have a very skilled hand. I should like to see it holding a lightsaber sometime; your swordsmanship would be a sight to behold."

[Serena Laran]

"Surgical strikes," she quipped, smiling as she began to clean up. "Perhaps we could spar sometime, no doubt I could use the practice."

[Abarai Loki]

"I welcome the challenge."

The words came naturally, betraying a sudden resurgence in enthusiasm. Talk of lightsabers and dueling always had that affect on him. But instead of pursuing the topic further, he hesitated, recalling something Serena said earlier. Teaching was a challenge... but it was not a challenge Loki welcomed in the same way he would a duel. A thought occurred to him:

"Teaching is not unlike dueling, is it?" His question required no answer. He continued, "If your approach is unsuccessful, you change tactic. You discover the strengths and weaknesses of your opponent - or, in this case, a student - and you exploit it to your... their advantage."

Resurfacing from his reverie, he considered Serena anew, "Master Laran, will you teach me to teach?"

[Serena Laran]

She put away the supplies, trashing the used needle and assorted blood soaked gauzes in a biohazard container, considering young master Loki's request. "Teaching is less of a duel than a dance, Abarai." She sat across from him, more than happy to continue their conversation. "As a teacher you role is more that of a partner in learning, rather than an antagonist trying to beat a lesson into a thick skull. To take the duel comparison to it's natural conclusion. Student and teacher should not be opposing forces."

[Abarai Loki]

"You are telling me a teacher is like a diplomat, negotiating with his student to reach terms that are agreeable and mutually beneficial?" Loki was desperate to remove the dancing analogy from the discussion, "The student is rewarded with a learning experience that is both rich and satisfying while the teacher-"

His train of thought lost, Loki's puzzled expression creased with irritation. The discussion bothered him: it was exactly the sort of hypothetical waffle to which his peers were so often given, and he'd fallen prey to it. Analogies and conjecture were of no use to anyone. He folded his arms and changed his approach.

"Draiya Naaianneya is a promising padawan with an abundance of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, she seems to be under the impression that maturity is something that applies only to cheese. Akasha Khan is fiercely talented and utterly beligerent. My master would've found them both unworthy. Master Laran, I believe we are too soft. A pupil should have discipline to receive a master's training. It should not be expected of masters to accommodate the whims of ill-disciplined children."

[Serena Laran]

"Of course not," Serena said. "One can adjust to someone's learning style without throwing discipline out completely. Draiya learns by doing. Others learn best by repetition, or writing things down to cement it into the memory. When it comes to a purely physical activity, like the lightsaber, all need to learn by doing... but some may thrive under pressure while others wilt under an instructor's fierce gaze. One cannot just shout at their students and assume they will all learn equally."

[Abarai Loki]

"I do not shout at my students. In fact, rarely do I have to so much as repeat myself."

Loki was aware, even as the words left his lips, that what he said was for his own reassurance more than anything else. There was a note of uncertainty that turned his statement into a question. His master never had to repeat himself, but then, he was not his master. For that he was grateful beyond measure. Then why, the question begged, had he been trying to emulate his teaching methods all this time?

"Ironclad discipline and unwavering loyalty were the cornerstones of my own training. When my brother challenged our master's authority, he was dealt a lightsaber wound to the thigh; it was weeks before he could walk properly. Suffice it to say that disobedience was an issue never again. I grew up assuming that was the Jedi way but, from what I understand, things were done differently at the Jedi Temple."

[Serena Laran]

Serena smiled, a little wryly. "It was a bit different than that, yes." Abarai's master did not sound like he had been a pleasant person. She had long suspected that the boy had been taught by a Jedi even more stern and demanding than he was, but she wasn't exactly pleased to be right. "Knight Thalios Dremmel, my master, required attention, punctuality, and discipline. He never physically hurt or threatened me - if I was hurt while his padawan it was usually my own fault. He was gentle, compassionate, but fiercely loyal to the Temple and it's ideals. He was a highly regarded diplomat, and he imparted as much of his knowledge to me as he could.

"I don't mean to make it sound as though he was not a warrior. Master Dremmel was skilled with the lightsaber, and during the Clone Wars, when diplomacy failed..." her voice trailed off, a distant look in her eyes.

[Abarai Loki]

"The odds were not in his favour," Loki had heard so many variants of the same story, they all ended the same way, "Even a Jedi has limits."

It was a difficult fact for him to acknowledge, but, it was as his master often told him, history was ignored at great peril. There were times when he wondered if his peers ever reflected upon the betrayal and murder of thousands of their fellow Jedi - indeed, when the treaty was signed between the Alliance and the Empire, he had to wonder if anyone even remembered - but there it was, on Serena's face, an open wound that no amount of stitches could heal.

"Your master sounded like an excellent teacher. A man to inspire loyalty and respect." He thought about his own master, a man who had once commanded the loyalty of both Loki and his brother. Gentleness and compassion were anathema to the principles of Barabas Tosca, but he had been everything they knew; he made them strong, turned them into survivors, made them warriors. Love was at once too strong and weak a word to describe the bond they shared. Together, they had been invincible. He knew who he was back then, and what it meant to be a Jedi, or at least he thought he did. Lately, he couldn't even teach someone to swing a lightsaber properly.

"I am an unusual choice for a lightsaber instructor, Master Laran. I am not like you or Master Vymes. Padawans do what I say because they fear the consequences if they do not. They do what you say because they want to."

[Serena Laran]

She considered that for a moment. "Fear may get the lesson learned, but for a Jedi it is counterproductive. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate." Serena didn't finish the progression, studying Abarai's face. "I was not on the Council when you were given your current duties, but I think I speak for us all when I say you remain in the position as much for your benefit as theirs. No one is too old to learn. Not even me," she smiled.

"Fear of punishment is always inferior to true respect."

[Abarai Loki]

When Master Laran started to recite the old Dark Side mantra, Loki fought a powerful urge to roll his eyes. The whole thing sounded utterly infantile to his ears, and it was difficult not to feel patronised when subjected to it. Sometimes he wondered how Jedi veterans managed to cling to their sanity all that time at the temple. Having met his ghost, Loki was convinced Master Yoda, and his inane prattle, would've single-handedly convinced him to pack it all in. Once Serena had finished telling him everything he already knew, Loki kept his expression blank, and held fast to his last shred of patience.

"I am aware of that, Master Laran. It is the reason I mentioned it in the first place. What I want to know is how to gain the students' respect so that I may better teach them."

[Serena Laran]

She shrugged. "Respect is earned over time. But," she added, before he lost his patience as she could sense he was about to, "I find that acting as though one commands respect helps a great deal. Speak softly so they have to listen closely. Have compassion, remain calm and centered in the Force, punish fairly, and firmly." Serena smiled a little sadly. "I am afraid that your age being so close to that of the older padawans works against you. That we even have older padawans is an anomaly, and for them not to be paired off with a knight another one. Perhaps we have asked too much of you.

"Not that the Council has found your results lacking," she was quick to add.

[Abarai Loki]

"You have not asked too much of me. It is as you said: no-one is too old to learn. And the day I stop seeking to better myself is the day I dismantle my lightsaber."

In one smooth practised gesture, he unclipped his Jedi weapon and held it in his open palm for Master Laran to see. It was his understanding that a lightsaber's significance differed from Jedi to Jedi; to some it was a tool, to others, a weapon, there were those who saw lightsabers as a symbol of hope, and to Loki, it was a promise.

"When I constructed my lightsaber, it was with the intention to safeguard the Jedi way, and pass on what I had learned to others so that, one day, the Jedi may rise again as a force for good in the galaxy. I never expected to see such a day in my lifetime - my master gave me no illusions about our chances - and yet, despite the insurmountable odds, a new Jedi Order has been born. Suddenly, the preservation of knowledge is no longer enough, and I must confess myself... unprepared."

His fingers closed around his Jedi weapon. In his heart, he felt it was time for a promise to be made anew, he just didn't know what that promise was yet. He glanced up at Serena.

"There is much work to be done, I know. But where do we go from here?"

[Serena Laran]

"Trust the Force," Serena said. "It leads and guides us, as it did me when I left my exile. I grew up in the old Jedi Order, and you were raised apart from it - we both must stretch beyond what we are comfortable with to lead the Jedi into the future.

"I truly believe you will be one of our leaders, Abarai. We are still called to preserve the knowledge of the Jedi Order as we build a new one, but we must build upon that foundation. Take into account what we have learned, admit the mistakes that were made before and strive to do better. Where do we go from here? I do not know. I do know that the road is not an easy one, but it is a worthwhile journey - one we are all on together."

[Abarai Loki]

"The Force is a tool, to be wielded by a Jedi as a doctor wields a scalpel."

Loki stood, and reattached the lightsaber to his utility belt. There was much of what Master Laran had said that he found curious, in the same way he found the make-believe of children curious - it was a pitying and rather repulsed sort of curiosity. A woman of her considerable powers would undoubtedly detect the disappointment rolling from him in crushing waves, so for decency's sake, he decided to take his leave. As he rolled the sleeve of his tunic over the stitched wound, he elaborated on his displeasure.

"I do not trust the Force. I trust in my own judgement and in the judgement of those proven to be capable and intelligent. Meditating on feelings is not what lead us to Ossus, it is what drove the Jedi to near extinction, and, to my horror, it seems my superiors still abide by this brand of blind superstition. It is a suicidal teaching, Master Laran, and I will fight it."

[Serena Laran]

She waited out the tirade, and raised an eyebrow when he had finished. "Perhaps I misspoke. 'Trust the Force' ...it is a saying of habit, and for a long time the only person I spoke to about these things was myself." Serena shrugged slightly, a faint smile on her lips that faded.

"Perhaps you do not understand fully what I mean because..." she hesitated, then plowed ahead, "you have not been shown the future. Something you could not possibly have known, disseminated, or remembered. I have. The Force is not a person, it is an unknowable energy field that ...while it can be used as merely a tool, Abarai, it is so much more than that." She couldn't tell if she was explaining herself or losing him more fully, and kept going before he could walk out.

"To trust the Force is to trust the intelligence and judgement of the Jedi around you. The Force is part of us, and we are part of everything."

[Abarai Loki]

"If the Force truly shows you the future, Master Laran, why is it you are as clueless about tomorrow as the rest of us?"

It was the most disrespectful thing he had ever said to a superior, but even as the words left his lips, the anger behind them felt utterly justified. On Serena's face was the same placid and patient expression he saw in the faces of Masters Vymes and Tarkin, it was the tranquility of the old preacher, Solomon, reflected in her eyes; a tranquility that once seemed so confident, struck Loki as suddenly vacant. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to shake them all.

"Those that have protected and sheltered us have signed a treaty with the Galactic Empire. Where does that leave us? Are we beholden to the laws of our enemy's new friends? What is our purpose? I was given this remarkable gift, and I call myself a Jedi, but, in the wake of recent events, I cannot be sure what that means anymore. I am not alone in this. And when I asked you where do we go from here, you said you do not know. You are a master of the Jedi Council. We need direction."

[Serena Laran]

She sighed. "The future is always in motion. Visions given to me can be changed through actions in the present. It sounds like excuses... I cannot make excuses for myself, Abarai. You are right to feel frustrated. I... I struggle at times also. It is a mighty weight on the Council's shoulders and we are not all on the same page."

It was a damning confession, and she exhaled slowly, not looking away from the young man. "It is no secret that there are different schools of thought among the Jedi, nor that we have paid twice over for trusting those who have been tainted by the Dark side. You say to trust in the judgement of those around you... I find it difficult to do so anymore. And I am a Council member, a leader of the Jedi. The truth is that changing from the old ways is difficult for me, even when I see the need for change I do not know how to implement it. Perhaps my age and experience should grant me perfect wisdom, but it does not, Abarai.

"We have to trust each other, and we are lost without the Alliance, but any group of men can be corrupted. The Empire..." her voice broke off, her eyes haunted by memories of her time as a prisoner of the Inquisitorate, and Serena closed them, taking a deep breath.

[Abarai Loki]

The deluge of honesty came crashing down with such force that it almost swept the floor away from under him. If so much doubt could reside in the heart of a Jedi Master, Loki wondered, then what hope was there for the rest of them? Was this a sample of the fears uttered behind closed doors? With each disclosure, the reality of their circumstances sunk into his bones like a frosty chill: the Jedi were clinging to survival by their fingernails. Maridun. The Wheel. Ossus. Nothing had changed.

In two final words, Serena Laran allowed old wounds to resurface, and took no pains to erect a facade between herself and her subordinate. Loki wondered on her choice: perhaps this was the trust of which she had spoken so candidly. Did that mean that, after all that had happened to her, she saw fit to trust him? He fought against a flutter of pride and failed. He would return the trust in kind - it was the honourable thing to do.

"When I was on Maridun, things were simple. My training was hard and unrelenting, but I had purpose. I was a Jedi, and my existance itself was an act of defiance against the Empire. It was my sworn duty to preserve this knowledge and pass it on to others." He hesitated, visualising in his mind's eye a bridge he feared to cross. First, he took a breath, and then he took a step, "There are times when I feel my role, in this capacity, is not unlike that of a museum curator - preserving ancient treasures for the sake of preserving them. But it is all I know. When our circumstances are complicated, my... simple outlook allows me to keep on task."

He dared a glance at his superior, "Perhaps we may all benefit from a little simplicity from time to time."

[Serena Laran]

"There is nothing like a gaggle of Cizeri marines stomping around to held keep things simple," she said dryly. She could see how much his admission had cost him; it was an unusual fearful hesitation in the young man who always seemed so assured. Serena smiled softly. "It was a heavy burden your master placed on your shoulders. No one person bears the weight of continuing the teachings of the Jedi. Not any more.

"I tend to think 'once the Alliance and the Cizerack withdraw' and Ossus is truly ours...then we can settle into a quiet, simple life together. Build the future with these padawans - young and old. But there is always conflict beyond our borders, and the call of the Jedi to mediate such disputes in the galaxy to preserve peace. To ignore such would be to turn our backs on what it means to be Jedi." Serena took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Trust the Force, trust each other...however we choose to do it we are all in this together."

[Abarai Loki]

Loki listened intently, fascinated to hear Serena repeat thoughts that he himself had thought on numerous occassions. She too wanted to be rid of the Alliance and the Cizerack. She too wanted for the Jedi to be left to get one with their business unimpeded by political fluff. Such a future was, sadly, looking less and less likely: the Jedi were an asset to the military and the diplomatic effort, not to mention a symbol of hope to trillions - what political body would gladly lose such a bargaining chip? His talks with Senator Meorrei had illuminated for him the mysteries of the political arena, and turned him into an embittered cynic in the process.

"I don't think we shall ever see the back of the Alliance now. We are in their debt and they will claim back every credit, with interest. They will try to use us, Master Laran, the people who sign deals with our enemies. We must be careful."

[Serena Laran]

"You may be right," she said, "And my hopes in that area are just that. Hopes." Serena put out her hand. "If you don't mind..?" She looked at his freshly sutured arm, the second part of the process yet to be completed.

[Abarai Loki]

"Oh."

Forgetting himself, Loki let slip the foolish utterance, and offered his arm. During the course of their conversation, he had forgotten his original reason for being in the hospital - which, he promptly chided himself, should've blatantly obvious. He could feel the warmth in his cheeks that illustrated his shame. In the past, he would've been content to endure his discomfort in silence, and vanish from the Jedi Master's sight as soon as possible, but experience had taught him the best course of action was to resume the offensive, and chase away the silence. In his haste, he heard himself start to speak before he had even finished sifting through the quagmire of his thoughts.

"So... Master Laran... have you... always been a healer?"

[Serena Laran]

She took his arm, sensing his acute discomfort. Not because of the injury, but because of some perceived failing on his part. Sometimes she wondered what sort of Jedi Abarai would have become had he received a modicum of love, real love when he had been a child. She would never mention these thoughts to him, of course, sure of his reaction to such an accusation. For he would surely take it as an insult.

Serena closed her eyes, delving into Abarai's arm with the Force. The body naturally knew how to heal the cut, so it was relatively simple to encourage it to speed up the process. "Once I was a wide eyed youngling who had her braids pulled by her classmate." She opened her eyes and smiled.

"I showed an affinity for the healing arts at an early age, and my training was arranged accordingly. I saw myself as being a diplomat healer, visiting refugee camps on troubled planets..." Her voice trailed off and she half shrugged.

[Abarai Loki]

When Master Laran divulged details of her youth, Loki listened intently. The unwelcome awkwardness was replaced with fascination: here was a first hand account of someone who had lived during the Jedi's golden age. How much he enjoyed these stories. He was disappointed when she concluded her tale with a shrug, but Loki was not to be discouraged.

"Your training was arranged around your healing ability. Interesting. Were you assigned a healing position at the temple? Did you visit refugee camps?"

[Serena Laran]

She nodded. "Yes, and yes. I shadowed many of the healers as a padawan, usually when Master Dremmel was involved in Senate meetings. Once I became proficient enough I pulled a regular shift in the Halls of Healing, as well as overseeing a youngling clan." Her eyes grew a little distant. "The whole temple was beautiful - carved and sculpted, soaring ceilings and enormous windows overlooking Coruscant in all directions. But the Halls..." she smiled. "The whole place seemed to glow with amber light, as if the Crystals of Fire lit the entire place. Despite the suffering that was often within its walls, it was a place of peace."

Serena focused on Abarai's face, his piercing eyes desperate for knowledge of what was. "I visited many refugee camps with Master Dremmel during the Clone Wars. After I was knighted I undertook my first solo mission to help begin the rebuilding of a people ravaged by the war...only to have my work interrupted by what they now call the Purge." Serena smiled wanly. "I escaped with my life and hid on a backwater planet no one had even bothered to name."

[Abarai Loki]

Master Laran was generous in her storytelling; sparing little detail, she allowed Loki to imagine, if only for an instant, what life could have been like for him and his fellow Jedi, had it not been for the great betrayal. When it came, it came like a gut punch, derailing the happy narrative, and plunging it into the realm of nightmares. Without exception, every story ended the same way. His fists clenched. Loki did not hate the Empire - hatred was useless, directionless. His feelings were far more utilitarian than that. They crystalised into something cold and sharp and tempered with resolve: a blade to vanquish the enemy.

The steely tension in his muscles melted, however, at Serena's touch. Warmth, such as he had never known, that was at once soothing and bright, trickled down his fingertips and along his arm to his sutured wound. Taking on a life of their own, the hairs on his arm rose, compelled to dance on some angelic breath. It felt really really good.

"I can see why the Halls of Healing were so peaceful."

[Serena Laran]

Serena smiled, releasing his arm. "It was an oasis of calm on the busiest planet in the galaxy." She pushed her stool back a bit. "How do you feel now?"

[Abarai Loki]

When she released him, the warmth diminished and he promptly returned to his senses, only to find himself puzzled by her question.

"I feel satisfactory. Normal." He glanced at his wound, "My wound has already started to heal, thanks to you. I have many scars, Master Laran, and I wear each one with pride. They were earned."

Once his sleeve was rolled into place, he stood, and by the time he was on his feet, his trademark frown had reasserted itself.

"However, I do believe a scar at the hands of a malfunctioning load lifter can be considered an exception to the rule. Do you agree?"

[Serena Laran]

"We wear the scars our lives have given us," she said agreeably. "It is a biological process, and one that bacta, properly applied, can circumvent. Fundamentally, no scar has more importance than another, it's significance comes from our memories of it, and the value we assign to it.

"But this cut will heal, and it should not scar. No permanent reminder of your accident." Serena smiled.

[Abarai Loki]

"Indeed. It is not a tale I care to recount," he bowed before Serena, "Thank you, Master Laran, for your assistance, and your candor. You have given me much to think about."