Master Apprentice Archive The Burning Ground 3: Hiding in the Light Quick search:

Series: The Burning Ground - Alt-JAOA (Dark)

Characters-Rating: Q/O - PG-13

Category: AU, Drama, Angst, H/C

Summary: A sleepless night and unquiet memories

Archive: m_a, JAOA - anybody else just ask.

CD: Yes

Feedback: YES please! It keeps the plot bunnies fed and healthy.

Spoilers: References Jedi Apprentice 2

Notes: Many thanks to Black Rose for creating JAOA & letting me play in her universe, and to both her and Divinia for comments, inspiration & help. This journey into darkness is the fault of neither of them.

[This is telepathy] and /these are thoughts/.

Ambiance: Gorecki: Symphony 3

Disclaimer: George Lucas is god and owns everything... except this weird permutation which is just for fun and I doubt he'd want it. All JAOA-specific things belong to Black Rose. Healers Wanri Liag & Eren Daret are mine.

JAOA Page: http://digitalmidnight.net/garden/jaoa.html

WARNING: Please see the notes for Burning Ground 1 for series warnings and spoilers.

Scroll to the bottom of the page for story warnings.

The Burning Ground 3: Hiding in the Light
Year of the Republic 25,989/25,963
Gail Riordan, 2000
wander@dnai.com

"I thought you were going to bed?"

"Couldn't sleep." Wanri settled herself in front of the direct access terminal and was keying in retrieval requests. "Might as well get some work done. What are *you* doing still up?" There was more affection than exasperation in her voice.

"I couldn't sleep either." Eren went to get her favorite mug from the cupboard and started a fresh pot of tea. /Didn't try, even./ How had he let himself forget so much? It was almost as if he had put a forgetting on himself after he had seen the results of one that had been laid on the young Qui-Gon. The tea was ready. He poured with concentration, keeping his mind on the present task, noticing the small avoidance in himself. And he a Healer. He snorted gently at himself and Wanri looked up inquiringly as he came over to her. He put the steaming mug down at her elbow and peered over her shoulder. "What are you working on?"

In answer she grimaced and leaned back to give him a better view. The screen contained a layered series of 'Record Restricted: Access Code Required.' messages in amber and red. A violet block signalled a privacy seal, and the single green window on top was a simple Temple Directory entry.

    Jinn, Master, Qui-Gon^; 97-8A North Tower
      CommAccess: JinnQ
        ResStatus: In Temple*, Coruscant**
        AssStatus: In Temple+, Coruscant**
        DutStatus: Library; Archive Storage
          LinkTo: Kenobi, Knight, Obi-Wan***
      LinkOther: Yoda, Master

Silly question. He looked closer at the entry. Both the 'Communicate' and 'Message' buttons were amber, and 'Details' was indigo. How odd, though the privacy code was no surprise. Eren suspected that if Wanri had not been Jinn's Healer-of-record, the flags, the links and the location of his quarters would not have shown up at all, and 'Communicate' would be red.

"House arrest?" Her tone was more than a little incredulous.

"Essentially." He pointed to the assignment status flag, "Medical house arrest." It had been a hard won compromise, he recalled belatedly, one that had divided both the Healer's Council and the High Council. But he had had no idea it would be this ... *thorough*.

"Why?!" There was distress under the incredulity. Eren spared a moment of regret at the disillusionment his student was obviously feeling.

"*They* didn't object. And, at the time, the Council couldn't - wouldn't - countenance anything less. It was a compromise." Eren sighed. "I was told that it was to make it easier to keep an eye on them - him. Not punative. And, it also served, serves, to protect them. Both of them."

Wanri nodded slowly, fingers worrying at the edge of the input pad. "Protective custody, then," She snorted softly.

"Yes. And the need for it was real. I expect it still is real. He *did* turn."

"But why the *medical* secrecy?" She tapped irritatedly at the 'Access Restricted' messages. "I can't even bring up the entry *I* made!"

"*That* I can do something about." Eren shooed her out of the chair and put the still-warm cup of tea in her hands before he sat himself. /She needs the access. And this way, I won't have to do all the telling./ He forced himself to stillness, breathing deeply and deliberately. His hands were steady as he worked through screens and access gates; it was his thoughts that yammered against the barriers he had allowed to strengthen for so long. Thoughts he still could not bring himself to verbalize.

The screen blinked, glowed green-gold for a moment, then came back with windows merely edged in warning colors, no longer blocked from view. " I've cleared you to my access level on all records and files. Jinn and Kenobi both. All the way back." *Now* his hands were shaking.

Wanri smiled at him as she moved to sit again before the dataset. "Thank you." She held his glance, serious and affectionate both, a silent acknowledgement of the magnitude of the gesture. "I won't abuse the privilege."

"I know." He couldn't quite suppress the flinch at her choice of words, but she had bent her attention to the screen and did not see it. He retreated to the sofa and his uncomfortable thoughts.

Not surprisingly, his master was exhausted. Qui-Gon had insisted on doing his morning shift in the Archive before joining Obi-Wan for a mid-meal he had barely touched. Then there had been the receptionist to deal with, and the appointment itself with the Healer. Wanri? Yes, that was her name. Evening meal had been quite beyond him, but that was only to be expected.

Two cups of tea were as much as he could manage, and Obi-Wan did not press him to eat, happy that his Master's system would accept anything at all. Qui-Gon would have tried for his sake, he knew, but it did not take experienced eyes to see that even the mild chamfre sat uneasily.

"Shall I run a bath?"

[Yes. I'd ...oh....] The empty teacup fell from hands that were suddenly shaking uncontrollably.

Obi-Wan watched helplessly as his Master folded himself in and endured. He breathed in time with Qui-Gon's focussed efforts as the older man's body shuddered and his muscles spasmed. This was the third such episode this evening. Aftershocks, brought on by the necessary stress of the healer's examination, as gentle, careful and considerate as she had been. The Knight clenched his hands tightly to keep from reaching out. He knew too well that there was no touch, no contact that Qui-Gon's body would tolerate in this state, knew also how much his beloved wished it otherwise. /Wished it enough to finally ask for help? To allow another, a stranger, a healer, within the silent walls of his defenses?/ The appointment had been Qui-Gon's idea, not his, the insistence on following through with it reminiscent of long-ago lessons in strategies for coping with unpleasant and painful necessity. He didn't quite know what to make of it and hardly dared to hope. /Maybe..../

The convulsive shudders were lessening. With a little sigh Obi-Wan righted the teacup and refilled it.

Qui-Gon opened tired eyes at the sound and wrapped his hands around the cup, cramped fingers grateful for the warmth, the texture of the glaze. [Thank you. I ...] He grimaced faintly, looking down at the tea.

Obi-Wan caught the sense of regret at causing distress, the flavour of shame and frustration acknowledged and released. [I know.] Now he could gently grip that broad, bowed shoulder in wordless support. "I'll fill the bath."

[Thank you.]

Another small squeeze and he retreated to the bathing chamber, giving them both space and air. Careful of each other.

Hot water, soothing herbs, the mutually comforting ritual of washing and combing out the long now wholly silvered hair. Somehow, through everything, this small rite had stayed sacred, inviolate, precious in its simple grace. Tonight Obi-Wan was particularly aware of each element, each moment: the curl of the steam, the plash and gurgle of the water, the deep love and trust that sang between the two of them. He no longer had to think to compensate for restricted movement, knew when to support and when let go. Took unabashed pleasure in the damp, warm scent of Qui-Gon's hair and the small contented sounds he made as he ran his hands through it. But his ears still missed the sound of his Master's voice.

Obi-Wan thought about that as he stood under the shower spray after seeing Qui-Gon settled and drowsy in the wide sleeping couch. They communicated so much without speaking, and there were so many things he knew - or thought or felt or believed he knew - without Qui-Gon ever having had to articulate them. Through Force-knowledge, empathy, observation and intellect and assumption. It occurred to him that the reason he had been able to reach his Master even in the darkest moments, when no one else had wanted or been able to, was because he had never lost the belief, the conviction that *his* Master, *his* Qui-Gon Jinn was there to *be* reached. And his belief had succeeded in shaping Qui-Gon's reality to the point that it could re-manifest. But if that were the case, then....

But no. He would not think of that now. Some other time, yes, but not now. He was showered and dried and that was enough musing on philosophy and root causes. He was tired too, and if past patterns held, it would be a broken night.

Resolutely he put himself to bed and willed himself to sleep.

Soft whimpers roused him, frightened child sounds, the sound of nightmares. He had been deeply enough asleep to miss the onset of this too-common dream. He would have to wake his Master, it had gone too far to be simply redirected. Long practice had him reaching across the small space between them, gripping the stiff shoulders firmly. "Master, wake up." A careful press of lips between tight-drawn brows, reinforcing their connection. [Come awake, Master. I'm here, it's safe.]

With a shivering flinch the dreamer woke, eyes black and blind in the dim light. Obi-Wan loosened his hold. "You were dreaming." His voice clear and low, a warmth to focus on.

[Obi-Wan.] The tight, shallow breath was easing. Master Jinn relaxed back into the pillows with awareness, consciously clearing and releasing the miasma of the nightmare. Securely centered back in his self. He never remembered the whimper-dream, for all it occurred so often. [Thank you, love. Back to sleep now.]

"I will if you will," There was a smile in the whisper, as there had been warmth in the thought. He watched as Qui-Gon breathed deliberately once, twice, and let his eyes fall shut, before letting sleep take him again as well.

"Eren?" Wanri was peering intently at the record before her. "This doesn't make any sense." /And I am usually good at parsing treatment notes, especially yours!/ was unspoken but loud in her mind.

The older healer unfolded himself from his meditations and went to look over her shoulder.

    25963/7/19/19:37!:: JinnQ/M Admit urgent rtn Telos.
    Collapse, blood loss, poss trbondshock, other internal.
    StdBioScan partial: neg inf, neg carry, inj detail below.
    Xref 25931/2/24/01:01, PreMR-CT/Telos521a-gR!
    Auth DaretE/M Yoda/M

"Oh." Eren shivered and swallowed. "That." He sighed deeply and retreated to the couch, folding himself into his usual corner. Wanri followed, leaving the screen glowing in the background. "The Council - Yoda - sent him to Telos with his second apprentice. They said ... well, what they thought they had foreseen couldn't possibly have been what actually happened."

/...don't think about it./ The thought-voice in his head was a very young child's. A child he didn't know. Did. Didn't know. /Don't *think* about it,/ it said. /Don't. *Don't*. Not now./ /Not ever/ whispered another corner of his mind, and he allowed the shadowed thought to stay as he focused desperately on Now, and going forward, on Here and getting away. The young voice was wise and spoke sense. He tried to stand. There was pain, but he would not allow himself to think about that either, just work around it, get up, get through it. /Don't think. Do. Just do./ His hands were working without thought, drawing up, together, fastening, reassembling. All the parts were there, none of his belongings were missing, not even his comm-unit, his lightsabre. His cloak was marked, cut and singed, but most of that had to have happened in the fighting, not... /NO! Don't *think* about it!/ He pulled the warm brown wool on, shivering, aching. /Think about not thinking. Don't think about it. Don't think./

There was a thin black braid on the floor, neat at one end, ragged at the other. It glistened. Sticky. He stared at it blankly as the world spun behind him and his muscles clenched and his bones threatened to fly apart in agony. That braid had.... Zan had.... The child was shrieking /NO! Don't! Don't think!/ He trembled on the precipice. He had.... Nausea roiled, crested, curling his spine and folding him over, wrenching his gaze away. He was going to be sick. He was going to be so sick. But he couldn't, not now, not here. Twisting away, swallowing hard and invoking iron control, he forced the burning down, forced himself to move, to walk. /Think about the ship/ said the small voice. /Getting back to the ship. Nothing else. Only the ship./

He skirted pillars reduced to rubble, stumbled on cracked marble, panels scorched and gouged by blaster fire. The Force flowed sluggishly about him, telling him he was alone, alone with the dead, but he kept his sabre in his hand, unlit, unthinking, untrusting. Always alone now, hiding in the light. Beyond the destruction there were no distractions in the ruin of Crion's palace, no dangers to avoid. It was getting harder and harder to not think.

/There's the ship. The ship's safe. Be safe in the ship./ The hatch opened to his cold hand. The salon, the two-person cockpit, the whole small craft was empty. He sealed the hatch. shutting out the sight of Telos, the smell of betrayal. /No, not yet, too much still to do./ Coruscant was a preset in the navacomputer; once he was actually off the ground the autopilot could fly him out of the gravity well. His hands knew what to do, so he let them, and the little ship fled for home. On its way, out of his hands.

The fall into hyperspace took him willingly into unconsciousness, collapsed in the pilot's couch. He awoke shouting, pleading, as he had not while it had been happening, feeling again his body's unbearable betrayal. He did not know how he made it to the 'fresher before he was sick, violently, repeatedly, long past anything to lose, his body trying to rid itself of the foul taste in his mind.

Oh he was so empty now. Even the faint, almost-familiar child voice in his head had left him. Alone, empty, unclean. Crion's son may have scorned to rob him of his belongings but what he had taken - stripped away - ripped out - he was not at all certain was not a fatal loss, a haemorrhage spiritual and physical. And as for the knowledge he'd been left with, *given*.... His body convulsed again, and he welcomed the shattering pain, the bright and merciful oblivion.

"Fortunately the distance from Telos to Coruscant is not great, and Master Jinn made it back safely. Master Yoda felt, knew - something - and was waiting when the ship landed. And a good thing too."

Obi-Wan woke instantly at the break in the soft rhythm of Qui-Gon's breath, the restless shift and twist of his hands in the sheets. /Oh, love. Isn't one nightmare enough?/

It would not be wise to wake him out of this one - his conscious mind was still too deeply submerged - but sometimes proximity was enough. The knight reached out a hand and lightly caressed the shoulder nearest him. There was no flinching away from the careful touch, so he gently gathered the bigger man to him. [Only a dream, love, only a dream.] Large hands curled tightly against his ribs, and he blinked back sudden tears as he cradled the countenance he despaired of seeing free of pain against his shoulder.

He took his own comfort from the steady heartbeat beneath his fingers, the clean warmth of the silk-soft hair under his cheek and could only hope for the day the man in his arms could enjoy equal comfort awake.

The planetary infall alarm roused him, the ship asking for instructions. He could not stay in orbit, in the cold insulation of space. There were things the Council needed to know. The Senate would be wanting an update on the situation on Telos. Coruscant Traffic Control would be annoyed if he missed his assigned entry window. Somehow it was the thought of the Grid-droid's displeasure that got him moving.

From where he was to the pilot's couch was full of blank spaces, and he dealt with the controls numbly, by rote. He listened to his own voice, harsh and dry, with a remote astonishment at its normalcy. He had a window, the Grid was tracking.

His mouth tasted bitterly metallic and his ears rang. He was distantly grateful for the sophistication of the little ship, that the Grid could fly him in, because he was too light-headed to trust his own skill, his cramped hands. Even his Force-sense felt muffled, the Force itself immensely far and faint. Idly, he began to compose his report in his head, something to occupy thought while the Grid brought him down, singular, known, anonymous, as important and as unimportant as every other ship in the system.

What could he say, after all, but that he had failed? That they had been right and he wrong. That Crion was dead and Telos in turmoil, that his, *his* apprentice had Turned and he had failed to stop him, had not even *seen*, and in the end could not finish it, could not destroy what he had in pride and blindness and infatuation created, could not even hold fast against him? He was falling then, falling and spinning apart. /...hold on.../ Faintly, desperately, he grabbed for the memory of the small voice, the sane, wise child who had told him to Not Think. /No you fool, no. The child has the right of it. Don't think. Not yet, you're not done yet./ Sweat was cold on his face and his stomach roiled. His hands shook and clutched at the arms of the couch. /Later. Later. Don't *think*/ He focussed on the colored lights dissolving in twinkling, meaningless patterns before his eyes.

The gentle jolt of the ship landing on the Temple platform broke the semi-trance, and he stumbled for the hatchway, fumbling for the controls. The door opened, the ramp extended, and he clung to the padded edge, trying to center, to steady himself. /Almost there./ He took a deep breath, ignoring the sharp stabbing in his lungs as he had all along, reaching for focus. His feet were only a little unsteady as he made his way down the shallow incline. /Do. Don't think. One step. Another. Almost there. Almost done./ His Master was waiting for him, Yoda, come to meet his Padawan.

The brightness of day-side Coruscant dazzled eyes gone wide and black with pain too long withstood. Blindly he stepped from under the shadow of the ship into the light. "My Master." His throat was locked, he had no voice. [My Master....]

[Qui-Gon.]

The gentle touch on his mind undid him, fragmenting his brittle controls. His legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed heavily at his Master's feet, deeply - mercifully - unconscious.

"Healers were there within moments, brisk, efficient, kind."

Wanri had never suspected Eren of being skilled at narrative, but this telling had shown her new depths to her teacher. She forbore to comment, listening.

"We didn't see - didn't look, at the outset - beyond the broken ribs, the sabre-burns, the dehydration and bruising, enough for collapse in themselves. It wasn't until later, when I was getting him ready for the bacta tank..." Eren stopped, swallowed, the memory still distressing.

Wanri did not prompt him, but refilled his cup and pressed it into his hand.

He tried again, from another angle. "He was wearing dark leggings, and his cloak was dark. His tunics were shredded. We'd only opened them, loosened the belt and sash, up on the platform, making sure he was breathing, his heart beating. The ribs, the burns, those were obvious. And you could feel the fever, the papery dryness."

He gulped at the tea and put the cup down with a little thump, fingers brushing together in tactile memory. He steeled himself, and Wanri almost held her breath, having by now a very good idea of what was coming next.

"When I went to get his leggings off, they were stiff, and ... wet in places ... all down.... We hadn't seen that blood, they were so dark. And thick. And he'd been wearing his cloak. Almost black. Thick wool. And it was ... wet ... too." The words were forced, hesitant, and he had to swallow again. For some reason the next bit was easier. "So, we, I, knew there were internal injuries, so those got taken care of, and...." Another pause. "I decided not to ask, when he was conscious again, how he'd gotten them, why he hadn't stopped the bleeding himself. I didn't want to ... *know* ... even though I ... knew. Or guessed. I mean, they weren't consistent with the report we'd been given. And well, it's a, um, distinctive injury. And so I did an exam and stuff and finished the bacta prep."

'And stuff' being Eren-speak for 'repaired what I could as well as I could'. She could feel that he was still embarrassed and the retelling had made him uncomfortable and ashamed as if by proxy. One of the hazards of being an empath. She poured him more tea. He took it gratefully, warming his hands.

Well, that certainly explained the more than usually cryptic sentence at the end of that particular entry. 'Tissue damage repair, inconsistent with rest of reported activity/injuries.' And the prescription entry, also under Eren's code and dated not long after, for sleeping meds, painkillers and one of the strongest anti-nausea drugs in the catalogue. And those scrips had never been cancelled, were kept listed as current. Still accessed, still apparently used, if sporadically. Possibly, from what she had seen, not used enough.

Qui-Gon was waking. Reluctantly, Obi-Wan unfolded himself, uncradling his beloved. Asleep, dreaming, snared in nightmares, flashbacks, Qui-Gon's body welcomed his touch. Awake, it was rather more complicated.

He watched in relief across the small space he had made as the dark blue eyes opened on here and now and the bigger man saw him, face lightening as he woke to awareness. Sometimes his master woke still caught in too-vivid memory. Obi-Wan shifted back a little closer, collecting one large hand and pillowing his cheek against the warm palm. Fingers brushed a caress in return. [Flashback?]

Folded lips, briefly closed eyes, a tight nod and a little sigh.

[Which one was it?] Obi-Wan made the query gentle, undemanding. He already knew some of the ones it wasn't. (No shaking, no feverish twisting out of his arms, drenched with sweat, no wordless shouts or little hopeless moans and cries. This one counted as mild, only quickening his breath, lining his forehead, tightening his hands, breaking his sleep.)

[Telos. No. After Telos.] Qui-Gon sighed again and swallowed hard. In the safety of their bed he reached out to draw Obi-Wan closer. [I thought I had done with that one. That we had banished it together.]

The hand had come to rest lightly on his shoulder, warm, faintly trembling still. Obi-Wan recognized the effort Qui-Gon was making, rejoiced silently even as his heart caught. [We did. And we'll do it again.] He brought his own hand up to press gentle over the other man's heart. [Together. Always. Love you.]

[And I, you.]

His breath was evening, deepening, and his mental voice, while subdued, was not despairing. They really were making progress, even if he was still only getting snatches of sleep between the nightmares. Obi-Wan watched as weariness stole over the older man's face, weighted his eyelids. It was early yet, long before dawn. [No need for either of us to be up.] He moved to gently - so gently - trace the bearded line of Qui-Gon's jaw, to cup his cheek. [Rest, love. Sleep. I am here.] No Force, never compelling oblivion (it was one of the things they had agreed on - neither would use that trick unless the other asked) only soothing, comforting. [Rest. I will rest with you.]

He was drifting off, warm and safe, the sharp edges of memory blunted by his beloved's presence. [Pleasant dreams,] A hope, almost a prayer. He sought Obi-Wan's hand with his own, holding it fast as he allowed sleep to take him again. [...love...]

[Pleasant dreams.] Not much of a hope, but a hope nevertheless. Obi-Wan swallowed past the tightness in his throat, taking comfort of his own in the warm grasp, the easy, shallow breath, the calm currents of the Force enfolding them both. He closed his own eyes and sank into a light, listening sleep. It really was getting better. It was true, so he had to believe it.

[...to part 4: Conscious Acts of Memory]

Story warnings follow:













WARNINGS: This story concerns the immediate aftermath of rape.