The Master’s Tears

by Sheltiesong (sheltiesong@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, to M_A. All others, just tell me where you’ve put it.

Category: Q/O, POV, pre-slash, angst, hurt/comfort

Rating: PG

Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH! This is a DPS (Dead Padawan Society) tale, so a braidling will not live to see the light of day. There is no truly happy ending in this, guys.

Spoilers: Slight ones for Jedi Apprentice #1 and #2. Also, though Obi-Wan ranges in age from 13-16 in this, it is NOT chan. No sex to speak of in this one.

Acknowledgments: To Franzi, for the beta. I sent this off right before bed, and it was back by the time I woke up! Talk about service. :) You rock, lil fox! To Epeeblade, for being willing to beta. It’s not her fault I was impatient! To my writeoff buddies on IRC for handholding. To my psychotic evil Sith of a cybersister, Ashlyn, for goading me into this and getting me interested in this fandom again. Finally, blame that can get tacked on you rather than on me! To Elektra, for suggestions of what a Padawan might take on a mission. And to Mystique and Aeshna, for the Dead Padawan Society. It’s a fun and twisted little sandbox to play in. :)

Feedback: Please? With chocolate Jedi on top?

Disclaimer. Would you believe they just followed me home one day? No? Ah, okay, it was worth a try. Lucas owns them; I just borrow them when he’s not looking.

Summery: In which a Master faces his greatest loss, and a Padawan shows maturity in the face of tragedy.

Italics indicates telepathic conversation.

Darkness hangs, a palpable presence, as I walk into the sickroom. My eyes find Obi-Wan’s still form, barely discernable under a mound of blankets. Even under their heat, I can hear the chattering of his teeth winging through the blackness. Sometimes I have my doubts whether my Padawan would ever, truly, be warm again. Even in his sleep, he shivers.

Three years ... has it really been three years since this whole nightmare started?

Three years of watching Obi-Wan fade by inches, three years of heartache and despair and fighting to keep the inevitable at bay just a little longer.

I sit by Obi-Wan’s bedside, reaching out to flip back the locks of golden hair that are ever falling into the boy’s eyes. Were it not for his illness, for the fact that he was a Padawan in name only now rather than in practice, that hair would be shorn, a practical measure, never to fall into eyes, a nuisance, again. But tradition means little in the face of a determined, dying thirteen-year-old, and the hair had been permitted to grow. He has not cut it in almost three years now, since shortly before his fourteenth birthday.

“Oh, my Obi-Wan,” I murmur softly to him. “How did we come to this, hmm?” I pinch the bridge of my nose with one hand, losing myself to memory’s embrace.

Past

I settled more comfortably in my chair at the conference table, feigning a polite interest in the inane nattering of the politicians around me. The issues these Denarians were arguing over were so petty ... betrothals and how such-and-such a duke from Calsetta Province _had_ to be named eighteenth in the line of succession or the world might very well go to ruin.

“Your Grace,” I said quietly, pinning the Earl of Calsetta with my gaze. He tensed under my glare, stopping mid-tirade, and I allowed myself a small smile. “You are well-versed in your planet’s laws.” He nodded warily at the compliment. “You know that your society allows illegitimate children into the succession.” His expression fell and his eyes sparked with anger. “As such, your compatriot’s place in the success ...” A sharp cry interrupted me even as a flash of panic surged across the bond I shared with Obi-Wan. What I was going to say to that pompous earl forgotten, I slid from my chair, going down on my knees beside my stricken apprentice. Obi-Wan’s eyes were squeezed shut, his hands clawing so desperately at his head that I half-feared he’d detach his braid.

“Padawan?” I lay a supportive arm across his shoulders, probing gently along our bond. As he felt my mind slowly wrap around his own, Obi-Wan gradually relaxed, slumping against me in relief. “What’s wrong?” The Denarians shifted restlessly, but I had eyes only for my Obi-Wan. He looked up at me, his green eyes wide and anxious.

“It ... for a moment, it was as if I had no shielding,” he said hesitantly. “As if everyone’s feelings were clawing at my brain at once.” He shrugged his shoulders and I stroked his short-cropped hair in comfort. I let him pull away then, though my own shielding was his for the asking. “Draw on me in need, my Obi-Wan,” I said for his ears only, catching his grateful look as I returned to my chair. I called the Denarians to order, hoping to settle the matter of this damned succession once and for all.

Present

How innocuous it seemed, that day on Denaria Prime. Obi-Wan was young; it was not unheard of for children of his age to experience difficulties in maintaining their shielding. Yet even as I tried to ignore the fact that Obi-Wan had never been one of those children, I could not overlook the other symptoms that began to crop up. To miss a Council debriefing because he was absorbed with other matters was one thing. To forget entirely that we’d had a meeting scheduled in the first place was another. Crying out for answers, I noticed the slight stumble in his gait, how that perfect fluidness of movement that was the hallmark of his katas seemed to elude him now. And still those damnable shield fluctuations plagued him.

Had I only known ...

No, there’s no way I could have known. I keep trying to tell myself that.

Past

“Well, Liassa, out with it already!” For Force’s sake, the woman looked wretched. I tried to quell the knot of apprehension even as it settled in the pit of my stomach, laying a calming hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder as I tried to mask my growing impatience. How much could one simple bloodscan show? If things were truly serious, surely there would be more testing to be done.

“Master Jinn, it might be for the best to have your Padawan wait out in the hall.” A powerful Mindspeaker, Healer Liassa’s thoughts flowed into my head with the ease of water through a stream, bringing with it a wealth of sadness and concern. It’s for the best, Qui-Gon. I want to make sure he’s ready for this when he does hear it, and you’re the best judge of that.

“Padawan, wait for me outside, please.” He looked as if he wanted to protest. Force knew he’d never been afraid to face hard truths before, not in all of our short months together. He was Jedi. Even at that young age, he was all Jedi. And he had every right to know his own fate.

Something in Li’s look must have caught him, for he merely nodded once and left.

As the door hissed shut, I turned back to Liassa’s concerned gaze. Her mask of professional calm disintegrated as she laid one hand on my arm. “You’re not going to want to hear this, Qui.”

I closed my eyes, something in me turning to ice. “How bad?”

“Bad,” she said, her eyes finding some spot behind me. “He has a virus we don’t know a whole lot about, Cerassian neurotropia. There’s no cure, Qui, not even an effective treatment.”

Past the lump lodged in my throat, I managed a whisper. “What now? Will he have to resign from duty?” I could not let myself think of anything more serious than that. No, not my Obi-Wan.

“Qui ...” the Healer said, and a single tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t think you’re understanding me correctly. Cerassian neurotropia is a fatal condition. And it’s not an easy way to die, I’m afraid.”

“No.” I ground out the word through the painful buzz of knowledge in my head. “There must be some treatment, somewhere. What about the Farseeli on Nashtar IV? Or the Col-Yan on Minnasar? Surely, one of them ...” They were the most celebrated Healing force in the galaxy. Force, there had to be _something._

“The Farseeli have tried, with no success. And the last Col-Yan to attempt healing a neurotropia died himself. There’s nothing to be done, Qui-Gon.” Her voice was resigned.

I sagged in defeat, feeling a little piece of my own soul die at her words.

“Take him home, Qui-Gon. Keep him comfortable. I’ll be here when you’re ready to find out more of what the future holds.”

I rose on shaky legs that did not want to support me. “Li?”

She merely waited, a compassionate presence.

“How ...” I choked on the words, bile coating the back of my throat. “How long?”

“It varies,” she said softly. “He’s young, and strong, and that’s in his favor. He might have as little as a year, or as long as three or four. There’s no way to know.”

A great weariness overcame me, and I returned to Liassa’s desk. “Tell me what I need to know. Tell me how – how to help him.”

“Sit down,” she said. And I sat, as with each word that followed, my world crumbled a little more.

Present

He was upset, of course, when he found out. How could he not be? I cradled him in my arms as I told him, holding him close as he fought to keep the tears from flowing. The boy held them in for _my_ sake, imagine that? He wanted to protect the Master he’d fought so hard to earn.

I look at him now, the lights of Coruscant falling on the gauntness of his face, the hollows of it falling into shadow as the fine structure of his bones stands out in stark relief. And as I watch him, his eyelids begin to flutter. I think he is only dreaming at first, the lids fluttering in the throes of REM sleep. But then those green eyes, luminous even in the face of illness, fall open, fixing on me with a joy that sets my heart ablaze. The trust this child has in me ...

His throat works as if he’s trying to form the words he hasn’t been able to say these past four moons. I take the bowl of ice chips from the bedside table, using one to moisten his dry, cracked lips. With the ease born of long practice, I peel back the sheets to check the nutrient patch over his chest, making sure there is no blockage and that the irritation around it is minimal, easily soothed with healing salves. Not that Obi-Wan has had much sensation there, recently, but as his Master, I cannot bear to see him suffer any hurt I am in a position to stop. I take record of his vitals, sending the statistics winging off to the healers. He can no longer bear their alien touch.

His eyes follow my every movement, softening when I kneel by his bedside and take his hand in mine. I stroke the bones of his fingers with utmost care, knowing far too well how much even light pressure can pain him. He’s so thin now; the muscles he was once so proud of wasted. There is little enough keeping skin from grinding against the hardness of his skeletal structure. Where most boys sprout as so much goldenweed in their teenage years, Obi-Wan is scarcely larger now, three years later, than he was at thirteen. He might be a little longer in the arm and leg, but there’s nothing to him anymore, so little to anchor his spirit to flesh.

I have given up on appeals for my Padawan’s life. Obi-Wan is dying; no amount of supplication to the Force, Living or Unifying, will change that. I know that now, a knowledge that I accepted only after I saw what the fight of denial was doing to the one I am trying most to protect.

Past

Obi-Wan’s face was pale as I emerged from Liassa’s office. He rose as I came to him, his green eyes dominating his young face in his apprehension.

“Master?” He took my forearm in a white-knuckled grip, leaning on our bond with all his youthful strength. To think that that brightness would fade all too soon; ... I bowed my head under the force of it.

“Sit down, my Obi-Wan.” I had pondered taking him to our quarters for this, away from the prying eyes of others. Our bond was yammering at me, to hold him close, to protect him from anything that might harm him. But, in fairness, Obi-Wan might soon have questions of his own that only the Healers could answer.

Once he sat, he made no more sound, merely looking up at me, that perfect, indomitable trust he placed in me written all over his expression. And still he gripped my arm with all his fierce spirit.

I drew on the Force, beseeching it for the serenity I would need to get through this conversation.

“You have a virus, Obi-Wan.” I sat beside him and stroked his hair in what I hoped was a calming rhythm, searching for the right words to explain something I myself still had trouble comprehending. “It’s called Cerassian neurotropia, and there is no cure, no treatment.”

He tensed then, going impossibly paler. Fear emanated from him, surging across our link, and I enfolded him in my arms. He leaned into me as I whispered nonsense, hopeless platitudes that would accomplish nothing. Surprisingly, he did not cry, though I would not have faulted him for doing so. He merely took some hard-fought, gasping breaths. And, oh, how he trembled.

He took only moments to compose himself, dredging up calm from that same place he must surely have reached for all of those long months ago, back in the mine on Bandomeer. “Tell me,” he asked, so softly, the slightest quaver in his voice. This child, such a vibrant mix of Jedi equanimity and blazing teenage spirit, with a maturity beyond his years.

He knew, I saw it on his face that he _knew_ this would not merely be something to tolerate, a chronic, lived-with condition such as Shanton fever.

I did not attempt to insult his intelligence with false reassurances or pointless denials. For all that he was thirteen, I could not, would not, patronize him.

“We’ll get through this together, Obi-Wan,” I said, then, more tightly, “As for your illness ...”

“It is fatal, isn’t it, Master?” His tone was strangely far away now. “I can feel it in our bond, your grief.”

I nodded wordlessly, pulling him close even as I stemmed the tide of despair, instead, feeding down the bond what love and concern I could. He nestled into my arms, sighing, then turned his head back toward me. “How will it happen, Master?”

“It won’t be right away, my Obi-Wan. Healer Liassa said it might be as long as three or for years, or as – as little as one. But you’re young and strong, and that’s all to the good.” I rubbed his back with one hand, smoothing away the tightness of his muscles. “Things may go on much as they have, for awhile.” Each word was like a saber burn across my throat as I said them. “But as time goes on, your muscle control will falter. The strength will leave your arms and legs. You’ll manage well in a hoverchair for a time, but soon, even the motor skills for that will have deteriorated overmuch, and you’ll be confined to bed.” I paused; these next parts would come harder. “Your periods of memory loss may well become more frequent, but if we’re lucky, they may seldom occur at all. And your ability to shield your mind may fade to mere happenstance. You will almost surely need shielded quarters, eventually, but that is something we can decide on in its own time.” I dropped a kiss on his brush of blond hair. “You will not be alone in this, of that I can assure you.”

He only nodded, a world of emotion weaved upon his face, and huddled closer. It was only then that he allowed his tears to fall.

Present

As I look back now, it happened so gradually, the changes, so slowly at first that I barely noticed them. The occasional falter in his stride became a limp, and the muscles began to atrophy. He fought on gamely, and seldom complained, thought I could see the conflict in him when his friends visited with tales of missions and adventures. As they grew, broadening their horizons, so Obi-Wan seemed to shrink in upon himself. I caught the wistfulness he tried to hide from me as he packed away his lightsaber, setting it next to his datapad and comlink with loving attention and wrapping them in a bit of cloth. I can still see the shaking of his arms as he raised the little bundle to the top shelf of his closet, where he keeps the other bits and pieces of his childhood, to be remembered but never to be used.

That was the second time he allowed his tears to fall. I stroke his hair once more, even as he closes his eyes again to beckoning sleep. He’s awake so little now, but through his worst times, he has ever found comfort in this, the two of us together with no need for anything between us but the silent flow of emotion.

I’m getting used to the silence now, learning to read my Padawan by his emotions and the little body language he can muster now. Four moons of words unable to be voiced will do that to you, and much can be said with the eyes.

But, sweet Force, how hard it was then ... It’s the only other time he’s cried since this whole nightmare began.

Past

It was the panic that I first noticed, a silent scream of helplessness, and I raced to Obi-Wan’s sleeping room. I thanked the Force that our newly shielded quarters did not block his emotions from me. We were too deeply connected for that.

Had one of the pain-spasms caught him unaware? A nightmare, maybe? He didn’t have the strength or coordination to leave his bed anymore.

Yet even in this nightmare, there were blessings. His mind was still clear, the moments of forgetfulness few and far between. Liassa said that that it was his youth working for him. My Obi-Wan’s mind remained as sharp as ever, most days, and that was something we both took heart in.

Responding to his distress, I did not pause to ask his leave to enter his sleeping room. As I threw open the door, my eyes went immediately to his bed. I could see the jumping of his pulse as it beat against his neck, and his eyes were wide with panic.

“Obi-Wan?” I took his hand in one of mine even as I reached for a cloth at his bedside to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Are you in pain?” I schooled myself to patience; the virus was attacking the muscles of his throat. His speech has become so garbled lately that it was sometimes difficult to even begin to piece together what he was trying to say.

His throat muscles worked, the tendons in his neck cording as his mouth opened, but no sound came out. I massaged gently; sometimes that would coax the damaged muscle fibers into compliance. Obi-Wan squeezed my hand hard, rhythmically as if in signal, and I looked toward his face once more.

“Tried ... that,” he mouthed, no sound emerging, and I slid into the bed beside him to take his wasted body into my arms. I stroked his back, feeling every bone stab beneath my fingertips as I rocked him. He cried on my shoulder for awhile, the salt tears seeping deep into the light tunic I wore. How strange, this, sobbing without sound.

His eyes held a wistful longing as he slowly pulled away, turning his eyes to the type-pad and stylus on the bedside table. The buttons on its keypad were large enough for his failing hands and lax grip on the stylus to manage, and he painstakingly typed out a message.

-Think we’ll ever get hang of Mindspeech?-

My heart clenched at that wistful question. Obi-Wan and I had spent the past year trying to develop his latent telepathic potential with little success. The boy was quite a powerful empath, able to both project and to receive feelings with ease, but in our three years together, we’d never been able to send a single, verbal thought between us. Even now when we so desperately need it.

“I don’t know, Obi-Wan. But we’ll muddle through somehow.” I tweaked a lock of hair back from his eyes. “Remember training blindfolded? How first the remotes would find you every time?” Obi-Wan nodded, his breathing gradually slowing as his panic receded. “You were frustrated with it, and then you found a way around them, hmm?” Again, a nod, this one lighter, a little sleepier. I hugged him once more, checked his nutrient patch and hydration levels, than slid from the bed. “Rest well in the Force, my Padawan,” I murmured. “I will be here when you awaken.”

I padded across the room to the small cot set up in the corner. I must have looked rather silly, my long legs hanging half off of it as I tried to get comfortable. But such indignities mattered little, not if my staying the night gave my Obi-Wan some relief and might perhaps tug a smile from his lips come morning. I fell into dreams, holding fast to that thought.

Present

Emotion soft as a summer’s breeze lightly taps me, and I start, caught daydreaming. Obi-Wan’s eyes are questioning as I spend a moment in just memorizing his features. His face tightens then, in pain, and I send out healing Force to soothe him as he gasps. This at least, I can do for him. I cannot stop this virus from taking him by inches, but I can mitigate some of the pain. He relaxes, yet his breathing remains far too rapid. The quicksilver spark of him has faded to a mere flicker, and with mounting dread, I see it is a flicker swiftly dimming.

No! Don’t ask this of me! I thought I was resigned to this ... I thought we had more time ...

“I am here, Obi-Wan,” I whisper needlessly, and he looks at me, clear-eyed and cognizant. He knows what’s coming, perhaps has known far longer than I, who has not wished to see. Then his gaze upon me softens, a mute plea shining through. I slide onto the bed and hold him once more, as I have ever done when one of us has needed comfort through this nightmare.

His touch to the bond is a feather-light caress, and I see now, he’s made his peace with things. How can a child so young succeed where I, an adult and his supposed teacher, have so utterly failed? Even now, he seeks to reassure me, even as he slips away.

His respiration comes impossibly faster, grows more labored with each inhale. Then, his body finally wearies of the pace and falters. And still he holds my gaze, calm, with a serenity that many aspire to but few will ever attain.

Tears well in my eyes, but I will not let them fall. I will not allow myself to sully this moment with what is best kept for ... after. I do not want my last look at him to be through this veil of water.

An image of him, laughing and free, dances across my consciousness. He’s doing katas with the wind, my Obi-Wan, unbound by illness and the flagging strength of flesh.

He picks up on my amusement, then, and he finds, somewhere, one last smile. I stroke his hair and rub his back, perhaps for what comfort the fond familiar offers me as much as any last succor they’ll afford him. And in our bond in boundless love and dawning joy and ...

I love you, Master. Be at peace.

And in my arms, amidst the wonder, he slips into the eternity of the Force.

~el fin~