Summary: Continuation from "Black Wing: The Prologue". This is
a world where the Jedi are winged like angels. This chapter
deals with Obi-Wan's inner disappointment at his failure. Takes
place after the duel with Bruck Chun.
Dedicated to those who have encouraged me with their emails.
Thank you!
Rating: PG-13.
Scorched are my wings,
I cannot fly,
Ambushed my hear; still I do
Not die
Counterfeit notes, that Love
Always sings
Made me fall down
Burned are my wings
Pia, "Angelus Cantus", Benediction Moon.
The Infirmary was empty when Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan arrived, the
lad half-limping due to the throbbing pain emanating from his
wounded wing. The Jedi Master walked in first, bowing to the
Healer apprentice on duty who immediately rushed to get the
medical equipment. She pretended not to notice the pallid young
man leaning against the doorway, his wings drooping and his
shoulders hunched. As for Obi-Wan, he had gone past worrying.
His wing hurt like the several Levels of Sith Hells and he was
thirsty, very much so. Right now, he simply wanted to sit down,
get his wing fixed and go back to his room nestled deep within
the Temple. He had enough of the stares and the
finger-pointings. The whisperings, as subtle as the wind
rustling through feathers.
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon's voice woke him from the half-reverie. The
deep rumbling voice, reassuring as the warmth of the sun,
carried a sense of worry and concern. Qui-Gon pressed a glass
of water into Obi-Wan and the youth drank gratefully, feeling
refreshed. The water filtered through his leaden body, clearing
it as if it was a crystal stream pushing away waste. He
breathed in slowly, allowing the Force to flow back into his
systems.
"Master Jinn," the Healer apprentice re-appeared, bearing a
tray of bandages and a tube of bacta gel. She was one or two
years younger than Obi-Wan. Her face was plain, simple. But
what bothered Obi-Wan was her white wings. As she moved away,
they seemed to mock his existence. His wing began to throb
dismally and Obi-Wan winced, closing his eyes.
He regretted firing off that question at his master. "Why am I
a Black-Wing?" sounded exactly like a child's question.
Immature, childish and totally unaccepted for a padawan
apprentice of his age. But then, he was hurting and he knew he
reacted out of pain.
"The cut is not that deep," Qui-Gon was saying, his fingers
gently pushing back the feathers singed by the 'saber blade.
Something cool was applied on the wound and Obi-Wan hissed as
the sting was felt. It was fortunately gone immediately and
numbness spread across the affected wing region. From the
corner of his eye, Obi-Wan could see his master putting away
the bacta gel. The light from the ceiling shone on the white
wings folded at the back.
Obi-Wan stared at them, feeling suddenly heartsick. In his
early years of his training, he had sometimes wished to touch
those powerful white wings. It was a yearning borne out of
curiosity and of his own innate envy. Of course, he meditated
long and hard on the issue of envy, shutting himself in his
room. He had cried softly; the pain had cut him deep, like an
ice-blade, lacerating his heart. He thought he had those
feelings well and truly released to the Force, like the release
of those doves during one of the rare cremation ceremonies.
Yet, at the sight of his master's white wings and coupled with
the aching fact that he still bore those abominable black ones,
Obi-Wan felt the pain surge forth once more.
"Obi-Wan?"
"Sorry..." Obi-Wan schooled his features to that of the serious
padawan, waiting for his teacher's instructions.
"You seem quiet," Qui-Gon said softly, placing a gentle hand on
his student's shoulder.
"Nothing is bothering me," Obi-Wan said and flexed his wing.
Good, it didn't seem to throb that much now, since the bacta
was working.
Some expression crossed Qui-Gon's face. "Obi-Wan?"
"Nothing," Obi-Wan repeated and bowed slightly. "Thank you,
Master." And I am sorry, he thought to himself. For being a
failure.
The walk across the sprawling Grounds made Obi-Wan feel more
vulnerable. He tucked his wings close to himself, a reaction he
had practiced since he was a child. He hated those glances. Of
course, they were silent expressions of prejudice. They could
be pleasant and smiling when they spoke to him. Bruck was the
only one who showed his overt hostility.
Qui-Gon walked ahead, leaving Obi-Wan behind. It was a sunny
afternoon and the spires of the Temple glittered as if with
gold. The huge glass cathedral that formed the nerve center of
the Jedi shone, glowing softly like some exotic pearl. The air
was perfumed with the light fragrance of the snow-roses.
Inhaling in the wondrous scent, Obi-Wan breathed in the Force.
It sang to him in its own special voice, pulsating through his
blood veins. For a precious moment, he felt as if he was no
longer a Black-Wing. Instead, he was washed clean. Even those
black wings...
The Force ate away the feelings of pain, of the keen awareness
that he was different. He let go of the feelings of failure,
letting the Force deal with them. He closed his eyes, pushing
away the memory of Bruck's triumphant face. Peace, serenity,
honor, Obi-Wan thought, repeating the words within him like a
mantra. Peace, serenity, honor.
There was a time...long ago when he absolutely hated the black
wings. He was born with it, according to the Jedi teachers. He
couldn't do anything to change the color. It was biological.
Someone told him with a hint of malice that it might have a
curse, a jinx. He wanted so much to remove those black-colored
feathers and he did... Master Qui-Gon had found him sitting in
a secluded corner, tearing away the feathers with his bare
hands, his tears streaming down his face. He had planned to
dump all the feathers into a fire-burner as a final act of
revenge. He had hoped, by the destruction of those black
feathers, that white ones would sprout up in their place.
That was in the past, when he was only a child. Now, he was on
the threshold of full adulthood. He had long accepted that the
black color was permanent. He had even undergone a period of
pride, capitalizing on his different status.
Sith-spawn, Bruck Chun used to taunt him. Black-wing!
Sith-spawn!
It was said that the Sith were all bearers of black wings.
"Wing-tip to wing-tip, the midnight darkness spreads," the
lyrics of a childhood song whispered. "Beware of their
seductive voices, children..."
Obi-Wan knew that he wasn't a Sith. He was brought up in the
Temple, taught all the lessons and tenets of the Jedi. However,
his age-mates thought otherwise and certainly, he had felt odd
sitting amongst a sea of pure white. At times, he felt like a
dirty oil slick, smearing purity and cleanliness with its ruin.
"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon beckoned from the stairs of the main Temple.
The youth realized that he was clenching his fists and quickly
loosened them, shaking himself. Putting on a smile he barely
felt, Obi-Wan strode forth to meet up with his master.
The dream curled its golden tendrils around his mind, drawing
him closer into the world of dreams and subconscious imagery.
He dreamed that he flew, like a bird. Indeed, he could see
himself soaring across an expanse of shiny water. Above him,
the sun pulsated like some red heart.
He was free! He laughed and his laughter rang across the dream
heavens. He dipped, somersaulted and dove, reveling in this new
freedom. He wasn't surprised that he was nude. Most of his
dreams spoke of nudity. Not in the sexual way, he knew. But of
freedom, of the total sensation of flight.
Tonight's nocturnal adventure was different. He spied someone
else flying in the heavens. It was another man, his features
indistinguishable. As the wind whistled past his ears, he
turned to look at the stranger.
Black wings. As dark as the cosmos. As powerful as a
thunderclap.
He wanted to reach out, hail the black-winged stranger. He
thought with heady pleasure that he had found someone like him.
Like him!
Suddenly, he faltered and he realized that he was falling from
the heavens. His wings were alive with fire. The orange-red
tongues flamed across the black feathers, turning the edges to
a red smoldering crisp. Soon, the fire was consuming most of
his wings and he screamed...
And he woke in his master's arms, shaking uncontrollably. His
wings burned as if they were still on fire. Hands stroked his
head tenderly, words of comfort wrapping him in a cocoon of
warmth. Somewhere, the Force murmured a lullaby to him and he
ceased shaking. Alertness was coming back to him and he began
to feel embarrassed. That he was, a grown man... acting like a
child. He was aware that his master was holding his right hand.
"Go back to sleep," his master said and touched his face
lightly. "It was a nightmare."
So, he did, cautiously dipping back to the world of sleep. Rest
was slow in coming. His heart beat erratically in his chest and
he stared at the ceiling. The darkness in his room was alive
with phantasm and dream shapes, swirling about him like eddies
in a river. He could only think about the stranger with black
wings in the dream.
A figure stood in the moonlight. Its cowl was bathed in a soft
white glow.
With one final look at the night sky, it glided away into the
darkness.
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