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Prodigal - continued

by Cynical21 ( bonniej@cox-internet.com )

Continued from Part 4

Chapter 5

Swifter far than summer's flight --
Swifter far than youth's delight --
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone --
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left alone, alone.

- Remembrance, Percy Bysshe Shelley

Among the little group that made its way through the Temple corridors, Bail Organa brought up the rear, taking care to match his gait to that of the former Supreme Chancellor of the Republic who walked at his side. Ordinarily, the stately pace of their little procession would have been appropriate for his station - for a stroll through the halls of the great Senate; one did not, after all, scurry through the corridors of power. But the junior senator from Alderaan (extremely junior, as he constantly reminded himself, knowing that he had been included in this little menage only because of his long acquaintance with the central figure of this drama, rather than any misconception about the prestige of his position) would not have been averse to a bit more alacrity in their progress. There was a strange ambiance that seemed to permeate the atmosphere around them -- something cold and harsh, and totally alien to everything he had ever understood about the Jedi Order -- something that seemed to lurk within the hooded eyes of the scant number of Temple residents they encountered. It was too ephemeral to be identified as hostility -- but it was definitely a departure from the pleasant serenity that usually permeated this ancient center of Jedi culture.

When young Kenobi had come to him with his odd request, the Senator had paused to consider the possibility that his friend had spent too many years submerged in the melodrama of clandestine operations; he had suspected a growing paranoia -- but the many debts he owed to the Jedi in general -- and this one Jedi in particular -- had left him no option. Whether or not the young knight's concerns were legitimate -- or the product of a delusional imagination - made no difference in the end. Obi-Wan had asked -- and Bail could not refuse him; had, in fact, never been able to refuse him anything. And wasn't it fortunate, thought the young Senator, busily maintaining an air of tranquil assurance that he patently did NOT feel, that Obi-Wan had never once tried to take advantage of that simple fact.

He trained his gaze on the rigidly straight spine of the young knight who walked directly ahead of him -- and noted all the tell-tale signs that cataloged the horrors of a day only barely begun. Obi-Wan moved with purpose and determination -- and nothing short of cataclysmic injury would ever rob him of the natural beauty that he wore like a cloak -- but there was little of his customary grace in his carriage. As a teen-aged stripling, barely old enough to qualify as an adolescent, he had inspired one of the most commonly repeated clichés ever to circulate -- and recirculate -- endlessly - through both the Temple and the Senate, following him relentlessly, much to his chagrin, throughout the term of his apprenticeship and beyond; the verbiage might have varied in some small ways -- but the meaning never really changed: Kenobi had the mind of a diplomat, the body of a warrior, the face of an angel -- and the strut of a streetwalker. The strut, however, was nowhere in evidence in the brightness of this morning -- and the brightness itself seemed tainted somehow, despite the liquid quality of the sun's brilliance pouring in through huge sweeps of paristeel. It stroked the thick copper-hued braid that coiled around the young knight's throat, and would have struck jade and emerald sparks from jeweled eyes -- if he'd bothered to look up. But he didn't, his focus firmly fixed on the placement of his feet and the hard glare of russet and terra cotta mosaic paving that seemed to breathe low clouds of muted amber into the glitter of morning.

The fact that the young knight was continuously racked by faint tremors -- like delicate foliage caught in a soft night wind -- was obvious only to those who stood closest to him -- and Bail, exchanging a quick conspiratorial glance with the Chancellor, edged even closer, understanding without being told that the reason for the languor of their pace was due to Obi-Wan's determination to leave the Temple under his own power. The terrible heaviness in his limbs would not allow him to achieve much speed -- but he would not be carried like a casualty as he left the home of the Jedi for the last time. He would not allow those he had counted as friends and colleagues and siblings to see how deeply he was wounded, and neither Bail nor Chancellor Valorum nor the two individuals who moved at the young knight's side, supporting him by virtue of a discreet application of Force energy, would allow idle spectators to assuage their curiosity by noting the tremor in his spine -- or the desolation in his eyes.

Noting the hard line of Obi-Wan's jaw, Bail thought it likely that the knight saw little or nothing of the setting around them, avoiding any impulse to lift his gaze, as if he neither wanted nor needed any final examination of the place that had been the only home he'd ever known -- nor any cataloging of the things that made it unique. Then the junior senator allowed himself a tiny rueful smile, to acknowledge his own foolishness. Obi-Wan was a Jedi -- and he could undoubtedly walk these corridors blindfolded and drugged and drunk as a Jurredith lord at Keilampoora's Flesh Festival and still describe every feature in minute detail. It would stay with him -- in living color -- for the rest of his life, and only the Force knew whether or not that was a good thing.

The males of the group remained mute, each still chewing over the scene they had left behind them; each struggling to reconcile what they had seen and experienced with the image of the Jedi Order which had comprised a huge part of their lives; even Xanatos, who had long believed himself completely disabused of all the mystical illusions of the knighthood that had governed his childhood years, seemed marginally stunned.

Only Mirilent Soljan appeared immune to the atmosphere of brooding -- but Bail thought that probably had more to do with the dynamics of her personality than any genuine resistance to the almost tangible tension that lingered around them. She simply chose to handle the awkwardness by overwhelming it with her customary energy -- and volume -- and she kept up a running commentary throughout the course of their journey, seeming oblivious to the fact that none of her companions were paying much attention.

None - except one -- who almost certainly could not have quoted a single word of her monologue, but who nevertheless felt -- and basked in - the sound and cadence of her voice like gentle rays of light streaming into his consciousness, driving away the cold and the creeping dread. Obi-Wan did not speak at all, but the healer occasionally turned to glance up into his face, and words became superfluous beneath the loving warmth reflected in his eyes -- eyes that spoke volumes -- and she continued her soliloquy, hardly pausing for breath, her strength and pragmatism shielding them all beneath a protective blanket, carrying them safely forward to their destination.

By this hour of the morning, the rays of the rising sun were slanting into the primary docking bay at an oblique angle, striking sparks of gold, platinum, ebony and garnet off the hulls of the craft assembled therein, each tethered to its own custom berth -- each, but one -- one which obviously had no place among the pedestrian assortment of run-abouts, atmospheric shuttles, couriers, and diplomatic transports. It sat off-center in the great hangar, obviously never meant to be confined within walls, its lines so pure and vibrant that it seemed to have been captured in mid-flight, in an artist's rendering of what grace and elegance should be. It did not sit on its landing struts so much as it crouched -- like a great cat waiting to spring into motion, or a bird of prey poised for lift off -- and the caress of sunlight flowed along its hull, generating prismatic arcs of deep azure, emerald, and amethyst from the storm-colored luminescence of its mirror-like finish.

"Magnificent," breathed Senator Organa, struck anew with a sense of awe, just as enchanted and overwhelmed as when he had caught his first glimpse of the luxury transport some hours earlier. His eyes swept over the length and breadth of the exquisitely designed vessel, noting and appreciating the perfect balance and obvious attention to detail, right down to the stylistic runes -- copies of ancient Parchia'mali glyphs, he believed -- etched beneath the scrollwork incorporated into the artistic rendering of the name, along the port bow. He turned to meet the eyes of the Telosian prince, who -- even in the grip of extreme anxiety over the condition of his young lover -- could not resist a proud glance at the custom-built craft. "And perfectly named," Bail continued. "A Jeweled Sea, indeed."

Xanatos smiled, his eyes suddenly soft and thoughtful. "Not bad -- for a second choice."

"Second choice?" echoed the young senator, obviously puzzled.

The smile became a mischievous grin. "He wouldn't let me name her Kenobi's Eyes."

Captain Bravo Remmisch, taking full advantage of his two-meter stature, looked down on his first mate with a stare so acidic that it was reputedly capable of peeling paint from duranium bulkheads -- and the stocky little Sullustan barely managed not to shrink away from its intensity. "But, Captain . . ."

Knight Garen Muln, ensconced at a spare console at the rear of the bridge of the Jeweled Sea almost surrendered to an urge to snicker -- almost.

"Did I not make myself clear, Mr. Wické-llumph? Or did you, perhaps, misunderstand Lord Aji's orders?"

"But it's the Republic's traffic command center, Captain -- and they're demanding . . ."

"And this," snapped the Captain, " is a vessel of Telosian registry -- with, I might add, full diplomatic immunity, currently on a mission classified as Priority One by the individual who just happens to be both the sovereign ruler of our planet -- AND the owner of this ship. They can demand whatever they like -- but if we're not clearing atmosphere in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to let YOU explain our failure to Xanatos. Understood?"

The Sullustan swallowed -- loudly.

As if on cue, a bright, electronic ping erupted from the ship's intercom system, followed by a voice that was plummy with icy restraint. "Captain Remmisch," said the crown prince of Telos, anointed sovereign of the Thanis Confederacy, "I am currently standing before the viewport in my private bathing suite -- and I'm looking out at a bastardized Malastairean sloop, which approximates the repulsive color of raw liver, piloted by a grossly hideous gran with a broken eyestalk, and a dug who is drowning in his own drool trying to catch a glimpse of my companion. Now -- would you care to explain why these . . . creatures are intruding on my privacy -- when all I expect to see outside this port is an uninterrupted starfield?"

Garen Muln was forced to fake a cough -- to disguise a chortle, as the Sullustan first mate muttered something inaudible, under his breath -- but not, as it turned out, quite inaudible enough. "You are correct, Mr Wické-llumph," said Xanatos -- very softly. "I could, indeed, activate the filters to darken the transparency. I could also nail up sheets of parmia-wood -- or hang draperies -- or staple sheets of plastine to the frame. I choose, however, to do none of the above. I choose -- to be elsewhere. Now! Do I make myself clear?"

Bravo Remmisch said nothing, electing to allow his smile to speak for him, as Cree-Ruv Wické-llumph reached over and switched off the insistent electronic tone of the incoming comm-channel signal, and, with a glance to check the directional settings on the pilot's console, jammed the atmospheric thruster controls to their maximum stops. Reflexively, Knight Muln braced himself against the rough jerk which should have marked the rapid acceleration; then he allowed himself a rueful smile in realizing that such a superbly engineered luxury vessel would never do anything so pedestrian and unsophisticated as jostle its passengers.

The Captain maintained his silence, and moved to the rear of the bridge, dark eyes evaluating the amused expression on the young Jedi's face, as Garen did nothing to conceal the laughter that threatened to engulf him. "Considering that I am recently a member of the gainfully unemployed," said the Jedi, " I was considering asking Xanatos for a job. But I think I've just decided on a major career change."

Remmisch crossed his arms, and leaned against the sleek console, his leather clothing blending perfectly with the dark elegant décor of the bridge. "You could do worse," he replied easily. "He's very generous."

"And very unforgiving," observed Garen.

The Captain paused for a moment, before nodding. "Very -- but loyal to a fault -- and very . . . protective of the things . . . and the people he loves."

Hearing a strange note in Remmisch's voice that he could not quite identify, the Jedi focused his gaze on the Captain's face. "You . . . disapprove of his choices?"

"I disapprove . . . of the risks he takes," replied the Captain, refusing to be intimidated by the knight's stern demeanor. "The Jedi have not treated him gently -- in the past."

Garen was quiet for a time, apparently considering his response carefully. "You're Corellian," he said finally. "Correct?"

"I am, but what . . ."

"Corellians -- in general -- have not treated ME gently, in the past. Yet I find that I have little interest in kicking your ass into next month -- although I'm sure I can work up the enthusiasm . . . if necessary."

Remmisch stiffened, and his eyes hardened. "You might want to rethink that, Friend. You're outnumbered -- and you don't even have your little light sword."

"I'm a Jedi," said Garen, with easy certainty, pushing away from the console and assuming a relaxed stance. "Nothing changes that - and I don't need a lightsaber -- to handle the likes of you."

There was a single beat of silence, when tension twisted around the bridge like a writhing serpent, before the Captain lifted his hands in a placating gesture, and chuckled softly. "So much for the Jedi reputation for serenity. It seems that Xanatos is not the only man here, intent on taking care of those he loves."

Garen smiled. "You haven't met Kenobi -- have you?"

"Not really. I've seen him a few times -- but never actually talked to him. He's a pretty little thing -- I'll grant you that -- and I guess I can understand why you -- and Xanatos -- are so besotted that you want to protect him. Tell me -- do you share him -- or do you take turns?"

The Jedi went very still and took a moment to suppress the swell of outrage that erupted within him, before leaning forward to reach up and lay one hand on the Captain's shoulder. "If I were you, Friend, I'd make certain of my facts -- before speaking so boldly. The day Obi-Wan Kenobi needs anybody -- to protect him -- is the day the Hutts reform and take up needlepoint -- and there'll be bikini beaches on Hoth. And furthermore, if he doesn't shut your mouth -- permanently -- I have an idea that Xanatos might -- provided you're ever foolish enough to express your thoughts to him."

He grinned then, and turned to depart. "But," called Remmisch, obviously confused, "he . . ."

"If I were you," interrupted Garen, still walking away, "I'd be very careful about repeating your opinions. Right now, he's wounded -- in a way that you can't possibly understand -- but that doesn't make him any less dangerous. Think carefully, Captain, before you speak, or he might be tempted to use that sharp tongue . . . to cut off your head."

The transition from Coruscanti atmospheric traffic lanes to starscape, as seen through the paristeel port of the Jeweled Sea's master bathing spa, happened almost instantaneously, and Obi-Wan Kenobi, despite being almost boneless with exhaustion, managed a soft chuckle.

"You're a tyrant," he observed, barely audible, "and I don't know why any of them put up with you."

"Because I pay them an obscene amount of money," replied Xanatos as he adjusted the temperature of the water flowing into a bathing pool large enough to accommodate a party of wookiees, "and being able to brag about crewing this vessel never fails to impress the ladies."

The Jedi lay on a plushly padded banquette that bordered the pool, and curled spasmodically around his own center as a bout of violent tremors seized him. "And how many ladies," he managed to gasp, "have you impressed, your majesty?"

Xanatos moved swiftly to remove the knight's clothing, careful to maintain a strictly impersonal touch, and deposit him, neck-deep, in the steaming water. "Dozens. Hundreds. Who knows? Who cares?" He stroked his hands through waves of auburn silk, alarmed at the translucence of his lover's complexion. "They meant nothing."

Obi-Wan laid back against a contoured cushion, designed to cradle neck and shoulders, and sighed his relief, as the heat of the water -- almost too hot to bear -- began to work its way into a body that felt shrouded in ice. "You use people, Xan," said the soft, cultured voice. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

The Telosian's smile was bittersweet. "I used them -- and they used me, Obi. No promises. No commitments. No tomorrows. Just . . . sex. You remember that, don't you? Just sex."

The knight sighed, and opened eyes gone cloud gray. "It was never 'just sex', Xan. You know that."

The prince looked away, training his gaze on the glitter of stars as the computer translated actual, hyperspace images into familiar galactic vistas. "Wasn't it? For you? How could it be anything else?"

"Xan, please," whispered Obi-Wan. "Please, don't do this. I can't . . . I can't deal with it. Not now."

Xanatos eyes drifted closed for a moment, before he turned and smiled down on his companion. "I know. And I'm sorry. You need to concentrate on getting stronger. On getting warm."

Obi-Wan nodded, and fell silent as the warmth and buoyancy of the water soothed the ache in his limbs and torso. "Aren't you . . ." he turned to observe Xanatos standing some distance away . . . "you're not . . . joining me?"

"No. I can't."

The Jedi frowned. "I don't understand. Are you . . ."

"Mira was very specific," explained the Telosian. "No sex -- at all. Not until . . . You're too vulnerable, Obi. It would be too easy -- to force the issue."

Obi-Wan's smile was gentle. "You wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't I?" Abruptly, Xanatos was striding forward, his movements sharp and jerky, without his customary fluid grace. "Wouldn't I? You can't possibly be that stupid. You can't . . ."

"Xan, I . . ."

"Do you know," said the prince of Telos, in a harsh, guttural tone that was strident with urgency, "how much I love you? Do you know what I'd do -- to have you feel the same about me? I'd do anything, Obi-Wan. Whatever it takes -- and if that means raping you -- while you're hurt and vulnerable and wounded -- I can't . . ."

He fell silent then, turning once more to gaze out into the stars.

"Go on," whispered Obi-Wan, still feeling the coldness in his veins. "You can't what?"

"I can't be sure I wouldn't just . . . take you -- and tear out the remnants of that bond -- to replace it with one of my own. I can't be sure."

The Jedi didn't answer for a while, and, when he did, his words were little more than a breath. "But I can."

Abruptly, Xanatos picked up a decorative vase, overflowing with prambia roses and dark-veined veliaferns, and smashed it against the viewport. "Fuck it all, Obi-Wan," he cried, "I'm not YOU. And you can't make me BE like you. I'm not concerned with honor or nobility, and I don't care about the Jedi -- or the Light -- or the Sith -- or right and wrong, good and evil - anything . . . except . . ."

"Me," sighed the Jedi. "You care about me."

And Xanatos fell to his knees beside the pool and reached out to pull the young knight into his arms, heedless of the damage hot mineral water would do to silk and leather. "Yes. You. I care about you. I think I fell in love with you -- the first time I ever saw you."

Obi-Wan smiled. "I was just a baby."

Xan nodded. "But you were a beautiful baby -- and I spent year after year after year trying to convince myself that it was all just my imagination."

"Must have worked pretty well -- or was that some other crazed psychotic prince of Telos who spent so much time trying to kill me?" The Jedi's eyes had drifted closed, and his voice was becoming distant and sluggish.

"But I didn't kill you," replied Xan, his fingers tracing the lines of the young knight's face. "Do you really think you'd be alive today -- if I'd actually wanted to kill you?"

Abruptly, Obi-Wan's eyes flew open, and he reached up to trace the thick scars that obscured the side of the Telosian's throat. "You . . . did you . . ."

"Did I what?" whispered Xan, lost in the depths of jewel-toned eyes.

"You . . . let yourself fall. That day, at the acid pits -- you let yourself fall. Didn't you?"

The Telosian leaned forward and pressed his lips against Obi-Wan's forehead. "It was my only choice. I couldn't . . ."

Obi-Wan laid back against the cushion -- and felt as if everything he had ever known about the universe had suddenly turned topsy-turvy in his mind. "You couldn't risk . . . killing me."

Xan huffed a small laugh. "Sounds stupid -- doesn't it? I had an escape hatch, of course -- my customary 'back door' -- but I wasn't at all sure that it would work. But . . . I looked over and saw that you were perfectly willing to sacrifice yourself, to save Qui-Gon. And I couldn't allow that. So I took my chance -- and it worked. Mostly."

Those incredible eyes looked up at him again, and Xan felt a blade slice into his heart as he noted tears welling up in their depths. "You never told me before," murmured Obi-Wan. "You never said it. Why . . ."

"Because I knew you couldn't," answered Xanatos. "No matter how much you might want to -- your heart was tied to him. I didn't want to hurt you -- or to make you want . . . what we could never have."

Obi-Wan nodded, and let himself soak up the warmth around him as he considered what he had learned.

When he looked up again, there was new resolve in his eyes. "And now?"

Xan's smile was gentle. "Now -- it's now or never. As soon as you're ready, Mira will come and remove the severed ends of the bond."

"And I may die," said the young Jedi softly, knowing it to be truth.

"And you may die," admitted the prince of Telos, ruthlessly squelching the terror the acknowledgement inspired. "Or you may not. But even if you don't, you may never be able to form a bond again -- with anyone. I know that."

"But?"

"But, at least, you'll know. I couldn't stand it -- if you never knew."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes tightly and drew a deep breath. "I wish . . ." But he could not go on.

"I know," replied Xan, reaching out once more to draw the young knight into his arms. "I know."

Mirilent Soljan drew a deep bracing breath -- and reaffirmed her decision to spend the rest of her life here on Arbory 3. She had traveled widely in her many years serving the Jedi Order -- had gone where she was needed, to fight disease and pestilence, to aid in the treatment of injuries in scores of natural disasters, to minister to the needs of Jedi Masters and knights and padawans, injured in the line of duty or otherwise. She had inoculated beautiful slender children with huge liquid eyes, against the horrors of Vesqué Fever in the magnificent rain forests of Tynna; fought Drehenam Plague that spread like wildfire in the primitive but glorious mountainous regions of northern Agamar; wrested young knights and padawans from the stubborn grip of death in the badlands of Garqi, following battles in a seemingly endless civil war, while noting, with some remote section of her mind, the exquisite beauty of the setting; and she had journeyed from village to village in the archipelago that swept across the southern quadrant of Alderaan's tropical seas, evaluating the irreversible damage done to an entire generation of infants by a biologically engineered genetic mutation that had been intended to reverse a decades-long degeneration of mental faculties in the native population. She sighed when she thought of that particular mission -- of the empty eyes and blank faces, of the dread and the acceptance of futility in the expression of parents and siblings and extended families, of the wordless, emotionless obedience of the small victims as they were gathered up and transported to facilities scattered across the face of the planet, facilities where they would be monitored and tended, until -- inevitably -- each of them would lapse into a catatonic state from which there would be no waking.

She remembered the breathtaking loveliness of those islands, with seas of amethyst and turquoise, and beaches of rose-colored sand that waxed gold and coral in the magic of sunrise. She remembered an exquisitely beautiful adolescent padawan who had loved running on that sand, basking in that wonderfully crystalline sunlight until his body was transformed into a sculpture in bronze, and swimming and exploring those waters; who had been welcomed into the camaraderie of the young people of the villages and proceeded to make friends who might have lasted a lifetime, but hadn't, in the course of things; who had wept uncontrollably when the final inevitable conclusion was reached, when he was made to accept the fact that there was no resolution for the problem -- no hope.

No one lived on those islands any more; the entire culture had been destroyed by an experimental process gone bad -- and Obi-Wan had not spoken a single word of what happened there since the day he had piloted the Jedi transport as it lifted off from the center of the last village and streaked up into the oblivion of the stars. Not even Qui-Gon had been able to convince him to seek out a soul healer. He had dealt with his desolation as he had dealt with many things over the years -- in the silence of his own heart.

Yes, she remembered Alderaan, and the sense of tranquility that clung to those islands like a blanket of warmth -- even after the advent of unremitting tragedy.

But it was nothing like this place -- this place where she would happily spend the remainder of her life. Except, of course, that she couldn't. As a Bimar, she existed with the physiological imperative of living in close proximity with both her mate -- and her twin; it was a condition she had never lamented, never resented, never even thought to question. Until now.

She had been here on Arbory, a small m-class planet tucked into the curve of the crescent-shaped Thedri Nebula, almost two full cycles, and she knew she was approaching her limits. Already, she felt the rising compulsion, and knew her time was short. But she could not leave -- not yet.

There was still one task undone -- one goal unreached. She would not, could not, leave him as he was.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was now free of the torn bond which had tormented him for almost ten years; that torture was gone. But he was still broken, unhealed -- and she would not abandon him now. If necessary, she would ask Varqa to come here, to grant her more time -- and he would do it, because he loved her, and because he loved Obi-Wan -- but it would be a hardship for him, and she hoped to avoid the necessity.

Today, she thought. Today.

The stage was set; the trap, baited. All he had to do was allow himself to be caught.

She looked around, making sure nothing had been forgotten -- and allowed herself a small self-congratulatory smile.

The cottage, provided for their use by the family of Finis Valorum, was perfect. She had converted it into a combination residence and clinic when she had arrived here, after being summoned, through a circuitous process, by Xanatos Aji. On the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than a family dwelling, two-storied, with broad porches and mullioned windows, perched at the edge of a broad bend in a river that meandered through several miles of hill country and meadowland before connecting to a crystal pure, ice-flecked sea, teeming with life. The rear porch, where she sat now, actually extended out over the water, and the rustic appearance of the structure gave no indication that it was supported by a series of repulsor-lifts which would, if necessary, lift it out of reach of raging floodwaters. But there was no need for that today. Today was perfect.

It was deep winter in the planet's northern hemisphere -- real winter, the kind that no longer happened on Coruscant -- unless the weather control system shorted out -- which happened rarely -- or decided, on a fluke, to allow a short-lived cold snap that might entail a few snowflakes -- which happened even more rarely. None of the weather programmers -- or the powers that be who controlled them -- had much of a taste for winter, it seemed. Mira thought that was rather a shame, and, judging by his behavior over the last week, Obi-Wan surely agreed.

All around the house, and out over the water, a deep stillness had fallen, in concert with the onset of steady snowfall, which had quickly iced the tips of evergreens and the bare bone-like limbs of the stand of deciduous trees that crowded the river's edge. The sky was thick with pearl gray clouds that showed no sign of moving on, and Mira felt sure the snow would continue through the night, transforming the landscape into a fantasy of drifts and ice sculpture with the coming of morning. They would be cut off -- which suited her perfectly.

A faint tinkling sound drew her attention to the small garden area off to the left of the porch, and she was prompted to hold her breath as she glimpsed the phenomenon known locally as ice fyries -- a swarm of cold-weather insects with segmented bodies encased in chitinous carapaces, who only emerged from their subterranean nests when the temperature dropped below freezing and flurries of snow filled the air. The sound they produced -- the whirring of wings that should have been too fragile to support such sturdy bodies, but somehow weren't -- was almost musical, like crystal chimes, and they generated a pulsing radiance -- amber and lavender and jade and bright rose that was endlessly reflected in the prisms of the ice that attracted their attention.

It was a spectacularly lovely sight, and Mira smiled, hoping that they would linger and continue their exploration of the garden until Obi arrived.

Which, she hoped, would be shortly. The setting was perfect; it needed only its star players.

She had arranged two of the sprawling loungers side by side, positioned them at the edge of the porch to allow an unobstructed view of the river, added a drift of plush, velvety pillows, and covered the entire arrangement with soft, downy, hand-made quilts, creating a nest of colorful warmth and comfort that was almost decadent. Nearby, a small table held a carafe of steaming jaffa, and another of spiced hot caroballe, topped with snowy drifts of whipped cream, along with a small tray of porcelain mugs, their dark crimson finish incredibly bright against the rapidly developing white-out. The table also offered a tall, decorative tankard, redolent of mulled wine -- and a tiered tray of a local confection known as prakava, dark and chewy and studded with nuts -- a delicacy for which Obi-Wan had developed a particular fondness.

Mira settled herself within the comforting warmth of the lounge, and luxuriated for a moment in the sheer physical pleasure it afforded. She watched the snowfall, sipped her mug of jaffa -- and wondered where he was, although there was little doubt.

She had come when summoned, and performed the ritual he had requested; she had excised the remnants of the bond out of his mind and his soul and his Force connection, knowing that he could no longer survive if she refused to do so, but knowing, also, that he would endure unbelievable agony in the process. Performing the ceremony had drained her to a dangerously low level of Life force -- and drained him even further -- and neither of them had been sure, at the end, that they would survive the ordeal.

For days, the uncertainty had continued, but, finally, she had recovered enough to oversee his battle to take back his life, to take over his care from the staff provided by Chancellor Valorum and to nurse him through the night sweats and the bouts of torment and ease him through the nightmares. And he had endured, as he must -- but she knew it was not enough.

They had both lived, but Mira was too much a realist to believe that they had accomplished their final goal. Obi-Wan was alive -- and free from the torment of the severed bond -- but he was still incomplete. He was still not the young man she had known -- and loved -- for all his life. He walked and talked; he even laughed on occasion. But he was empty; it was in his eyes -- and in his heart. The pain was relieved -- but the silence was swallowing him whole.

So he walked -- miles and miles, every day -- and tried to reach out to touch the Living Force; tried to recapture his connection to the warm, loving presence that had cradled him all his life, even during the worst of his dark times. But it remained silent, unresponsive; he could sense it, he assured her, when she asked -- but it was remote -- and uninterested.

He was isolated and weary, and, most of all, he felt abandoned. He walked everywhere -- in the hills, along the river, across the meadowlands and up into the mountains, searching for an answer that eluded him. And his body grew leaner and tougher, hardened, as he pushed himself -- but his eyes were hollow, and he was always cold.

She had done everything she knew how to do, and realized that it would not be enough. There were only two alternatives left to her -- and one of them she would resist until no other choice remained.

It was time to activate Plan B -- and pray for a little help from the pantheon of deities in whom she had never totally believed, but she felt no aversion to hedging her bets.

He would be home soon; the increasing cold would drive him in. Though he shared her love of winter, his body could no longer adjust to frigid temperatures.

She sipped her jafka, and considered allowing herself a brief nap, before rejecting the notion. Time was short -- and there was still that one final alternative that she had not allowed herself to explore fully -- in the hope that it would never be necessary.

But it might -- and the thought triggered a memory that she found surprisingly painful.

Memory Sequence

She had never felt sorry for Qui-Gon Jinn before that day, and it had surprised her that she was capable of experiencing any nuance of sympathy for the man who had been the target of her anger and resentment more times than she could begin to count.

But she had never seen him as she saw him that day; he had never before come to her -- as a supplicant.

"You're going to Obi-Wan," he'd said, without preamble, without any hint of accusation in his voice. "I know the cover story -- that Chancellor Valorum's daughter fell ill and requires the services of the Temple's best healer -- but that's just a story. Isn't it?"

"Master Jinn," she'd replied, coldly, "where I go -- and why -- is actually none of your business. Now, if you don't mind, I'm running late and . . ."

"Please, Mira," he'd said then, and there had been no mistaking the desolation in his tone. "Please. Don't do this. Don't take him away. I can't . . . I need him, Mira. And he needs me, too. Don't break this bond. I'm begging you."

She had studied his face then, examining the torment he was enduring. "Hurts, doesn't it?"

"You have no idea," he'd replied.

Sudden tears had welled in her eyes. "Oh, but I do. I know exactly how it feels -- because I saw what it did to him. What he endured -- because you and your precious Council buddies decided that his suffering was the vital ingredient in the success of your little plot. Sweet Force, Qui-Gon -- did you ever once think of what you did to him? Did any of you ever consider the pain you inflicted? This wasn't just expediency; it wasn't the means that justified the ends. This was Darkness -- and all of you participated. All of you -- even Saint Yoda-of-the-Twisted-Syntax. And now -- when the damage is done -- you want me to deliver him into your hands -- because YOU need him. Forgive me for being so blunt, JEDI MASTER -- but, in the vernacular of the younger generation -- I don't give a flying fuck what you need."

"I didn't know," he'd cried, flinching away from her anger.

"You didn't WANT to know," she'd retorted. "Just like the Council didn't want to know. So they -- and you -- could climb into your beds at night and tell yourselves that your consciences were clean and sleep the sleep of innocence. So you could believe that you had no choice."

He'd straightened then, and she'd seen a flash of the arrogance that had become so common among members of the Order in recent years. "I'll go to the Council. They'll forbid you to . . ."

"Go and be damned," she'd retorted, without hesitation. "I'll resign from the Order. I'm a healer, Qui-Gon -- first and foremost. And I'll do what I must. Those words should, at least, mean something to you. You said them to him often enough."

And the defiance had drained out of him then, leaving him slumped and shaken. "I loved him, Mira. I just . . . never knew how to let him know it. I never knew . . . it would hurt so much -- that the Force wouldn't be enough, to take away the pain."

The words were barely audible -- and she'd felt the weight of his sorrow settle around her. But she couldn't allow it to matter; her priorities were already fixed.

"It's almost beyond belief,," she'd said finally, "butI find that I can feel sorry for you. It's obvious that you didn't know the value of what you had, until it was gone."

"He still loves me," he'd insisted then, holding on to a small spark of determination.

"Yes," she'd agreed, "I'm sure you're right. But I'm not going to let him die for it."

He'd looked at her then, and the naked pleading in his eyes had been so intense that she had barely been able to meet his gaze. "Help me," he'd whispered. "Please, help me. I don't think I can live without. . ."

"Yes, you can," she'd answered firmly, refusing to be swayed. "He did -- and you can too. We all accumulate debts over the course of our lives, Master Jinn. It's your time to pay up."

She'd walked away then, holding her head up and refusing to look back. Not even when she detected the soft sound of hopeless weeping.

End -- memory sequence

She sighed and snuggled deeper into the drift of downy coverlets. Qui-Gon Jinn constituted the final alternative -- the one that she could barely stand to contemplate. If all else failed, the Jedi Master could reform the soulbond -- and reclaim the young man who had saved his life all those years ago. And Obi-Wan would live; that much was certain. But he would no longer be Obi-Wan Kenobi -- Jedi knight and independent adult. He would be the shadow -- the plaything -- of Master Jinn.

Mira wasn't certain, but she was fairly sure she'd rather see him dead -- and she was convinced that he would feel the same.

She sipped her jaffa -- and heard the sound of footsteps in the entryway -- and took a moment to repeat the little litany taught to her by Chancellor Valorum's granddaughter, beseeching divine intervention, justice -- and mercy.

Curtain time.

She could feel his gentle nudge through the Force as he sought her out -- and the warmth of his amusement as he realized where she was.

"What's all this?" he asked, as he strolled out into the growing dimness of the porch. "In case you haven't noticed, it's freezing out here."

"Not in my little nest," she replied, lifting up one side of the stack of quilts. "Come on in. It's good for the soul."

He moved to stand beside her, his eyes taking in all the preparations, and he looked down at her with an affectionate smile. "You're a closet sensualist," he observed.

"Humph. Nothing closet about it," she retorted. "This is sheer heaven."

She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, and some small segment of her mind remarked that he was still incredibly beautiful -- but not very Jedi in appearance any more. He wore the faded garments he had unearthed in a bureau in the room he used as a sleeping chamber -- work pants worn to a downy softness, topped by a thick, fleecy sweatshirt of indeterminate color, and a jacket of well-worn suede, a washed-out pearl gray that served to emphasize the jeweled tones of his eyes.

He moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of caroballe, before taking a piece of candy to nibble as he gazed out into the swirl of snowfall and turned to watch the acrobatic patterns flown by the ice fyries. "Beautiful," he breathed.

"Yes -- now get in here where it's warm, before you pass out from hypothermia."

He appeared to be considering an argument, but, in the end, he did as she asked, pausing only to remove the jacket and the heavy hiking boots that he favored for his explorations. There was more than enough room in the little cocoon to allow them to avoid touching each other -- but that was not his way. He settled himself next to her, before laying his head against her shoulder.

"How was your day?" she asked, enjoying the familiarity of their little domestic ritual.

"Lovely," he answered, avoiding any mention of the problems that continued to plague his soul and his spirit -- as always. "I found an old shrine up in the hills. Very old. Prehistoric, maybe. It was full of . . . ghosts, I think."

"Ghosts?" She sipped her jaffa, and tried not to frown.

He smiled, hearing the concern in her tone. "Just . . . traces of old Force signatures. I think. I tried to explore them -- but couldn't get much. Just old -- and sad."

She said nothing, and his smile broadened. "You think I'm projecting," he said softly.

"Don't tell me what I think," she retorted, not bothering to ease the sharpness of her tone, knowing that all he wanted from her -- all he'd ever wanted from her -- was honesty.

He nestled into the pillows before turning to study her face. "You're pale, you know," he observed, after several moments of silence. "When are you going?"

"Who says I'm going?"

"If necessary," he replied, "I do. I'm not going to let you make yourself ill -- on my behalf."

"Obi, I won't . . ."

"I'll survive, Mira," he interrupted. "I've lived with it for all these years. This is just a . . . different form of the same thing. I'll survive."

She looked up at him then -- and allowed all her fears to flare in her face. "You're not surviving, Love. You're slipping further and further into depression, and solitude -- and withdrawing from life. You're not surviving."

He looked away then, unwilling to meet her eyes. "I guess that depends on your definition of survival. Doesn't it?"

"I won't let you go, my Obi," she said abruptly, fiercely. "I won't . . ."

"I'm tired," he said suddenly. "I just want to rest a while. OK?"

"Briathell chowder for dinner," she said softly, suppressing an urge to reach out and smooth the lines from a face far too young to wear them, "and cherobb meringues. Your favorite."

His smile was gentle, but distant. "My compliments to the chef."

Ignoring the slight remoteness of his tone, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him back down to cradle his head on her shoulder. "Be at ease, Love," she whispered. "All is well."

She blinked away the tears that rose in her eyes as he allowed himself to be held, allowing her to feel his trust in her -- a trust she devoutly hoped she was not preparing to betray.

The twilight had thickened, and the whiteness of the world surrounding the lovely little cottage had intensified, wrapping the entire setting in heavy, thick layers of swaddling. Soon, the isolation would be complete.

Mirilent knew she had to hurry, knew her time was running out, as she eased out of the warm little cocoon she had created, and padded into the house, to greet the individual who stood waiting at the front entry, trying, without notable success, to achieve some measure of serenity.

When she opened the door, he met her gaze squarely -- but she could detect the underlying uncertainty that eroded his confidence. She gestured for him to enter, as she retrieved her own cold weather gear from the coat stand by the door.

"Mira," he said softly, "I don't think I can do this."

She paused to peer into his eyes -- but only for a moment. "Then you condemn him," she answered sternly.

"You're asking me -- to violate him," came the response, heavy with distaste.

The pause this time was longer, as pure rage flared in her eyes. "Now you listen to me, Prince Xanatos," she almost snarled, "I'm asking no such thing. I'm telling you that you -- and only you -- have the power to save him. To give him back his life. Or is something like that beneath your dignity? He's just a common Jedi, after all. Hardly worthy of your . . ."

"Stop it," he snapped. "You know better than that. He's . . . he's everything to me. But I will NOT rape him. Do you understand that?"

To his surprise, she reached up and gently brushed flakes of snow from a sweep of night dark hair.. "I know. But you must convince him, Xan. Otherwise, we'll lose him. Erasing the broken bond ended the agony he endured all those years -- but he's lost his way. He can't adjust to being alone again, within himself. If it goes on much longer, he won't survive it."

"He's not ready," he answered, taking a deep breath.

"No," she agreed, "he's not. But we're running out of time. Soon, he'll be too far gone for you to reach him. If that happens -- only one person would be able to pull him back. And you know as well as I do what that would mean. Is that what you want for him? To spend the rest of his life locked away in some dark compartment of his own mind -- a slave, a thing to be used for someone else's pleasure?"

Xanatos shook his head, bleak horror in his eyes. "I'd never allow that. I'd kill him myself, rather than let that happen."

She nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat. "Then go save his life, Xan. I've done everything I know how to do. Now it's up to you."

He shuddered slightly, before squaring his shoulders and attempting a tremulous smile. "I'll try."

She made a sour face, and glowered at him. "Surely, you're not going to make me say it."

The smile firmed up. "Okay. I won't try. I'll do."

She nodded, wrapping a thick scarf around her throat. "I'll be back in the morning. And, Xan?"

"Yes?" His tone was absent, as he had already begun to move away, his focus on the task before him -- and a part of his mind was laughing hysterically at the idea of classifying what he must do as a 'task' - but he paused to hear her out.

"He used to sing in the mornings," she said softly. "Limericks, love songs, bawdy drinking songs -- sometimes the entire score of the latest musical comedy to catch his fancy. Always very loud -- sometimes in tune; sometimes not. It drove Qui-Gon nearly out of his mind." She sighed, and tried to blink away the moisture in her eyes. "He hasn't sung -- not once -- since I came here -- and I want to hear him sing again."

Xanatos Aji, crown prince of Telos, sovereign ruler of the Thanis Confederacy, guardian of the Sacred Sceptre of Armré Lia, Sentinel of the Sanctuary of Emmelithe, and holder of a bevy of other royal titles, stood looking down at the face that haunted his dreams every single night; a face that, when analyzed feature by feature, might have seemed quite ordinary -- but somehow managed to become more than the sum of its parts. The face of a commoner, although noble-born; the face of a Jedi knight, who cared nothing for the trappings of monarchy or royal succession -- the face of the man he loved beyond all reason, the man for whom he would have given up his throne, his wealth -- and his life, if necessary.

He quickly discarded jacket, cap, gloves, and boots of dark, supple leather, and knelt beside the cozy nest that the healer had prepared, letting his fingers glide through the tumble of soft, coppery curls that spread across the silken surface of the stack of pillows; Obi-Wan had taken to wearing his hair loose and unconfined down his back, only rarely taming it into the familiar braid, and Xan thought it suited him, though it made him look younger than his thirty-four years. But his face didn't look younger now, marred, even in the depths of slumber, by vertical creases on his brow and frown lines at the corners of his mouth.

He had learned to frown early in his life -- at the hands of the man to whom he had granted his complete loyalty and obedience. But he had also learned laughter, and the prince knew with absolute certainty that the sound of Obi-Wan's laughter would live in his memory until he drew his last breath; it was almost his favorite of all sounds, second only to the deep, purring moan that invariably erupted from his lover's throat at the moment of orgasm.

The twilight had deepened to a layer of rose-blushed lavender as he allowed his eyes to catalog the features that he loved so well; the elegance of the bone structure, the symmetry of the sculpted nose, the perfect arch of brows and the sweep of thick, spiky lashes, the full, eminently kissable lips, and the perfect cleft of the strong chin. Force, how he loved that cleft. Almost as much as he loved the eyes, closed now -- but bright and jewel-toned in his memory. He smiled as he extended a fingertip to trace the line of the bottom lip, and reflected, as he often did, on the uniqueness of those incredible eyes -- eyes unlike those of anyone else. Eyes that defied description.

Eyes that flickered open, and looked up at him in the soft disorientation of sleep interrupted.

"Xan?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing here?"

"Watching you sleep."

The full lips curled into a small smile, as he nestled deeper into his comfortable cocoon. "Nothing better to do?"

The prince leaned forward and captured that incredibly tempting lower lip between pearly teeth. "There is nothing better," he managed to murmur, before claiming the entire mouth, with lips that demanded -- and received -- entry for the questing tongue.

But it was not going to be that easy, and he knew it at once, when Obi-Wan pulled free with a small gasp. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Xanatos straightened and crawled up on the edge of the lounge, his eyes dark with passion. "If I have to explain it, I must not be doing it right."

"That's not what I mean," replied the young Jedi, "and you know it."

The Telosian sighed. "Yeah, I do. But I also know something else -- something that you know as well as I do, but haven't been willing to explore." He closed his eyes for a moment, in preparation -- knowing what he had to do, but knowing also that it would be terribly difficult, maybe even impossible. "It's time, my Obi. No more avoiding it. It's time."

Obi-Wan had pushed himself up to a semi-crouch, while wriggling to the furthest edge of the lounge, as far away from the touch of his former lover as he could get, and wrapped himself in layers of blankets, eliminating any possibility of skin meeting skin. "I won't allow this, Xan," he said, his voice steadier than he'd expected it to be. "I won't let you do this."

Moving with a grace that was almost fluid, and refusing to hurry through the task, Xanatos stood and began to disrobe. The bitter cold of the air around him would have been more than adequate cause for hurrying the process -- but he continued to move in a leisurely manner -- and Obi-Wan, eyes riveted in spite of his protestations, noted that the frigid temperature was doing some extraordinarily interesting things to his companion's exquisite body.

The young knight wanted to say more -- to put a stop to the Telosian's actions -- but he suddenly found his throat dry and thick with words he could not speak. How could he have forgotten, he wondered. How could he have let himself forget? Xanatos was the epitome of exotic male beauty, the perfection of his features somehow emphasized by the acid scarring that covered the area below his left ear -- and Obi-Wan knew immediately that he hadn't really forgotten; he had simply refused to remember.

Taller by several inches than he himself would ever be -- and broader across the chest and shoulders -- but without an ounce of excess flesh. All sculpted muscle and sinew, almost hairless, tapering to a narrow waist, and continuing down to the exquisite form of long, corded thighs and calves. And, as perfect as those parts of his form were, they paled in comparison to the other remarkably tempting features of his body -- the flat belly bisected by a line of fine, dark hair that plunged into the mass of ebony curls at the base of an impressive penis, long and thick even when not in a state of arousal, crowned with a head that would flush to a dark, almost angry crimson when engorged with blood and curled up against his abdomen. It was not, of course, engorged now; the cold made certain of that -- but Obi-Wan remembered how quickly it would fill -- and how it would weep pearly drops of pre-cum that would rival the finest wines in taste.

He tried to look away -- to see no more -- but he was frozen in time and place, helpless to avoid seeing it all, his breath coming harsh and thick through open lips. Beneath that proud symbol of manhood, the scrotum hung full and textured like fine velvet, inviting the exploration of a hungry mouth. And beyond that, the perfect curves of what Xan frequently referred to as 'the royal ass' -- silken to the touch, delicately contoured and perfectly balanced around that most intimate entrance to the body, marred only by one tiny discoloration, just above the junction of buttock to thigh -- a birthmark, crescent-shaped and claret-colored. Force, how he loved that little flaw, that only served to emphasize the perfection of the flesh that bore it.

And, it was all, of course, covered with the milky, almost luminous skin characteristic of the Telosian species, satin-textured, that tempted lips and hands to explore -- and to mark, just as the thick mane of heavy, black hair, falling almost to the waist, begged to be caressed and nuzzled and stroked; just as the sculpted face demanded the touch of lips and hands, and the eyes -- the color of a glacial sea -- invited one to plunge into their crystal depths, and never again recall or seek the light of day.

Obi-Wan drew a ragged breath, as he noted that the cold had caused Xan's nipples -- mocha pink against the creamy backdrop of his skin -- to pebble -- and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the recollection of their taste -- the salty male flavor that was so uniquely Xanatos -- and so addictive.

"See something you like?" teased Xan -- finally tossing the last of his garments -- as always, he wore no underwear -- aside and crawling into the cozy warmth of the cocoon.

"You know I do," whispered Obi-Wan, suppressing the moan that rose in his throat. "You . . . take my breath away. But I won't let you do this, Xan. I won't -- no matter how much I might want it. I won't take what you're offering."

For a moment, everything around them seemed to slip into some kind of dimensional shift -- as if time had suddenly halted its inexorable march forward. The silence was intense -- and Obi-Wan felt alarm stir within him as he correctly identified the emotion rising in Xan's cobalt eyes. The prince of Telos was, suddenly, stone-cold furious -- and looking for a target.

"I can't believe this shit," he said sharply. "It's inconceivable to me -- that I could have fallen in love, totally, irrevocably, completely in love, with such a stupid fucker."

Jewel-toned eyes suddenly widened, and flashed platinum with resentment. "Now wait a minute. I . . ."

"You think," Xan continued, ignoring Obi-Wan's attempt to speak, "that this is all about you. You think that this . . . is a pity fuck. Force, Obi-Wan -- I thought you knew me better than that. Do you really think I'd do that -- that I'd fuck you because I feel sorry for you? What -- you think I want to bond with you because I've suddenly developed a conscience -- or gone all noble . . . all fucking Jedi on you?"

But Obi-Wan, as weakened as he was in his current state, was not going to be browbeaten into going along with the plans hatched up by his former lover -- and the Bimar healer who had set up this very cozy, very convenient little love nest. "I know you love me, Xan," he said, forcing himself to speak calmly, to swallow the resentment that flared within him. "You feel . . . obligated. But you're not. You didn't do this to me -- and I'm not going to let you tie yourself to . . ."

"To what?" demanded the Telosian, allowing his outrage free rein. "To what?"

"To what I am," answered the Jedi finally -- barely audible. "To what I've become."

"Which is what -- exactly?" The tone had softened not at all; if anything, it had grown harsher. "Tell me what you think you've become."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and turned his face into the quilts that covered him. "It doesn't matter."

"Uh, huh," retorted Xanatos, obviously undeterred. "It doesn't matter? OK -- then you just shut the fuck up, while I tell you what you think you've become. You think you've become . . . a liability -- a loser. A cripple. Care to dispute that? No? I didn't think so. But you want to know what I think? I think that I'd give my good right arm -- to get my hands on the Master fucker that truly did this to you."

"Stop!" said Obi-Wan. "Just . . . stop!"

And Xanatos did stop then -- fear rolling over him with the force of a tidal wave. He was silent for several moments, before speaking again, in a very soft voice. "Oh, Force, Obi-Wan -- please tell me I'm wrong. Please tell me you don't still . . ."

Obi-Wan did not move, did not turn to face him -- but the prince could not fail to note the tremor in the voice. "Do you want me to lie to you, Xan?"

And the cold of the air around them was suddenly only a pale reflection of the cold that gripped the heart of the prince of Telos. "You still love him. By the goddess . . . you still love him."

"Yes."

Some separate, objective part of Xanatos' mind noted that it should be impossible for such a simple word to generate so much agony. He drew a deep ragged breath, before speaking again. "If you say the word, Obi -- I'm gone. As much as I hate it -- as much as I'd give my life to prevent it -- if you really want to go back . . ."

"No!" The denial was firm, unequivocal. "No -- I won't go crawling back to them -- to him. I can't do anything about my feelings for him -- but I won't become his possession -- his fuck toy. I just have to learn how . . . to survive. To cope. To live out my life as one of those needy pathetic lifeforms that I used to hold in so much contempt."

And the anger flared again, but this time, it was different. This time, it was filled with determination -- with purpose. Without apology or hesitation, Xanatos reached out and yanked Obi-Wan from the shelter of the nest of blankets in which he had buried himself, and wrapped him in an embrace from which he could not escape, without accessing the Force to do so. And accessing the Force was exactly the action the Telosian hoped to inspire.

"Let me go," snarled the Jedi, struggling to free himself.

"No," replied the prince calmly. "I have no intention of letting you go -- and you are going to listen to me -- if I have to tie you down and gag you to force the issue."

"Xan, I'm not kidding. Let me . . ."

"Listen, you obnoxious little bastard, you are going to hear me. You owe me that."

Obi-Wan went still, pain rising in his eyes. "I didn't know you were keeping score."

Xanatos had the grace to flush, but he remained firm in his determination. "Call it whatever you like -- but this is important. I need to say it, and you need to hear it."

He watched the expression on his former lover's face -- and could have wept when he identified the weary resignation that settled in those incredible eyes. "Go ahead then," said Obi-Wan, with a heavy vein of something that might have been petulance had he been anything other than Jedi. And Xan suddenly had to suppress a smile in the realization that being Jedi made no difference at all sometimes. Petulance, indeed. "Say your piece."

Deliberately, Xanatos turned his gaze out into the blurred reality of the falling snow, taking a moment to compose his thoughts before beginning to speak. "You tell me that you know I love you -- but you make it sound like some kind of intellectual exercise -- a dry fact that has no subtext, no deeper meaning. But you don't really know, Obi-Wan. You don't know what I feel, or what I need -- or why I would ask you to do this thing. Because you've never known what it is to be loved; you've only known what it is to be governed and manipulated -- to hunger for being needed, and desired. By the gods, Love -- you see yourself as needy and pathetic, when the truth is that you're the strongest, the brightest, the least pathetic man I've ever known. If there's anyone here who IS needy and pathetic, it's not you. It's me. I look at you -- and I know the emptiness you feel. -- the loneliness, the terrible aching need."

He turned then, and stroked the line of Obi-Wan's jaw with gentle fingers. "I know -- because it's a part of me too. You think I want to bond with you, for your sake? Sweet goddess, Obi; I want to bond with you -- because, without you, I'm only half a man. I can't bear to think about spending months and years and decades in the emptiness of knowing what we could have shared. I don't know how . . . to live without you. I don't want to do this for you, Obi-Wan -- and I don't want you to do it for me. I want to do it -- for us."

Obi-Wan's eyes had remained closed as Xan spoke, his forehead creased with lines of tension, and he remained motionless, almost breathless, for several minutes after the prince fell silent.

"I don't understand," he said finally. "I don't know why you would feel like that. I don't . . ."

"No," replied Xan with a sigh, "you don't. You've never understood it. Obi, you can't imagine how many people would have fallen at your feet -- if you'd only shown some sign of interest. You're like sunlight -- like youth and laughter; like rain in a desert; people are drawn to you -- and most of them only want to do whatever it takes to make you happy. And you go strolling through life, without even realizing it. Did you know, for example, that Bail Organa would have sold his soul for you? Or that there are dozens of Republic senators and Jedi knights -- even some Jedi Masters -- who would have given you the universe -- if you'd asked for it. The sad fact is that you wound up in the clutches of one of the few individuals in the galaxy who didn't have sense enough to recognize what a precious gift you were. Do you have any idea what I would do -- just to be able to spend the rest of my life at your side? Even if I was never allowed to touch you again -- I'd give up my throne." His lips twisted into a tiny little scapegrace smile. "I'd even give up my money."

Irrepressibly, Obi-Wan grinned, relaxing slightly within the circle of Xan's arms. "Now that 's some serious sacrificing."

"Indeed," agreed the Telosian, before turning serious again. "I don't ask you to take me at my word. You know that nothing can remain hidden within the Force. I want to make love to you, Obi-Wan -- to love you completely, mind and body -- and to let the Force judge the suitability of any bond that might form between us. If it's meant to be, it will happen."

"And if it's not?"

"I won't believe that -- not until I have no other options." Xanatos pressed his face into the softness of Obi-Wan's hair. "I believe that this thing is stronger than both of us. It's even given me the strength to let go of my desire for revenge -- for your sake. I'll never be able to forgive Jinn -- for what he did to me, or -- more importantly -- for what he did to you, but I know that any action I might take to harm him, would also harm you. And that I could never do. I love you that much."

The scent of the Jedi's skin was suddenly impossible to resist, and he nestled against the young man's throat. "I believe that you were meant to be mine, Obi-Wan. Every day, every night, every hour, I close my eyes and I can almost feel your body against me. I hunger for you constantly -- to taste you, to devour you, to possess you -- to claim you as my own, and to have you claim me. I've never begged anyone for anything. Not once, in my entire life. But, if I must, I'll beg you for this -- to take this chance with me."

Obi-Wan turned then, and jeweled eyes met arctic blue. "Xan, if it doesn't work -- do you understand the risk? There are no guarantees; we're dealing with a power that no one really understands -- or controls. It could kill us both -- or worse."

"I know the dangers. But the chance to spend one day with you -- one hour -- is worth any risk. You're the breath of my life; the rhythm of my heart - but for it to work, we must surrender to each other -- completely. Can you do that?"

"Help me?" It was barely a whisper.

Xanatos smiled.

The kiss that marked the beginning of what Xanatos had already labeled 'the most important seduction of my life' was neither hungry nor passionate, but achingly gentle, as the Telosian positioned himself to gaze down into the face of the man he loved. He leaned forward and, light as breath, stroked his lips across those of his lover, once, twice -- and settling slightly the third time, to feel Obi-Wan's mouth relax under his own, like flower petals opening beneath the sun. Then he drew back slightly, to press little, nibbling kisses across his lover's jaw, and down into the hollow of his throat, working his way finally to the deep cleft of the chin, roughened with a day's growth of ginger stubble.

"Gods, I love this dimple," he breathed, before beginning a thorough examination with just the tip of his tongue, pausing to look up and lose himself in the depths of eyes gone aquamarine, in the first rush of passion. Obi-Wan's breath had begun to quicken, and his lashes fluttered gently against the skin of Xanatos' cheekbones. "Open to me, Obi. Let me in."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Slowly, Xan. Too fast -- and it'll be . . . overwhelming." Nuzzling his face into the silken drift of his lover's hair, he closed his eyes, and reached for his center -- which he had been unable to grasp in recent days, but now it came easily, as if it had been waiting for the right moment. And maybe it had. Maybe Xan was right. Maybe this was meant to be. He quickly sifted through the various threads of energy and time and circumstance that comprised his consciousness, seeking the primal filament of his own connection to the Force. He had tried to isolate it several times since Mira had removed all traces of the soulbond, but it had been elusive, granting him no more than fleeting glimpses of its distinctive bright azure glow as it coiled in upon itself, avoiding his grasp.

But now, like the tranquil center of his consciousness, it was there -- not flickering as it had appeared when he had last sought it out, but burning steadily and flowing toward him smoothly when he reached out through the Force. He felt the caress of its warmth as it accepted his touch, and he knew a moment of fear as he realized that, if their efforts were successful, this basic component of his life, this link that bound him to the vast beauty of the Force, would be forever changed, encompassing both more and less than all that had comprised his existence. But he drew a deep breath, and put aside his fears. The Force would not harm him -- and would not harm the man who was risking so much, simply to make him whole again. He had to believe that.

With a deep sigh, he began to dismantle his shielding, as he opened his eyes and lifted his lips to those awaiting the invitation.

Xan groaned, deep in his chest, and took what was offered, his tongue probing deep and delighting in the taste of his lover as it exploded in his mouth -- the flavor of Obi-Wan Kenobi, like spiced cream, but not quite, containing something more, something that defied classification -- something that was uniquely Obi-Wan, and the Telosian knew that he would gladly spend the rest of his life subsisting on nothing but that taste. He explored palate and gums and teeth and tongue, and then opened himself to the same type of exploration as Obi-Wan surged upward, claiming his own right to sip and sample and savor.

Around them, the cold intensified as the snowfall thickened, but there was only fire and life between them as Xanatos, by now in the grip of growing desperation, wrapped his fist in the worn fleece shirt that had ridden up to bare Obi-Wan's midriff, and -- with a guttural growl, ripped it free and tossed it away.

"Hey!" Obi-Wan protested, as he tongued the delicate whorls of his lover's ear, "that was my favorite tunic -- made me look dashing."

Xan was working his way down the sculpted chest, nibbling and licking and savoring. "You'd look dashing," he replied, as he reached the rosy contours of a pebbled nipple, "in a tuber bag -- and a smile." More nibbles, more kisses. "On second thought, forget the tuber bag." He wrapped his fingers around the underside of Obi-Wan's biceps and pushed up, so he could trail his hands down his lover's side, caressing underarms and rib cage, luxuriating in the satin texture of creamy skin, as he sucked sharply, creating a love bite to darken the lovely aureole surrounding the nipple.

"Gods, Obi-Wan," he groaned, as something very like a purr erupted from the younger man's throat, "how could you even think of denying this? So beautiful -- and so made for this. For me. Your body is just . . ." hands gripped the waistband of faded workpants -- and, with little more than a whisper of resistance, they followed the shirt out into the growing darkness . . . "it's like somebody created you -- for me. Just for me. You feed my hunger; you quench my thirst."

He surged upward to reclaim lips now swollen and reddened from rough kisses. "Open to me."

"Ye-e-e-s," sighed Obi-Wan, eyes heavy with lust, as he adjusted his body, welcoming the silky hardness that settled against his groin, as he opened his legs to allow Xan to press against him. "Sweet Force, Xan," he murmured, grinding himself against that pulsing manhood, " I swear you were a whore in a previous life."

Xan stole another kiss, before sliding down his lover's body, mapping it with hands and mouth as he went, paying extraordinary attention to nipples and navel, before slowly moving lower, trailing fingers finally down inner thighs, and positioning Obi-Wan's knees up and out with heels pressed against buttocks, leaving him splayed -- and squirming with need.

And within his consciousness, the spiral of light that comprised his life writhed as well -- reaching, needing -- hungry.

As Xanatos shifted to kneel between Obi-Wan's feet, the young knight realized his intention and voiced his objection. "Xan, wait!" he cried. "Let me . . ."

"Later!" The response was almost a growl -- followed by a feral grin. "The night is barely begun, Love -- and you'll have plenty of chances to return the favor. Sometime tonight, I'm hoping you'll fuck me till my brains are leaking out my ears -- but now, this is for you. This is to tell you how much I love you, how much I want you. This is to blow your ears out."

And he buried his face in Obi-Wan's groin, intent on savoring the feast laid out before him and debating on where to begin. Ah, yes -- the testacles -- plump and lovely and inviting exploration. First the tongue, to taste and sample the texture, as his lover whispered something incoherent, which might have had something to do with being driven insane -- then went rigid as the warmth of that talented Telosian mouth engulfed the entire scrotal sac, alternately sucking and humming, hard enough to skirt the edge of pain -- but never crossing that line, carefully avoiding any rhythmic pattern, to prevent any nuance of complacency. Meanwhile, his hands were not idle, nudging his lover's legs wider, before sliding down to cup the sensual swell of buttocks as thumbs stroked the ultra-sensitive perineum.

Completely at the mercy of his tormentor, Obi-Wan writhed, torn between the urge to push up into that dark warmth -- or down against those tantalizing hands.

When Xan released the balls from his mouth, he did so through pursed lips, causing them to pop free, and eliciting a guttural groan from Obi-Wan.

"Talk to me, Baby," demanded the prince, as he slid his tongue up the considerable length of the thick, pulsating phallus that was now begging for his touch. "Tell me what you want -- what you're feeling."

"Can't," panted Obi-Wan, trembling with need. "Don't remember how!"

The Telosian laughed softly -- and his lover hissed at the sensation of soft puffs of breath caressing the length of his cock. With a soft growl, Xanatos began an exploration of the delightful juncture of groin and thigh as his hands kneaded the silken flesh of the ass he personally adjudged to be the galaxy's most perfect, and he lost himself for a while in the luxury of the sensation. Until his lover suddenly -- unexpectedly -- sat up, buried his hands in the prince's hair, and tugged his head up to demand a kiss that was almost brutal in its intensity, before making a simple demand.

"Enough foreplay. Suck me -- NOW!"

Xanatos was instantly reminded of an intimate conversation they had shared early in their relationship -- a conversation in which Obi-Wan had confessed that his love affair with his Master had always cast him in the role of the submissive -- a role, he'd discovered later in life, that was NOT natural to him.

"For a natural bottom," said the Prince, with an audible smack of his lips, "you sure are bossy."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to dispute the 'natural bottom' comment -- but succeeded only in running through a litany of curses -- in five different languages -- as Xan swallowed him to the root, and restarted the process of driving him out of his mind.

For a moment there was only the slide of tongue and teeth and lips from tip to base; then the suction began, again alternating with soft humming, and a tongue that explored every inch of the silk-over-steel shaft, and paused periodically to sip at the drops of bittersweet fluid that formed in the slit. Special attention was also paid to the underside of the head, a sweet spot that was particularly vulnerable to the slow drag of teeth and the friction of chin stubble.

For a few moments, Obi-Wan was able to resist the urge to thrust upwards into that delectable mouth -- but only for a few moments. With a moan emitted through clenched teeth, he finally gave up the struggle and lost himself in the effort to bury his cock in the incredible sweetness of the throat that contracted and pulsed around him.

It was at that moment, when control had been almost entirely lost, that Xan eased off a bit, suckling gently, in order to reach out with a tendril of Force energy, to retrieve a small tube from the pocket of his discarded jacket. He tried to suppress the aching need that was driving him to completion, but it was almost beyond his ability. He had been too-long-starved for the feast laid out before him. Still, he would cause his lover no pain; of that, he was certain. He took a deep, ragged breath, and concentrated on keeping his touch tender. Too easily, this could devolve into common rutting, but he would not allow that to happen. This was not simple fucking; this was making love, to the man who was the center of his universe.

With hands that he could not quite steady, he squeezed out generous dollops of lube -- and focused once more on the task of ravishing the luscious body in his arms.

"Let me in, Obi," he whispered. "Open for me."

And, with a complete disregard for his own primal fears, he dropped the shields that he had erected around his heart when he was still a boy, at the same moment when he enveloped Obi-Wan's phallus completely, sucking hard, and placed his palms against the tender swell of buttocks as he sank both thumbs, slick with scented oil, into the puckered opening of his lover's body. Within that dark, silken passage, he quickly found the small nub he was seeking, and proceeded to massage it constantly, sending bolts of sheer ecstasy through Obi-Wan's body.

Instantly, the Jedi jerked upwards to meet the sweet rapture of warm lips -- and back, to intensify the incredible erotic shocks that exploded through him like the eruption of a star caught in the rising flares of a supernova. Simultaneously, he felt the collapse of his own shielding, and was immediately lost in the sensations that flooded his lover's senses, as the two of them surrendered to the power of the Force, as it pulled each of them into the other's awareness, and bound them together with tendrils of pure energy. There was pain -- but there was also a great surge of joy, such as neither had ever known before.

"Xan, I can't . . . I'm coming . . . I'm falling."

"Then fall for me, my love." It was wordless, unspoken -- but absolutely clear. "I'll catch you."

It was also superfluous, as Obi-Wan, at that moment, really had no choice, as he felt the liquid heat build at the center of his being, and explode in a burst of fiery pleasure that flared out to consume everything around him, sending hot blood boiling through loins and belly, and melting the pathways to the brain in the incredible heat of the outburst. It was as if he fell from a great height, into a molten river of physical rapture that seemed to go on and on, as Xan continued to suckle, draining him of every drop of orgasm; yet even as he felt his erection begin to flag, those talented, tormenting fingers continued their assault on his sanity -- and his prostate - and he felt blood surge once more into his cock.

"You're definitely," he gasped, "trying to kill me."

Releasing the reawakening cock -- with some reluctance -- Xanatos crawled with sinuous grace back up to come face to face with his lover, and Obi-Wan was overwhelmed to taste himself on his lover's tongue. "Tell me what you want," whispered Xan. "Anything -- anything you want -- is yours. For the rest of our lives. Tell me what . . ."

"I'm on fire for you," interrupted the Jedi. "I burn for you. Fuck me, Xan. That's all I want. You inside me; that's all."

Xanatos smiled, and let the depth of his love shine through his eyes. "You want me to put out your fire, my love?"

Obi-Wan shifted, lifting his lips to be reclaimed. "Yes."

Quick as a serpent, the Telosian reached out and scooped a double handful of snow from the porch railing, and slathered it around the resurgent erection of his lover, while he simultaneously positioned the head of his cock against the still relaxed opening to Obi-Wan's most intimate passage -- and pushed, sliding completely inside, until he felt his testacles snugged against his lover's ass.

The young Jedi howled, with combined laughter and arousal, and felt renewed bolts of pleasure as he was filled with the massive cock of his Telosian lover.

"Bastard!" he snapped, intrigued now by the combination of melting snow, and the heated friction of the hand that worked him so skillfully, and the hot, steely shaft that was buried within him.

Xan laughed, and began to stroke into the phenomenal velvety softness of Obi-Wan's body. "Gods, you're tight," he moaned, as he focused on their joining, while his hand continued to stroke his lover's cock. "Look at me, Obi. I want to see your eyes, when I come inside you. I want to see your face -- when you become mine forever."

"Yes!" cried Obi-Wan, wrapping his hands around Xan's legs to brace himself, to gain leverage to surge forward to meet the thrusts that continually impaled him. "Harder, Xan. Fuck me harder."

And the Telosian prince was glad to comply, releasing all restraint and pounding into the depths of Obi-Wan's body, adjusting his angle to stroke the prostate with every withdrawal, setting off a new burst of fireworks in his lover's consciousness.

"Say it!" demanded Xan. "I want to hear it, while I'm buried inside you. While I'm fucking your brains out. While there's no room inside you for anything, for anyone but me. Say it, Obi! Say it for me."

The young knight pushed himself forward once more, to take his lover's cock as deeply as possible, and arched his back, as he once more fell into the abyss of joy, barely conscious -- and cried out as he fell.

"I love you, Xan. Sweet Force -- I love you."

The prince of Telos would later realize that this would be the defining moment of his life -- the pinnacle of pure bliss -- and he would never forget the beautiful vision that was Obi-Wan's face as he surrendered to the power that swept them both toward the dawn of a new existence, a new tomorrow.

Xanatos willingly, eagerly followed, his release pulsing deep into the body that he would worship for the rest of his life..

The lovers slipped from post-coital bliss into a deep, dreamless sleep which was not quite as natural as it might have seemed, for the Force had not quite completed its work. They drifted in non-awareness, deeper than slumber, tangled in each other's arms, bodies still joined, as a blister of pure radiance formed around them, sealing them inside a web of energy that grew steadily denser and more complex, strands interweaving with other strands, pulling energy from both young bodies, and reshaping it, before channeling it back into them, the same -- but different at the same time.

Periodically during the night, the lovers would waken, and renew their exploration of each other's bodies, each penetrating and being penetrated several times, their movements sweet, almost placid -- slow, beautiful lovemaking -- except for the one time when Prince Xanatos, in a burst of sheer exuberance, launched himself into a gymnastic exercise involving the porch railing, columns, and various structural items throughout the garden, convincing Obi-Wan to join him in a wild mating that found the prince balanced on the railing, straddling an upright post, wearing boots and cap and nothing in between, and the Jedi pounding into him until -- in Xan's vernacular -- he was convinced that his brains were leaking out his ears. To their mutual amazement, the heat they generated in their lovemaking was enough to hold off the damage that should have been inflicted by the extreme cold.

But, after each bout of sexual exertion, they fell back into their unnatural slumber -- and the Force continued its task -- creating what would endure throughout their lives -- and even beyond.

Around them, the snowfall continued and the winter closed in -- but the darkness was not without relief. Creatures of the night -- and of the winter -- crept from their burrows and nests, drawn by the natural energy that enclosed the two, and, with a simple acceptance that would have been impossible in most sentient species, breathed and savored the sweet fragrance of fulfillment, as strands of brilliant azure Force energy mingled and twined with those of deep crimson to form an entirely new ribbon of light. And a new glow of deep violet stained the night with its brilliance, before fading into the silence of ultimate peace.

Mira Soljan admitted -- grudgingly -- that, while she loved the winter, she was not overly fond of digging through snowbanks, even though she was not, technically, actually doing the digging. That, after all, was the purpose of domestic droids, was it not? Still, her fingers and toes had much in common with cubes of ice by the time she reached the steps of the dwelling she shared with Obi-Wan, and she was eager to get inside and prop herself before the archaic, but charming, fireplace that graced the front parlor, and had provided so many pleasant hours for both the two Jedi refugees.

She pushed open the front door -- and paused to listen -- and was not pleased to be greeted with complete silence.

If her plan had been successful, surely he would not be out prowling the landscape today. Surely he wouldn't. . .

Would he?

She allowed herself a gusty sigh, admitting that this whole thing -- sole bonds in all their complexity -- was completely unknown territory, and she didn't really have a clue what he might or might not do -- or even if there had ever been any real hope for a new bond to form. This had been a desperate measure -- a final throw of the dice. If it had failed . . . she sighed again. She still didn't want to think about that.

But, successful or not, she knew there was nothing more that she could do. It was time to go home. Time to . . .

She hesitated as she realized that the house was not, after all, entirely silent. There was a sound -- a susurration, a faint roar -- as of . . .

Water pouring from a showerhead.

She turned to look up the stairs -- realizing that it was a silly thing to do, as the 'freshers were located at the rear of the loft area, and there would be nothing to see. But still . . .

Behind her, the door remained ajar, as the domestic droid proceeded to begin the task of clearing snow from the porch, and the chill of the draft prompted her to turn to close it -- until she heard a deep baritone voice lifted in a parody of melody.

"In natural guise, a baritone is he
But when I polish up his knob so perfectly,"

Quick bright laughter interrupted the lyrics, but the singer, it seemed, would not be silenced.

"The commander of me arse can hit high 'C'
And he's pledged that my reward shall be,
For me able-bodied talents, an admiralty."

Mira smiled -- but there was little joy in it. Xanatos, it seemed, was as fond of musical comedy as Obi-Wan, if less musically gifted. The play was called The Commodore's Mate, as she recalled, and had been a huge success in the Coruscanti theater district some years earlier, and Xan did, at least, sound relaxed and enthusiastic. So maybe the night had not been a total waste of time, if the two of them were . . .

And then she heard it -- the soaring of the bright, pure tenor, frequently accented with riffs of laughter.

"Goes arse over elbows and yells, "Let 'er rip!"
Gives a whole different meaning to "Go down with the ship."

Heedless of the cold air pouring through the door behind her, she felt the blood drain from her face and she settled unsteadily to her knees, knowing immediately that her arthritic joints would trouble her later if she lingered there. But she couldn't seem to find the will to move -- or to care. She could only listen.

"And me whole career hangin' on the turn of a screw
As the commodore's flagpole sat up, straight and true,"
While I waggled me arse to enhance the rear view."

She couldn't even manage to wipe away the tears that welled in her eyes; she could barely draw breath -- for suddenly, gloriously, nothing else mattered.

Obi-Wan was singing.

Continued in Part 6