for the send a word thing you posted: cloak
Obi-Wan was half-awake seated on a bench near the door, propped back against the wall with a young boy curled against him, golden head in his lap. That it was the Temple night cycle didn’t seem to matter: he was watching his Master in spite of heavy, drooping eyelids, monitoring his dreams the way Qui-Gon had so often done for him. But the boy beside him slept without dreams, and Qui-Gon’s face seemed pinched even in sleep.
Watching from the door, unobserved and unobtrusive, Master Dooku felt an ache in his chest. He’d seen Kenobi, a shadowed fleeting presence between Council chamber and Healers’ Halls. Pale, exhausted, eyes red-rimmed, the man had wrapped silence around him like a cloak, and smiled only for his little shadow—a blonde boy too openly eager to be an Initiate, too young yet to be a Padawan, too bright a presence not to someday be a Jedi. They were a mass of contradictions, those two: a boy too old and too ragged, a Knight too fresh to take a Padawan.
But they did all three of them have a heavy weight in common, worrying over the fate of Qui-Gon Jinn. Dooku felt suddenly bowed with it, like he had not been since Qui-Gon’s Padawan days.