Master Apprentice
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Category: A/U, Post-TPM, Angst, Romance
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did.
Summary: The mirror to "Fever" by Kass, from Obi-Wan's POV.
Rating: PG-13 (Some disturbing imagery.)
"EXILES": In an alternate universe set fifteen years after the events in The Phantom Menace, two Jedi live in hiding on the desert planet of Tatooine, awaiting a child's destiny. Will they survive to see a new hope come to fruition?
Some days I think the only thing worse than the summers on Tatooine are its winters. You would think that rains are a welcome sight on such an arid planet, but, as always in the case of this one, nothing comes in moderation.
With the overabundance of water this season, the sea of sand turns into a flood plain of gritty mire and slippery, nearly unnegotiable, hills and valleys. Flash floods and mud slides have become a danger and I'm constantly on the alert for the sound of rushing water.
This drastic turnabout in the climate makes me grouchier than is my wont, but it seems to cheer Qui-Gon immensely. The flowering of life that is blooming across what were long dead sands pleases him and he has taken to gathering with a vengeance. Herbs, flowers and seedlings are just a few of the things he's hauling in every day with visions of a greenhouse dancing in his head.
Being the pessimist I am, I can't help but think of all the water these greedy little seedlings might start crying for come the dry summer months, but Qui-Gon has already presented me with a chart detailing our water supply for the next year or so, one which clearly indicates we have enough for the green life as well as the human.
Normally, this bit of proactive thinking would amuse me, but for some reason, it doesn't. Not today.
For today, I have a headache.
A terrible, pounding headache. One that begins at my temples and winds its way around to the back of my head, clutching and squeezing with hot painful bursts of agony that sometimes snake all the way down to my spine. It's an awful one, possibly the worst I've ever had, and this surprises me, for I've certainly had my share of terrible ones.
But, headache or no, there's work that cannot wait, so I carefully make my way out toward our evaporation units to repair the sensor array. I've hardly begun when the blasted rains start again and a moment later I am working in the midst of a torrential downpour, one that soaks me straight through to the skin.
Soon, my head is hurting so badly I can barely see. I finally give up and slog my way back home with little or nothing accomplished.
Qui-Gon meets me at the door, silently takes my cloak and bids me to sit. Kneels, pulls off my boots and I let him, feeling too disgusted and tired to protest. Of course, when I hear the sound of precious water running for a bath, I do protest and loudly, but Qui-Gon has the unique ability to shut off his hearing at will.
His stubborness is very effective and before I know it, I'm sinking into a hot fragrant bath, an unthinkable luxury on this parched world. To add to the decadence, he brings me tea spiked with a liberal dose of Alderaan brandy, no doubt just to make my domestic management compulsions go into triple digit alarms.
But I can't say that it doesn't feel wonderful. The only thing better would be to have him in the bath with me, and if it wasn't for this blasted headache, I would most certainly invite him to join me. With a sigh, I close my eyes and sink further into the hot water and concentrate instead on getting rid of the headache that plagues me, wondering vaguely if I'm developing allergies in my old age.
Qui-Gon returns a while later with a large bathsheet. By that time my headache has eased somewhat and I am relaxed almost to the point of coma. He helps me up, dries me off and leads me into bed, tucking the coverlets around me nearly up to my chin as if I were still his padawan and it was time for a short story and a "lights out."
I smile at this memory: my grave Master tucking me in at night in spite of my grumbling protests that I had no need for such coddling, even while secretly delighting in his care.
I can almost imagine myself there again, back in our old quarters at the Temple, especially when he brings in a bowl of steaming hot stew accompanied by three thick slices of fresh baked bread. It looks and smells wonderful, but I'm almost too tired to think of eating. All I want to do is roll over and go to sleep, but I fight the notion off.
"You are too good to me," I tell him, wishing I wasn't so exhausted.
"I'm not good enough," he replies drily. "I should have insisted that I go instead of you. I hope you aren't going to be ill."
I shake my head disdainfully, as he brushes his fingers over my forehead. "I'm not going to be ill," I snap, feeling tired and hot, but confident it's from the bath. He pulls his hand away and peers at me. Instantly, the guilt rises. "I'm sorry, Qui, I have a headache that's all." Not exactly true, but the ghost of my earlier pain is still lingering behind my eyes.
He smiles at me. "No need to be sorry. I know, I'm getting old and fussy about you, forgive me."
Oh, my love. "You aren't getting old." I catch his fingers with my own. "Or perhaps we both are," I amend reluctantly as I try to will the discomfort away. "I don't remember being this irascible in the old days."
"In the old days we had few worries." His voice is mild and he raises my hand to his lips for a quick kiss, one that makes me both shiver and smile. He glances at me fondly. "Eat, beloved. I'll rub your neck and shoulders when you've finished, and then I want you to sleep. Slogging through desert mud and watching your step for flash floods is doubtless more exhausting than watching for Tuskans."
"Or Jawas," I mutter as I start to eat. The damned little thieves were lurking near the evaporators again this morning, no doubt hoping against hope I might drop a tool out of my rain-slick hands and yet another stolen prize would be theirs.
I can't stand the sight of them, but Qui-Gon thinks they are interesting, and Force help me, amusing. Even when they tried to steal the very cloak off his back.
He gives me a quick kiss before getting up to fetch his own dinner, and I continue to eat, feeling sleepier by the moment. After a long sip of cool water, I put the bowl aside and sink down into bed, thinking that if I rest my eyes for just one moment . . . But that moment passes and before I realize it, the dreams have already begun.
//It is the height of noon and I'm lost in the middle of the Lower Wastes. My cloak and boots are missing and my skin, my face, the soles of my feet are burning. I can hardly walk, but I must keep moving or I will die.
I can't . . . I must . . . but . . . //
Qui-Gon's gentle shake wakes me and I peer blearily at him. He is holding two anti-pyretic tablets, softly insisting I take them.
"You worry too damned much," I growl, still groggy with sleep. The headache has returned, much to my dismay. "My head does hurt," I grudgingly admit, using some cold tea to swallow the pills. They go down and the liquid soothes my throat which is as dry as the night air. "Thank you."
He watches me slide back beneath the sheets, wincing with me as another burst of pain shoots down my neck. "My pleasure," he says, a hint of worry flickering across his features. "Are you comfortable, can I get you anything else?"
Gods, my head hurts. "You can let me go back to sleep," I grumble. Damn it. "I'm sorry," I say penitently. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
He kisses my temple softly and gives me a teasing smile. "The day we cannot be honest with one another will be a sad day indeed. Go back to sleep, beloved. It's the best thing for you."
I reach for him, grazing his cheek with my fingers. "You really are too good to me sometimes." The pills start to take effect and I can feel myself drift off back to sleep.
Only to find myself in the midst of more dreams . . .
//I am at a banquet on Cythra with my family. My father, my little sister and my dear mother are there, along with Beru who cradles the infant Luke on her lap. Laughing and smiling, they share more wine and my father raises his glass in a toast.
"To our family," he says, beaming at the loved ones who surround him.
I am so happy to see them and I fairly run toward the table, waving to get their attention.
But between them and myself stands my brother, Owen, his eyes burning with hatred. "You are not welcome here," he snarls. "Go. Go on with you, you wizard bastard."
The toast is interrupted and the entire table turns to stare at me. Their faces are impassive, hard . . . unwelcoming.
"You heard me," he growls again. "Go. Get out of here. We don't want you."
"But . . . " My head, my head hurts so badly and it is so hot and I feel so weary and ill. I look imploringly at my mother. "Mother, I . . . "
She stares at me coldly. "You heard what Owen said, Benjamin. You are not welcome here. He's told us about you. We know what you've done." She turns back to her dinner. "Now go and leave our family be. This is our time together and you do not belong here."
My mouth is so dry, I can barely form the words. "But mother, I am your son."
A thin, cruel line forms around her mouth. "You? My son? You are no son of mine. Now go. Leave us be."
I try to protest, but Owen is pushing me away, out the door toward a great chasm that lies just beyond its frame. I flail desperately, but am no match for the strength of his hatred.
"You heard her," he laughs. "You don't belong here. Go, you crazy wizard bastard. Go on with you and your fancy friends. Why I hear your kind can fly. Let's see if it's true."
"No, Owen . . . please!" I'm crying and unashamed of it.
But his rage is relentless and a moment later I am falling, and Owen is fading away above me, a tiny dot at the top of a very high cliff.
No. No, don't do this, Owen. I love you, my only brother. Please, don't make me go. Don't leave me without any family to call my own.
Please.//
I wake, vaguely aware I've been dreaming. There is a cool cloth against my cheek and I lean toward it, seeking its comfort. Seeking some relief from this miserable furnace that envelopes me.
Everything hurts. My head, my eyes, my neck . . . everything. The headache is so awful, I can't even bear to open my eyes lest the light shatter me to bits.
I hear the faint hum of a medi-scan, feel the quick pressure of an injection and thankfully, more cool caresses from a damp cloth. It is so sweet, so comforting and it's not long before the tug of sleep pulls me back beneath its painless shade.
Peacefully this time, and the nightmares are banished, if only for the moment.
I wake the next morning, this time trembling, coughing and soaked with perspiration. A wretched shaft of sunlight is burning my eyes; burning its way into my fog shrouded brain and I cannot think.
I am so hot, hotter than the sands of this wretched planet and I can barely breathe. The air around me is thick and my entire body feels as though it's made of lead.
Wild thoughts run through my mind and I don't remember exactly why or how I have ended up here. We . . . we were running, Qui-Gon and I. Running from, gods, I don't remember who. Someone or something, something dark and terrible, that much I know.
Red and black, those are the colors I see behind my closed eyes, a red and black face, and a saber . . . the shimmering crimson lance, a two-bladed horror that Qui-Gon and I must parry.
Red and black. Qui-Gon and I are separated, and there is a red force field that I must break through while that blade, that cursed blade is flashing and then . . .
//Always two, never less, the master and his . . . his . . . //
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Oh, Force. Qui-Gon. Oh, Force my Master and love is dead. He lies before me, his blood is everywhere, and oh, I have never seen so much blood. He is dead and they are taking him away from me, sponging and sweeping the blood away as they carry him off and the pyre is already being prepared.
//...nononononono...//
He can't be dead. He can't be. This is not true. Don't touch him, don't take him, don't move him. I can help him, I can save him. No, I wasn't too late. Please, give me another chance; I never got the chance.
We never got the chance.
Please. I will give you whatever you want, but please of your mercy don't put him there. No, not the fire, I beg of you, for he still lives. Can't you see? Are you blind, look, he is calling to me! Begging me to help him. Madmen, you are all madmen...//
I wake and I weep. Blindly ... brokenly. There is nothing but heat and this suffocating, wracking pain and I am losing the will to fight.
Losing the will to live until I hear Qui-Gon's voice whispering softly in my ear. "Hush love, I am here. I am not dead. It is but a dream, shadows of fear. Hush love, I am beside you."
Another touch of a cool, wet cloth, and never have I more grateful for anything, or anyone, in my life. More sweet water follows, tracing relief down the burning paths of fire which are threatening to consume me. I can feel Qui-Gon cradle me against his shoulder, smoothing strong hands along my back using small touches of Force to soothe my coughing.
He holds a cup to my lips and I shake my head. I cannot drink, I am too sick to even think of it. Worse yet, it smells awful, and I know I can't possibly swallow a drop.
"Come now, beloved. You must drink this." Qui-Gon's voice is gentle, but insistent and for some reason, it raises my hackles to hear it.
I press my lips together and shut my eyes.
"Come now." A tap, then another, against my cheek. "Drink."
"No," I snarl hoarsely, as memories of times long past surface. Memories of when I was young and unhappy and the old feelings of unworthiness rise along with them. Suddenly, I am on Bandomeer, then Phindar, then a hundred other worlds, following like a lairn- cub behind Qui-Gon who is either ignoring me or berating me for some infraction or another.
He didn't want me, didn't trust me and made it clear for all the galaxy to see that I was nothing but a thorn that Fate and the Force had thrust into his unwilling side.
And now, he wants me to drink some awful concoction I have no wish to consume. How like him, the Master who does nothing but plague me with rules and orders, never smiling, never praising. But I won't obey, I don't have to anymore and I tell him so from between clenched teeth.
But he is relentless. "Drink, Obi-Wan." Sternly. "That's an order."
I shake my head petulantly. "No, I will not. You cannot make me and I will not."
"Obedience, my Obi-Wan" he growls softly and it is my Master's voice, and suddenly, there is no denying him.
Slowly . . . unwillingly, I open my mouth and drink the foul- smelling brew, choking it down until it is gone. It is rank and bitter and I wonder hazily if I am being poisoned.
But it is my Master; my Qui-Gon who is biding me to swallow, so I trust in it ... trust in him. For even with all my anger, even beneath all that pain, I love him and in truth, I have no choice.
He holds me afterwards, murmuring. "I have loved you since you were thirteen years old and I was unwilling to examine just how much I loved you." Another cool caress and his cheek is pressed against my hair. "I will not let you leave me, beloved, I cannot."
And with those words, all my anger disappears and I burrow against him, adoring him more than I ever have.
But it is only a momentary glimpse of relief and soon I find myself drifting again through a haze of nightmares, seated in tiny ship sailing on black seas. The air is hot and thick and foul, and I am not alone.
The water, a filthy brine, is clogged with bodies. I sail among them and their swollen, decaying faces stare up at me accusingly. They are everywhere, floating silently in their death dreams and I try to turn away, try not to look, but am unable to tear myself away from the terrible vision spread out before me.
I know them -- remember them from days long past. Friends from the Academy, initiates, padawans and knights. Fellow travelers, some friends, some enemies as well, drifting on the same rotting ocean, their milk and coal eyes wide open, broken windows giving access to these abandoned houses of the soul.
I realize that I am the only living being on this sea, and the only bit of land in sight is a lone island, shrouded in darkness and fog.
Through its mist I see him. It is Vader, standing and waiting for me, saber in hand. He is not yet the scarred tool of Darkness he is fated to become, there is still a bit of the handsome young man I remember drifting in and out of the light reflected through those terrible shielded eyes.
The brilliant padawan -- the cursed knight and I slowly drift past him, knowing that one day we will meet, and he will be the instrument of my death, this man whom I at once hated and loved as a brother, student, and finally, friend.
He beckons me to come, to join him in battle, but I turn away. Now is not our time, there are still battles to be fought that he cannot influence except through my fear of him. And even though I mourn, even though I keep one eye on the past, my mind must be in the present, focused on my preservation, which I will maintain by any means necessary.
I will win those battles, both great and small, and there will be no more weeping as I remain focused on my home and my beloved, whose life is ever more important than my own.
As for Vader and death ... they will simply have to wait.
Dawn comes and for the first time in what I assume must be days, my wits have returned. The terrible headache is gone, and I no longer feel as though I'm going to burn to ashes where I lie.
Qui-Gon peers at me, his expression cautious, but hopeful. "Good morning, love. How do you feel?"
"I feel terrible," I reply, my voice hoarse from disuse. My lips are as dry and cracked as the ancient river beds of Mos Bespa and my throat hurts as if I have been strangled, then released. Itching, aching and dirty, I'm not much more than a mass of dried sweat and weak, trembling limbs.
But that doesn't seem to matter to Qui-Gon who is beaming at me, relief flooding his features. "You look wonderful," he says, dabbing a bit of ointment on my lips. "There, that should help."
And of course, it does. "A lot, thank you." It hurts to talk and the effort exhausts me. I feel my eyes fluttering closed and before I know it, sleep has overtaken me.
But this time, it is a dreamless slumber interrupted only by Qui- Gon and that cup of foulness he insists I drink. I swear right and left in every language I know, even yell that he is trying to poison me, and he laughs this time as I choke the brine down, helped only by a bit of sweet tea.
I lie back and take a moment to look at him and am shocked at what I see. He looks exhausted, beaten ... drained to the core. In what couldn't have been more than a week, he has aged at least a few years and it was my illness that did it.
The irony of it hurts. Terribly. In my attempts to keep him well, I've become a burden to him by allowing myself to become ill. "You look tired," I say, reaching for his hand.
He smiles at me and shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says stoutly. "Just worried about you, beloved."
A chill ripples through me, and I break out in yet another cold sweat. I am better, but not whole yet and I make a silent vow never to allow myself to get this sick again.
And pray heartily that I can keep it.
Qui-Gon gets up immediately gathering up a clean sleepshirt and helps me put it on. My weakness shames me, especially in front of the one I want more than anything to be strong for. "I hate being ill," I mutter in complaint.
He laughs softly at this. "I hate your being ill, too."
Looking up, I exchange a smile with him, then yawn. I've done nothing but sleep for days and days, and yet I'm still exhausted. Amazing. "I'm so tired."
"Rest is your -- "
"Best medicine, I know." Try as I might, I can't help rolling my eyes at this old saying of his and he brightens at my impudence.
"You're going to be fine," he claims confidently, and raises my fingers to his lips, kissing the tips of each one.
I smile sleepily at him, knowing that he, as always, is right.
It takes weeks, but soon I'm well enough to go outside and resume working. The summer rains have passed and the sands have dried once again. I feel better for the most part, at least well enough to haggle with the local Jawas who have arrived with their hoods over their heads and their hands sneaking toward our possessions.
Dickering with their leader, I slap devious paws away from our vaporizer as I get two outrageous quotes for a hydro-drill and a halfway sane one for a generator gear.
Qui-Gon takes no part in these negotiations. Instead, I see him kneeling and talking intently with a bent, wizened old Jawa and for a brief moment they appear, much to my horror, more alike than different.
It is a remnant of the fever, I think hopefully, and turn my attention back to the little thieves who are trying to rob me blind right before my eyes. They think they are pulling a fast one, until I curse loudly at them in their own language, letting them know that I'm not to be dealt with lightly.
They start with a communal squeak and Qui-Gon looks up to smile at me. I return the grin and suddenly, all is well in this strange little world of ours, and even with the hardships ahead, there is little more I can ask for.
At least for the moment.
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