Master Apprentice
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Continued from Part 6
The bright yellow Arboryean sun was approaching its zenith when the Master wakened, roused from a deep, restful slumber by the bright voices of children at play. He came to full consciousness slowly, uncharacteristically, and spent several moments trying to recall where he was -- and why he was sprawled across a knot of twisted trunks at the base of a huge, monolithic tree, rather than cradled in the soft comfort of his own bed.
He drifted for a time, content to be floating in the semi-twilight between sleep and waking.
Until a particularly shrill outburst of laughter penetrated the mental fog -- and memory came rushing in, like air to a vacuum -- memory . . . and pain.
He released his dreams reluctantly, to return to the bleak, unrelenting harshness of reality, understanding that he had no choice but to find some way to deal with truths he could not change.
Obi-Wan was dying. How strange, he thought, to string those words together -- to know the truth of it but feel that it must be happening to someone else, in some other lifetime, some other reality. Obi-Wan was dying -- but he could not die. The Force could not be so cruel, so callous, so malicious, to take away the one thing that the Master had managed to preserve within himself, the source of his ability to renew himself -- to enable him to find some remnant of meaning in the carnage that surrounded him on all sides.
His only remaining anchor.
Mace was gone; Adi was gone; Tahl and Ramal and Ciara and Plo and Ki-Adi and Depa and Yaddle and Kitt. And Anakin -- Anakin was more gone than any of them. But Obi-Wan . . . could not go.
He ignored vague physical twinges of discomfort -- mild hunger and thirst, stiffness of joints and muscles -- and arranged himself in his preferred meditative posture, preparing to fight his own particular private demons. A Jedi did not -- ever -- refuse to deal with the reality of the moment; a Jedi, in bowing to the will of the Force, must acknowledge that absolute truths could neither be ignored nor tweaked to render them easier to countenance.
Without a trace of the calm dispassion with which he ordinarily approached meditation, he closed his eyes and opened himself to the Force and tried to still the turmoil that continued to flail within him. He knew that the Force would not answer his call, until he could purge himself of the bright bladed rage that threatened to explode into murderous mayhem, seeking flesh and blood victims to answer for creating agony beyond bearing. There was no Light in such fury; he teetered on the brink of darkness and felt its siren's call. One step, one moment of weakness -- and he might very well betray the beliefs that had sustained him throughout his lifetime.
He must accept what could not be changed.
He must open his heart . . . and release what he had locked away within it so long ago.
Obi-Wan is dying.
He watched the shadows carved by the brilliance of the Arboryean sun creep across the meadow grasses, first growing shorter and sharper, then, after a pause, slowly lengthening as the day waned, but he noticed only distantly, maintaining his focus on the deep truth that consumed his awareness. In desperation, he plunged into the deepest possible meditative state, training his formidable powers of concentration on the barriers that encapsulated his resistance.
A Jedi could not reject truth; acceptance of what was -- what could not be avoided or rationalized -- was crucial to finding serenity within the Force.
Hours slipped by -- and still his consciousness skittered and slipped and refused to settle into the confining framework of logic. He ignored everything that tried to distract him, accepting only a bottle of water -- late in the day - from the tiny R2 unit who had proved to be -- by far -- the less annoying of the two droids bequeathed to him by Padmé Naberrie. On some superficial level, he was aware that the Skywalker children had been gently deflected from interrupting his vigil, and he was grateful for the sensitivity of their young caretaker -- but he could not spare more than a random tendril of awareness to pursue the thought. Just as he was aware of the occasional brush of another mind -- tentative, unobtrusive, treading lightly.
He ignored it all.
Obi-Wan is dying.
At the last, desperate and beginning to taste the first bitter dregs of failure, he resorted to a very old meditative aid -- a mental trick -- to help him get to the center he so desperately needed to reach. It was a method he had learned from his own Master -- and taught, in his turn, to the young man who now filled his mind - and overfilled his heart.
On Beliuss 6, the natives cultivated a bizarre type of bulbous vegetable that Qui-Gon had encountered nowhere else in the galaxy. Shaped a bit like a dela-pear, but surrounded by thick, fleshy, tear-shaped leaves, heavily studded with short, vicious thorns, the t'chok could only be eaten in a specific way. In order to reach the tender heart of the vegetable, the leaves had to be peeled away and removed, one at a time, with great care. Since there were several layers of leaves, and since the thorns were barbed and seemed to have a predilection for flesh, only those with a great fondness for the t'chok's core ever bothered to complete the task. Most sentients found the reward unworthy of the effort. But for those few -- the t'chok connoisseurs -- bloody fingers and strained patience were small prices to pay for reaching the delectable objective.
Thus did the Master approach the matter of opening the stubborn shells of his resistance, in order to move beyond the moment in which he found himself locked and helpless, as if caught in amber that solidified too quickly to allow escape.
Throughout the hours of the day, he peeled away layer after layer of emotional shielding, growing more and more confident that he would ultimately be successful in his quest -- but more and more convinced that what he found at the core of his being would be too fragile to survive the final assault.
The sun was no more than a hand-width above the western horizon when he stirred and reached for the surface of his thoughts, responding to a nudge through the Force, a pale nuance of a familiar presence, and, as he rose through the layers of his concentration, his anger surged again, effectively erasing any gains he might have made during the long hours of the day. He raised his head and stared down toward the river, where the late afternoon sunlight was dancing among freshets of pristine water. And . . . he paused, peering into the smudged patterns of light and shadow that transformed the setting into a chiaroscuro abstract, and saw . . . yes, just there, down where the path from the village merged into a lane that wound through the dappled glades that marked the approach to the foothills -- a bright gleam of ginger hair against a cap of dark curls; the tawny gloss of a stallion's coat, beautifully groomed; the sleek grace of the quadruped proceeding in an easy gait toward the river's edge; the caress of light and shadow against a fleeting image of man and child and beast, moving as one.
Without conscious thought, the Jedi surged to his feet and moved at Force-enhanced speed to intercept the rider. He didn't spare a moment to wonder what he would say to them -- or why they should deign to speak to him at all. In fact, his action was entirely instinctive -- without volition or intent. He moved, because he had no choice, understanding suddenly that he could not complete the task he had set for himself -- the acceptance of the impossible -- without speaking to Obi-Wan -- without demanding answers to questions he simply could not lay to rest.
Grimly, as he ran, he realized that he was no closer to a solution -- or a resolution -- to his dilemma than he had been when he began his deliberations. Obi-Wan was dying -- but Obi-Wan could NOT die.
Though the great pegyro stallion was moving swiftly, the firm hand of its master kept it within the confines of the path and its meandering course, while the Jedi Master was under no such constraints and was free to proceed in a straight line, enabling him to arrive at his destination before the riders, and find a sheltered sport in which to await their arrival. Using just a tiny trace of Force enhancement to mask his presence, he stepped into the relative gloom provided by the bright golden foliage of a trio of paraim saplings and settled himself to wait.
The path ended at a narrow meadow abutting an octagonal wooden terrace that jutted out over the surface of the river, just above a series of small cascades that danced and splashed in the afternoon light, and created wisps of rainbow among veils of mist. Off to the right lay the grounds of the Kenobi-Aji compound, amid a colorful sprawl of informal gardens, beyond a rustic rail fence draped with a lush, succulent vine, heavy with brilliant coral blossoms. Pegyro colts gamboled through drifts of pluvera grass in adjacent fields, and the air was rich with the fragrance of spring and the melodies of birdsong. On the left, upriver, a narrow wooden walkway followed the stream's edge, then angled out and up over the water, ending in a small circular platform that provided a bird's eye view of the watercourse twenty meters below. Ultimately, all of the natural elements of the environment came together to provide a beautiful setting for the beautiful individuals who resided within it.
Qui-Gon felt a quickening within his heart -- a pang of longing that was doomed to go unanswered. He closed his eyes, in an attempt to rein in his aching need -- and opened them to find that someone else had joined his vigil; someone else awaited the arrival of father and daughter. Xanatos propped one elegant, booted foot against the broad railing that bordered the terrace and took a deep drag of his tabaccré cylinder as he gazed out over the sparkling water. For once, he had foregone his traditional black leather, and was clad in a loose-fitting travel garment of soft smoky blue raw silk, with his ebony hair unbound and gleaming as it fell loose around his face, a soft wave draping over one eye. He was a perfect picture of blasé elegance -- except for one thing; his posture betrayed him. Every muscle, every nerve of his body was attuned to the sound of approaching hoofbeats.
And, of course, the bright riff of two voices joined in laughter -- and limerick.
"Pikklety -- pakklety -- pox.
A gundark in a box.
He painted his nails,
And braided his tails --
And stole his mother's socks."
The crown princess of Telos erupted in shrill giggles. "You made that up, Daddy."
"Bukklety-bokklety-bax.
A granddaddy bantha named Grax --
He got twisted around
And his up was his down.
Now he can't tell his fronts from his backs."
The giggles grew louder. "You are SOOOOO silly."
Obi-Wan's laughter was rich and mellow. "Only for you, my princess."
The young father had reined in the pegyro as they'd approached the end of their ride, and they were moving at an easy walk when they cleared the final turn in the path and became visible to the individuals awaiting them, both of whom struggled for breath at the loveliness of the vision before them. Obi-Wan had maintained his preference for the warm earth tones favored by the Jedi, as he wore fawn-colored suede trousers and a cream silk shirt -- and the colors suited him perfectly, as they always had, emphasizing the lovely gold and russet of skin and hair. In his arms, his beautiful daughter was dressed in her customary ragamuffin fashion -- dark, lustrous hair and jewel-toned eyes glowing with health and vigor.
At that moment, as they emerged from the shelter of the forest, the little princess twisted her torso to fling her arms around Obi-Wan's throat, and say, "I love it when you're silly, Daddy."
"Me too, Love," he answered, gazing down into her elfin face and rendered almost speechless -- as usual - by her loveliness.
Then both turned to face forward -- and Ciara squealed in delight. "Papa! Papa's back."
Xanatos balanced his tabaccré cylinder on a handrail, and moved to greet his husband and daughter, lifting the little girl out of Obi-Wan's arms and swinging her overhead.
"Missed you, missed you, Papa," she chanted, arms extended to reach for her father.
"And I missed you, Poppet." He pulled her close and kissed cheeks and forehead, while his eyes lifted to meet those of his bondmate. "More than you can imagine."
It required no Force sensitivity to realize that the remark was intended for both child and spouse, and the expression on Obi-Wan's face was suddenly as tender as a new bruise.
"Ya know what?" said the little girl brightly, leaning back to peer into her papa's face.
"What, Darlin'?"
"Uncle Garen called Masta' Qui-Gon a . . . um . . a 'cuck-socking sunuvabish' -- I think. And Daddy won't tell me what it means -- so it must be a bad word -- but how do I know what not to say if Daddy won't tell me what it means?"
Xanatos tried to suppress a grin -- but couldn't. "Eminently logical, my Poppet -- but I'm not going to tell you either -- and you still can't say it, whether you know what it means -- or not." He looked up to wink at his lover. "I take it our resident grump is still in high dudgeon."
"Stratospheric," answered Obi-Wan warmly, "and determined to stay that way."
"But Papa. . ." Ciara was determined to reclaim her father's focus.
With a last kiss, the prince set his daughter on her feet and retrieved a small pouch from his pocket. "Enough, Love. There are more important things to think about. For example, would you rather continue to speculate about your uncle's potty-mouth -- or feed the p'terra-ducklets?"
With the insouciance of the young -- and the demeanor of a princess of the blood royal -- the child laughed and accepted the bag of crumbs eagerly before racing across the terrace to kneel within the safety of the wooden railing and command the attention of the young waterfowl that paddled in the shelter of the decking.
She had barely taken her first step when Xanatos reached up to pull his bondmate from the saddle, claiming Obi-Wan's mouth with insatiable hunger as the younger man let himself slide down his husband's tall, rangy form, coming to rest finally with bodies melded, shoulder to knee, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, arms entwined, with Xan's hands cupping his mate's shapely bottom. Biting his lip savagely to suppress a moan, Qui-Gon Jinn sank deeper into the lonely shadow of his solitude and felt the emotional pain within him swell -- and become physical. It was not that his heart was breaking; that, he knew, had happened long ago. It had broken -- and curled in upon itself, shriveling finally into an empty, echoing shell, dead and locked away from any semblance of life. Now, it seemed to be waking, to quicken to a deep, weary ache, and he knew with absolute certainty that it would be with him for the rest of his life.
Obi-Wan is dying. There would be no escaping that fact, but the pain extended to an even deeper level. He could no longer delude himself into believing that Obi-Wan was still his to mourn -- or to love -- and the Master wasn't quite sure which pain was the greater.
Eventually, struggling for breath, Xanatos broke the kiss, only to work his way down his bondmate's throat, paying particular attention to erogenous zones he had discovered over the years, and whispering between nibbles.
"When I come home to you" -- nibble -- "all I want to do" -- nibble/kiss -- "is drag you down to the village square" -- nibble -- "rip your clothes off" -- nibble/kiss -- "and make love to you" -- nibble -- "until you're so well fucked" -- kiss/kiss -- "you can't even move."
Obi-Wan grinned. "Ummm, kinky -- but I always thought you were very proprietary about my naked butt."
"That's because," -- the nibbling/kissing continued, as hands began to knead the sweet curve of Obi-Wan's bottom -- "it is, in fact, my naked butt -- now and forever."
"Not much doubt of that," replied the younger man, beginning to squirm under his mate's relentless sensual assault, "since I do have your royal crest tattooed on my ass."
"Umm," Xan murmured, tightening his grip on his spouse, "I adore that tattoo -- almost as much as I adore the sweet ass that wears it." He lifted one hand to caress his bondmate's face with a gentle stroke. "It should be illegal . . . to be so happy . . . and so totally besotted."
Obi-Wan buried his face in the hollow of Xan's throat and inhaled deeply, lost in the feel and the scent and the warmth of his lover. "I never knew," he whispered, "I could love like this."
Simultaneously, the two leaned back to gaze deep into each other's eyes, and exchange intimate laughter, when a slight movement in the vicinity of the pegyro stallion attracted Obi-Wan's attention, urging him to step out of the circle of his mate's arms. "It's all right, Chalk'ri," he said softly, leaning forward to peer under the pegyro's long neck to look at the small, child-like figure standing in the shadow of the towering quadruped, keeping huge, luminous eyes buried in the beast's flank. "Come here . . . please."
Though the request was spoken in a tone of silken tenderness, the child -- if child it was -- simply shook its head, hunching shoulders and torso as if to crawl into the skin of the pegyro, had such a thing been possible.
Obi-Wan knelt, one hand extended. "Please?"
In his solitary niche, Qui-Gon felt a stirring of the Force, as it pulsed in response to a massive surge of compassion, causing his breath to catch in his throat. The Master sighed, wondering how he could have forgotten this aspect of Obi-Wan's persona. Never as entrenched in the Living Force as his Master -- or as quick to adopt strays or -- as he had often termed them, tongue-in-cheek and twinkle-in-eye -- 'pathetic lifeforms', the young man had nevertheless always been vulnerable to the suffering and needs of one particular group of individuals. Obi-Wan had always loved children -- and been loved in return -- with a particular affinity for those who had been abused or neglected. Throughout his Jedi career, he had been tremendously successful in maintaining a superficial calm demeanor, no matter how much his passions might have been engaged beneath that serene façade -- but, in the face of flagrant abuse of the very young, or the very helpless -- he had occasionally been unable to release his anger to the Force, choosing, instead, to release it in a much more primitive, but substantially more satisfying manner. Fist to face. Or -- as he preferred to term it -- fist to felon.
Following such occasions, he had always promptly confessed his actions to his Master, accepting whatever punishment Qui-Gon deemed appropriate. But he had never offered an apology, explaining -- when pressed -- that he would not pretend a remorse he did not feel. Justice had been served, and that, in his judgment, superceded the formalities of Jedi doctrine.
The very small, hunched up figure that finally responded to Obi-Wan's urging did so with obvious reluctance, almost cringing away from the gentle hand that was extended toward it, finally falling to its knees and waiting, head bowed and face concealed beneath a tangled nest of flaxen hair, barely breathing.
"Chalk'ri," said Obi-Wan, also on his knees, voice filled with infinite tenderness, "this is Lord Xanatos. You need to know him -- so you will understand that he belongs here. That he's no threat to you -- or to us. He won't hurt you -- or allow anyone else to hurt you."
Silence, broken only by ragged breathing.
"Chalk'ri . . ."
"Can't." Clipped -- barely audible -- hoarse.
Obi-Wan paused, obviously considering his options, before leaning forward and grasping the young one's arms, tightly enough to compel co-operation, but not tightly enough to cause discomfort.
"Sometimes," he said firmly, "we must do things we don't want to do -- or don't think we can do. To live is to take an occasional risk. But know this, my friend; I'm here -- and I'll never let anyone abuse you again. All you have to do - is trust me."
The tiny being seemed frozen for a time, before finally raising its head and peering through snarled skeins of golden curls.
"Trust me," the former Jedi repeated, backing off enough to allow the trembling creature some semblance of a choice.
Slowly -- very, very slowly -- one grubby hand moved forward and grasped Obi-Wan's sleeve, pulling gently, as if fearful of offering offense, before the entire body, still on its knees, inched forward and a pale face, badly scarred, emerged from the fall of hair to touch trembling lips to the young man's hand. "Trust . . . you." The voice was broken and breathy, as if pushed through damaged vocal chords -- but the words were clear enough . . . and absolutely heartbreaking.
Obi-Wean sighed and ducked his head -- but not quickly enough to conceal the glimmer of tears in downcast eyes. "It's all right, Chalk'ri," he murmured. "Please take Scoundrel to the stable and cool him down."
"Yes, m'lord," came the answer, in that same strange, rough voice as small, grimy hands collected the stallion's reins. It appeared that there would be no acknowledgement of the prince of Telos; though it was obvious that the tiny individual wanted very much to please Obi-Wan, it simply couldn't find the fortitude to behave as requested.
Until, in the act of turning and leading the stallion away, the head beneath the tumble of curls suddenly lifted, allowing huge liquid eyes to rise to touch the prince's face -- and one tentative hand to reach up and sketch a minimal tug on a non-existent forelock.
Xanatos nodded an acknowledgement of the gesture, and pulled Obi-Wan back into his arms as the tiny figure led the massive pegyro away. "Still saving the galaxy -- one tot at a time, hmm? Isn't he a little young to be a stable hand?"
Obi-Wan blinked quickly, as if trying to dislodge a foreign object from his eye. "That 'tot'," he answered, "is an eighteen year old human male. When Garen found him -- in a biolab on Ithor - he'd been imprisoned in a 1-meter cage for most of his life. His spine," -- he paused and drew a deep, ragged breath -- "is permanently twisted. He was part of a 'scientific' study -- to assess the adaptability of the human body. Torture -- in the name of science. Beaten, brutalized, starved, maimed, sexually assaulted, mutilated, used like a lab animal -- yet, he survived, Xan. In spite of all that -- he survived."
Xanatos closed his eyes, and buried his face in his bondmate's hair. "I'm sorry, Love. Sorry that I can't fix everything for you -- make everything all right. Defeat the darkness, and free all the children that have been tortured and maimed by it. But I can't. I can't even provide adequate care for all the strays you bring home." He drew a deep trembling breath. "That . . . child is beyond help, Obi-Wan. Is it right to give him false hope -- and to squander resources to care for him while others who could be helped are left out there in the darkness?"
The younger man turned to look up into his lover's eyes -- and Xan almost flinched away from the pain he read in his bondmate's expression. "That 'child' is me, Xan," he said softly. "Not physically, of course -- but emotionally. Spiritually. That's what I would have become -- a pathetic, twisted shell of what I once was -- if you hadn't rescued me. I won't turn him away -- or the others like him. I can't; don't you see that . . ."
Abruptly, Xanatos gathered his spouse into his arms, and soothed him with gentle hands. "Shhhh, Love. I do see. I really do -- and I'm sorry for being such a . . . ." his smile was tremulous ". . . .cuck-socking sunuvabish. Forgive me?"
A flash of mischief flared in aquamarine eyes -- which was at the top of Xan's list of favorite Kenobi-isms, as he termed such expressions. "Forgive you, huh? Well . . . I might be persuaded -- with a bit of . . ."
"Why, Lord Kenobi," Xan replied with a deliberately roguish grin, "are you suggesting a little slap and tickle?"
"Depends," answered Obi-Wan, reaching up to catch his lover's earlobe between kiss-swollen lips.
"On?"
The lips moved up, to nuzzle at the delicate whorls of the ear, and Xanatos eyes were suddenly dark with lust and desire. "On who gets to slap," whispered the younger man, "and who gets to tickle."
The Telosian prince attempted, without much success, to stifle a low groan. "Lumi's waiting in my office, with the latest intel report from Bothawai."
"Oh, poor baby," crooned Obi-Wan, circling the swollen hardness of his groin against Xan's hip to make sure that his lover understood what he was sacrificing, while simultaneously lifting a muscled thigh to stroke the huge bulge that was making his lover's pants increasingly uncomfortable. "A sovereign's work is never done."
Xan gulped -- and fought for breath, and slid both hands beneath the waistband of his bondmate's pants to stroke the smoothness of silken skin. "Now who's the cuck-socking sunuvabish?" he managed to gasp.
Obi-Wan surged forward and took his lover's mouth, demanding -- and getting -- entrance to the velvet sweetness within, before stepping back and looking up from beneath spiky lashes, with a smile guaranteed to melt duranium. "Tonight, my prince," he whispered, "I promise to be the biggest -- and the best - cuck-socker you've ever known."
Any ordinary couple, with even the tiniest modicum of self-consciousness, would have had the discretion to be startled into a show of embarrassment at being interrupted, and would have reacted to the unnecessarily loud, flagrantly feigned throat clearing, followed by a sharp "Ahem", that announced a new arrival on the scene, as if to a bucket of ice water poured over rising passion. But prince and consort, with the aplomb usually expected from royal personages, simply exchanged intimate smiles before turning to greet their visitor.
"Mira, Mira," piped a breathless young voice, as a tiny whirlwind of motion surged forward from the edge of the terrace, "ya know what?"
Healer Soljan leaned forward, bracing hands on knees to put herself face to face with young Ciara. "What, Luv?"
Tiny white teeth worried a sweet, bee-stung lower lip as the girl paused to arrange her thoughts. "My papa's getting . . . kinky."
"Is he now?" Mira's eyes sparkled with glee.
The child nodded, face solemn. "My Daddy says so."
The healer looked up in time to see Obi-Wan roll his eyes.
"And ya know what else?"
"No," laughed Mira, "but I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"My Daddy has a . . . a t'too -- on his sweet ass."
"I know," said the healer, conspiratorial grin growing broader. "I've seen it."
"Eeeeyooo!" replied the child, mouth and nose pursed charmingly.
"Indeed."
"And Papa wants to . . . to slap and tickle Daddy -- though I don't know why. Do you think he's been naughty?"
Unable to contain it any longer, Mira burst into a bright riff of laughter. "I think you can bet on it, Sweetie."
She then straightened and confronted the bondmates, who, by this time, were looking more like recalcitrant adolescents than grown men. "When are you two going to learn," she demanded, still grinning, "that this little urchin both hears . . . and HEARS? Unless you'd like to take a stab at explaining the magyinns and the mynocks to a four-year-old, I suggest you work on your shielding."
Obi-Wan and Xan exchanged slow glances, and the healer wondered -- not for the first time -- just how much emotion and information they packed into those wordless moments.
Enough apparently to decide which of them would speak. "Hello, Mira," said Xanatos. "Do you have a reason for being here -- or did you just need practice in being annoying?"
She smiled, not bothering to try to conceal her smug satisfaction. "You, oh mighty one, are being summoned. A courier has just arrived -- from Alderaan -- and Luminara is getting more livid by the moment."
"And they sent you out looking for me? Turning bloodhound in your dotage, Mira?"
The tiny Bimar chose to ignore him, and turned her attention to her erstwhile patient. "I still don't know what you see in him," she remarked. "He's such a clod."
Obi-Wan grinned. "But he's a sexy clod."
The shrill echo was almost predictable. "Papa is a s. . ."
"Ciara!" snapped Xanatos, lifting a cautionary finger. "Enough."
"But . . ."
"Ciara," said Obi-Wan, more gently -- but with even greater effect. "Enough."
The little girl was forced to content herself with a wounded pout -- but the sheer power of her displeasure was incredible as it touched the hearts of both her parents, stirring feelings of guilt and remorse -- entirely unwarranted and illogical, of course, but real nevertheless. The two men once more traded glances, both conceding that this tiny slip of a girl would prove to be a formidable power to be reckoned with when she was older.
Mira Soljan continued to smile, enjoying seeing two large, vigorously healthy egos humbled by such a tiny manipulator -- but the joy was, at best, superficial -- masking a much deeper, almost infinite vista of cold dread.
"Back on topic," said Obi-Wan, "what are you doing here, Mira?"
She held up an infusion injector. "Chasing down my reluctant patient," she answered. "You were due in the infirmary this morning, you know."
"I was busy," he replied easily, favoring her with the smile that had bailed him out of trouble throughout his lifetime.
She chuckled. "I haven't used a needle on you in twenty years, Obi-Wan -- and you still don't trust me."
The smile grew warmer. "I figure you're just biding your time."
She crossed her arms and glared at him. "Your choice, Luv. Either you stand still for the injector, or . . ." -- her grin took on a distinctively diabolical slant -- ". . . we can bare that charming tattoo -- and I can use it for target practice with old-fashioned syringes."
Xanatos turned to his mate with a sympathetic smile. "Eager as I am to . . . um, renew my territorial rights, I prefer to do it in private." He quickly stole a kiss, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Tonight . . . when I make you mine all over again -- just like the first time."
"Every time," breathed Obi-Wan, "is as sweet as the first."
"Come, Poppet," called Xanatos, after one last slow, lingering kiss. "Since I've been gone for three whole days, it's just possible that I might have brought home . . . a surprise or two."
The little girl launched herself into his arms, radiant with anticipation. "One . . . or two, Papa? Big or little? Will I like it or . . ."
Obi-Wan and Mira exchanged smiles as the child's voice and her father's indulgent laughter faded into the distance.
But her smile was short-lived. "You can't continue to avoid your treatments, Obi-Wan," she said sternly, reaching up to place the infuser at the side of his throat. "I know your symptoms are increasing. How long do you think you can continue to conceal them -- if you behave like a spoiled child?"
He didn't answer for a while, his eyes downcast and shadowed. "The treatments are . . . beginning to bother me," he said finally. "Nausea, dizziness . . . severe headache."
"Why didn't you tell me?" she snapped, adjusting the dial on the infuser. "I may be totally useless in finding a cure for you -- but I can, at least, keep you comfortable." Her voice trembled, and broke on the last word.
With a deep sigh, Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. "Stop, Mira," he whispered. "Please. You know this isn't your fault. The decision -- and everything that came after -- was my choice. And it hurts me to see you eating yourself alive -- with guilt."
She looked down, up, around -- anywhere but into his eyes. "You know I'd never hurt you . . . deliberately. But I . . ."
"Gave me my most precious gift," he interrupted firmly. "Two of them, actually. Without you, I'd never have had Ciara -- and I never would have had my life with Xan." He ducked his head, and forced her to meet his gaze. "I don't think I can ever thank you enough."
She buried her face against his chest, and clinched her hands in the soft fabric of his tunic. "It cost you too much," she murmured.
But he was not going to allow her to cling to her conclusion.
"Mira, look at me. Look at me."
Reluctantly, she wiped her eyes, and looked up to study his face. "Hear this, Mira -- and understand me. If I had known -- beyond any doubt -- that I would waken after Ciara's birth, and be allowed to see her, to hold her, only once, for only a moment -- it still would have been enough. The joy I've known in my life -- from her and from Xan -- makes up for everything else. Everything. Do you understand?"
"You really mean that, don't you?"
"Every word."
With a visible effort, she resumed her professional demeanor, re-adjusted the infuser, and once more placed it against his throat. He winced slightly, as a new, more potent concoction flowed into his bloodstream.
"How are the seizures?" she asked, closing her eyes and reaching out through the Force to examine his vital functions.
"Manageable -- mostly."
"But increasing in strength -- and frequency," she said softly. "Right?"
He shrugged slightly. There was little point in voicing an answer that she already knew.
"You're going to have to tell him, Obi," she sighed. "And soon. He's going to notice. If he weren't so crazy in love with you, he'd have seen it already."
"I know."
"I mean it. If you don't . . ."
"I know -- and I will." He looked up then, apparently lost in thought. "There's something . . . I have to do one more thing first. Then I'll tell him. I swear it."
She stepped back then, and took a moment to compose herself. "Soon, my love. It must be soon. We're running out of time."
"Thanks, Mira. Love you."
She closed her eyes, and fought for breath. "I love you, too, Baby."
She managed to walk away, only slightly less than steady.
Obi-Wan moved to the terrace railing, picked up Xan's discarded tabaccré cylinder and relit it before looking up into the fading gold of the evening sky.
"You can come out now," he said, just loud enough to be heard.
Then he turned and strode up the ramp that followed the edge of the river before angling out over the churning water. Once he reached the small platform at the end of the walkway, he jumped up to sit astride the railing, and stared down at the tumble of rocks below, taking a long drag on the tabaccré stick.
He did not sit undisturbed for long.
Footsteps, running hard, heavy boots -- moving faster than should have been possible,
And strong arms, like bands of durasteel, enclosed him, and jerked him from his perch, crushed him against a massive hard body, as bruising lips descended to claim his mouth.
For a time, the Jedi Master was swept into the sweet urgency of the moment, blended with vivid resurrected memories of the past. How had he lived without this? How could he have forgotten the taste, the fragrance, the intoxicating feeling of the lithe body molded against him, fitting perfectly, igniting conflagrations of love and lust and need with just a touch -- achingly perfect, endlessly addicting and . . . and . . . completely limp and unresponsive.
Slowly, breathlessly, Qui-Gon lifted his face, and gazed down into the features of his former padawan -- and cataloged the bruised lips, the cleft of the perfect chin, finger marks against the pale gold jawline -- and the sadness reflected in chameleon eyes.
With a deep, hoarse gasp, the Master stepped back, and stood struggling for breath.
"It's good," said Obi-Wan gently, "that we got that out of the way."
Qui-Gon reeled to brace himself against the chest-high railing. "Why didn't you . . . just tell me?."
"I did try, you know -- but you wouldn't believe me, Qui-Gon. For all your determination to live in the moment, you've never been very good at accepting realities that aren't as you wish them to be."
"Anakin. We're back to talking about Anakin." The Master allowed just a trace of bitterness to creep into his voice.
"Actually," replied Obi-Wan, "we're not. We're talking about me."
"You're going to have to be more direct than that," said Qui-Gon wearily. "I'm not doing subtle very well these days."
"Have you realized why I forgave you, Qui-Gon? Have you come to understand it?"
The Master looked up into a cloudless sky, and managed a tiny, rueful laugh. "Because it's not in your nature to hold on to hatred? Because you're a better man than that? Because . . ."
Obi-Wan actually laughed. "Oh, puh-leeze! You don't really believe that banthashit, do you? Of all people, you should know better. I'm no more noble, no more pure of heart than anyone else. The explanation is much simpler."
Qui-Gon turned then to look at him -- to try to read the meaning of expressions he had once understood instinctively -- with unwavering certainty.
"I forgave you," Obi-Wan continued, leaning his forearms atop the platform railing, "because there was, finally, nothing to forgive. You -- and the Council -- did me a favor, although it took me quite a long time to see it, and realize it."
"I don't quite see . . ."
The former Jedi's eyes sparked suddenly, as he smiled. "That's because you don't want to see. You're still thinking of Xan -- and my life after the Jedi -- as a consolation prize -- or something. Like he won second place -- behind you -- in some kind of galactic 'Win a Place in Kenobi's Life Sweepstakes'. But you're wrong. You've always been wrong."
Qui-Gon stared at his former padawan -- and felt something seize up deep in his heart, as he struggled to understand what he was being told -- at the same time that something inside him -- something buried deep and not born of Light -- rebelled and refused to accept, to concede the possibility that this was a truth that could not be avoided.
The former padawan turned away and gazed off into the distance, and the Jedi Master got the impression that he was being allowed some measure of privacy in which to handle an intense emotional trauma.
"Xanatos and I," Obi-Wan said softly, gently, "were meant for each other, Qui-Gon. Our bond was meant to be. If you -- and the Council -- had not . . . betrayed me -- and I'm sorry, but there's no other way to phrase it -- then he and I would never have found each other. My life with him would never have happened. And I would have spent my entire life, trying to be worthy of the physical affections of the great Qui-Gon Jinn. Trying to measure up -- but always falling short. Always feeling like a failure -- a disappointment."
Qui-Gon closed his eyes, and tried to swallow the knot in his throat, while compelling his heart to resume its customary rhythm, while some small part of his consciousness wondered how his body could continue to function at all, when his life had just lost every shred of meaning. "You were never . . . a failure. You were . . ."
"Stop!" said the younger man firmly. "I don't want to hear it -- mainly because I've come to realize, after many years of contemplation, that you really never knew what you were doing. In your own way, you were as much a victim as I was." He took a deep breath. "The Jedi failed us both, Master -- but they failed themselves, most of all."
"And they've paid for it," Qui-Gon said quickly.
"Yes."
The Master moved closer to his former apprentice, his eyes huge and hungry, and seeking to devour beloved, familiar features. "Do you know how hard this is?" he whispered. "I look at you -- at the man you've become -- and I see what should have been mine. I see a daughter -- who could have . . ."
"No, Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan said quickly, raising a hand to forestall the Master's outpouring of grief. "Don't do this -- to either of us. I don't wish to be cruel, or to hurt you needlessly. I had hoped you'd have figured this out for yourself, so it wouldn't be necessary for me to . . . be so harsh. But . . ."
"Just say it," snapped the Master, "and be done with it."
Obi-Wan nodded, and looked down at the hands he clasped over the balustrade. "Ciara . . . is the personification of our love -- mine and Xan's. I would not . . ." He paused, and it was obvious that it was difficult for him to continue. But continue he finally did, speaking quickly. "I'm sorry, but . . .I would not have borne a child -- for you. The bond that formed between us wasn't natural, Qui-Gon. It was a desperate attempt, on my part, to prove myself good enough -- strong enough -- to be worthy of your love -- and to keep you in the land of the living - and I am grateful to the Force, every day of my life, that it was never completed. The life I have is the life that was meant to be. It took me a couple of years to understand it -- to throw off the effects of all those miserable years of dealing with an incomplete bond -- and wake up to realize how wonderful my life had become. It took even longer to convince Xan -- who was determined to think of himself as someone I'd been forced to settle for."
Qui-Gon stared at his former padawan, as if he'd never seen him before, as if he were confronting a stranger. And perhaps, he observed -- with the portion of his mind that was still capable of coherent thought -- that was an accurate description. He recognized the features of the man who had meant so much to him -- still meant so much to him -- but the person inside was unfamiliar -- was cold, and cruel, and saying things that were malicious and vindictive -- that could not be . . .
"I am sorry," the younger man reiterated. "I never meant to hurt you -- but this must be clear between us. You must understand."
"Why?" asked the Master, an ugly suspicion flaring in his mind. "Why must I understand? What . . .?"
"Did you mean what you said?" The question came hard and fast, like a fist through cobwebs, knocking down walls and reservations.
"About what?"
"At the house -- the day you arrived. Do you remember what you said?"
"About what -- specifically. As I recall, we all said many things that day."
Obi-Wan smiled. "Don't be disingenuous, Master. It doesn't suit you."
Qui-Gon closed his eyes, to focus his thoughts -- and try to dispel the terrible ache that pounded in his temples. "Sorry -- I seem to be a bit -- distracted. I'll have to ask you to remind me."
"You said you'd do anything," replied Obi-Wan, very softly, "to make it up to me. Did you mean it?"
The Master turned to study the former knight's face, looking for some indication of where the conversation was going. "Yes," he said finally. "I did mean it."
"Be sure," Obi-Wan countered, as the first golden rays of sunset flare on the western horizon. "It's important -- and I have to be sure it isn't just . . . lip service."
Qui-Gon stood straight, and assumed the dignified posture he had worn for so many years as a Jedi Master. "I have made many mistakes in my life, Obi-Wan, and I have compromised myself in many ways. But I still do not deal in 'lip service'."
The younger man's smile was tremulous -- and enchanting. "Sorry -- but I have to be sure."
"What is it you want from me?"
Obi-Wan rocked back on his heels, and buried his face against his arms, searching for the right words. When he spoke, his voice was muffled, and very soft -- but clear enough, for all that. "I want you . . . to save my bondmate."
"What?" Qui-Gon's response was sharp -- unbelieving. "What did you say?"
The younger man lifted his head, allowing the Master to read the multiple layers of pain in luminous eyes. "I want you to save Xan. If you really mean it -- if you really want to make it up to me -- that's what I want from you."
"And how exactly do you propose that I do that?" Qui-Gon's tone was not quite sarcastic -- but it was close.
"I haven't told him about my condition," Obi-Wan explained, "because I know how he's going to react. He's going to blame himself."
"Obi-Wan," said the Master harshly, "you're . . . you're going to . . ."
"Die." Obi-Wan finished the sentence, apparently unperturbed. "Yes, I know."
"You're going to die -- because you gave him a daughter. So maybe he should . . ."
"No, Qui-Gon." There wasn't a single nuance of uncertainty in the younger man's response. "I'm going to die -- because I chose to give us a daughter. Xan never knew about the risk. If he had, he never would have agreed to the pregnancy. And, if he could, he would offer his life -- for mine. I know that."
Qui-Gon huffed a deep breath. "So, according to you, he's become this paragon of virtue -- your perfect bondmate. In that case, why should he need to be 'saved'?"
"Paragon?" Obi-Wan echoed, with a tiny smile. "Hardly. He's still Xan -- and he still holds tight to his shadows. They're a part of him, a part of who he is. He's learned to control them -- to keep them reined in -- but they're still there. And, if he's overwhelmed with guilt and remorse -- when I'm gone -- I don't know if he'll be able to resist the darkness. I believe that I can convince him, in the time I have left, that I have no regrets -- that he has given me a beautiful, joyous life, and that we'll be together again, in the Force. I believe that I can show him that, to honor our love, he must stay in the Light -- and bring up our daughter. But -- if he should fall . . . it could change everything -- destroy everything. In his heart, he's a beautiful man -- meant to be mine. But, when I'm gone, I need to know that there is someone strong enough to remind him of his promises, to support him -- in the darkest nights and in the loneliest hours. Someone to help him reject the temptations of the Dark."
"And you think I can do that? You think he'll allow me to do that?" Qui-Gon gave an ugly, snide little laugh. "Want to know what I think? I think you've lost your mind."
"I didn't say it would be easy," answered Obi-Wan, turning to look out over the water as the sun sparked strands of copper and gold in his hair. He straightened then, and allowed himself a small sigh. "Just forget it. I knew it was a lot to ask. I'll . . ."
"No," said Qui-Gon quickly, once more wrapping his arms around the familiar body. "I didn't mean that I . . . wouldn't do as you asked. I just . . ."
Obi-Wan's entire body was suddenly a study in weariness. "Please don't do this. I'm not . . ."
"I don't know how to accept this," Qui-Gon interrupted. "I don't know how . . . to let you go."
Aquamarine eyes swarmed with sudden shadows. "You let me go -- eighteen years ago, Master."
"But I held you -- in my heart," came the whispered response.
"What do you want me to say, Qui-Gon?" asked the younger man. "I can't give you what you want. I can't . . ."
"I want you to be angry," said the Master, almost snarling. "I want you to fight this thing -- to refuse to give in to it. I want you to . . . endure."
Obi-Wan's smile was gentle. "You think I haven't fought it? I've fought for every day I've survived -- and I'll go on fighting. But it's a war I can't win. My body . . . is slowly shutting down -- and I'm getting tired. I need . . . to know that Xan will have someone to rely on. If you can't do this . . ."
"I'll do it," said Qui-Gon suddenly, ignoring the uncertainty that twisted in his guts. "I'll do it."
"Thank you, Master." The voice was soft -- like a caress retrieved from old memories.
"I love you, Obi-Wan." It was a cry of desperation -- despite being no more than a whisper.
"I know."
EPILOG
Excerpt from the journal of Qui-Gon Jinn.
Valuri Outpost 6 -- Academy Base
12th cycle, 6th rotation of Julei'dalk
Five years. How can it possibly be five years since that final day -- the day when he was finally persuaded to give up his long struggle, and surrender to the Force? Strange that none of us wanted to let him go -- but neither did we want to watch him endure another day of suffering. Sentient spirits are frequently conflicted, I think.
I have never written about that time -- those days; I suppose I was never willing to dwell on what happened. But the time is right now, I think. Some things should not be forgotten, and life is too uncertain in these perilous times to risk the loss of such memories.
Obi-Wan managed to hold on -- to fight the deterioration taking place within his body -- for more than two years after that fateful afternoon by the river -- and, with the help of the tiny Bimar healer who loved him as if he had been a child of her loins, he remained strong and bright and functional until just two lunar cycles before the end. Though his symptoms continued to multiply and intensify, he battled through them -- and somehow managed to offer solace to those who could only stand and watch. Despite living with growing pain and weakness, he never lost his laughter or the sparkle in his eye. Somehow, his presence in the Force grew ever more radiant, burning with almost ferocious intensity, in the same manner that a star will flare to almost painful brightness in the last moments before it consumes itself in cataclysmic implosion. He grew frailer with each day, until his skin seemed almost translucent -- but he lost nothing of his beauty, becoming almost transcendent with the Light he exuded as the end approached. He was, until that final day, my Obi-Wan - my greatest joy . . . and my greatest sadness.
I came to accept it in the end -- the truth of his bond to Xanatos, the rightness of it -- but I never learned how to give up grieving over what I had lost. But the vision of the two of them together -- riding, laughing, sharing quiet moments with their daughter, sparring, chatting with friends, preparing a meal, or simply gazing into each other's eyes -- provided ample proof of the accuracy of Obi-Wan's claim; they truly were meant to be together. And it became ever more obvious as Obi-Wan began to lose the battle to cling to his strength and his independence. When he was, at last, rendered physically helpless, it was Xan who saw to his every need -- who fed him, and bathed him, and dressed him -- who held him when the pain grew intolerable, and soothed him to sleep.
I have never witnessed a more touching testament to the power of love.
Obi-Wan was right, of course, about the reaction of his bondmate. Xanatos was devastated when he learned that he would lose the only true love of his life -- and that it was a result of the pregnancy that had produced his daughter -- devastated -- and furious -- and then overwhelmed with guilt, because the object of his fury was the very person who was also the other half of his soul. It was not a pleasant period -- and I don't think Xan ever managed to completely forgive himself for wasting some of the precious time they had remaining while he struggled to find his way through his rage.
It was, I think, a near thing -- the prospect of losing himself in Darkness, in his search for vengeance. But
ultimately, he found the strength to resist; I would like to think that I had some small role in holding him to the path of Light, but honesty compels me to admit that it was more his fidelity to the promise he made to his lost mate -- and the love he held for his beautiful daughter -- that enabled him to overcome terrible temptations, than anything anyone else might have done. He came to me occasionally -- for guidance, or so he said -- but I think it was really only to share his pain. That was, in the end, the only thing that held the two of us together; that, and promises made to a stubborn young spirit that would not be denied.
He lived long enough to hold his daughter on his lap as she blew out six candles on a birthday cake -- but not long enough to show her how to build her own lightsaber, which happened when she was nine; he survived to stand as witness to the bonding of Garen Muln and Rhimbo R' Equé -- a joyful celebration that saw the handsome blonde member of the wedding party signal a halt to the proceedings just prior to the ceremony in order to sweep a startled, laughing Obi-Wan into his arms in order to steal one deep, extremely thorough kiss, as a type of final fling prior to entering into the bond that would last a lifetime - but he did not live long enough to see Garen fall in battle during the first engagement between the fledgling Rebel Alliance and Imperial Storm Troopers on Ord Binur -- and I am thankful that he was not forced to face that. He survived long enough to dance with Luminara Unduli at the celebration of her wedding to General Ph'rell Torampp, leader of the Agamarian resistance movement -- but he did not live to welcome the baby boy that was born a year later. And he hung on long enough to be intimately involved in creating a new kind of Code, for a new kind of Jedi Order -- a Code that rejected all forms of political alliance and emphasized the exercise of compassion and intimate connections between all members of the Jedi community and the people they were sworn to serve -- but he did not live to see the formation of this academy, where the new philosophy was brought to life. And he lived long enough to foresee the love that would dominate his daughter's future -- the love of the son of Anakin Skywalker. Even today, I am unsure of how he felt about that, as he elected to keep those emotions to himself.
It was winter when he died -- the day of the first snowfall of the season -- and he was surrounded by those who loved him. He wakened slowly that morning, and I think he knew immediately what the day would bring. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for several days, as his Force presence fluctuated, but there was only clarity in his eyes as he struggled to consciousness that morning. Though his bedroom was crowded with an astonishing assortment of medical equipment, he was unencumbered by tubes or needles or IV lines or breathing masks, having refused all such measures to extend his life.
Obi-Wan was tired -- tired enough to accept the fact that it was time to release his grip on life and allow the Force to claim him.
One by one, those who had been intimately involved in the final years of his existence stepped forward, each knowing that he had finally exhausted all his tomorrows. Xan hovered nearby, fighting to maintain his serenity -- and to refrain from howling his frustration and rage at the callous brutality of fate -- and Ciara was nestled against Obi-Wan's side, tucked close and safe in his embrace.
I stood in the shadows, watching the people he loved trying to find the right words to tell him what he had meant to them; no one seemed to succeed, most confining themselves to a simple declaration of love and the sharing of tears.
Finally, there were only the two bondmates and their daughter -- and me. It was time to let him go -- to say good-bye -- and I have come to realize that nothing will ever be as painful as that moment.
I sat on the edge of his bed, and clasped his hand -- the hand that I had trained to build and wield a lightsaber, to become a lethal weapon in unarmed combat -- the hand that had given me comfort, and healing, and pleasure, and so much more -- the hand that was now only a slender ghost of its former strength. Reverantly, humbly, I kissed his palm before cradling his fingers against my chest.
I reached out then and traced his features one last time with a gentle finger -- and he smiled at me, and let me see, in that smile, that, in spite of everything, he loved me still -- and I was astonished to discover that coming in second in the 'Kenobi Sweepstakes' was apparently enough for me, after all.
"I love you, Padawan," I whispered, "and I won't forget that I have promises to keep."
I gathered him up in my arms -- and was stricken anew by the frailty of his body -- but he was able to turn his head and place a final kiss on my cheek. I managed, somehow, not to sob as I laid him down again and quickly made my way out of the room, leaving him to say his last good-byes in privacy.
But that was not quite the end. Moments later, Xanatos emerged from the bedroom and whispered something to Healer Soljan which roused her from the semi-fugue state in which she had been sitting since administering to her patient for the last time. She hurried out to the broad porch that looked out on the river, and started to drag furniture from an outdoor storage compartment. I hurried to help her, and, together, we put together a nest of lounge chairs and pillows and thick fluffy blankets. Then she went back inside and, a few minutes later, I heard the heartbroken sobs of a tiny child as she was soothed and carried upstairs by Garen Muln and his bondmate.
Later, Mira told me about the circumstances of the first bonding of Obi-Wan and Xanatos. She called it 'the night of magic' -- because that's what the two of them called it. And it seemed appropriate that this day, this night, should reproduce the setting of those magic moments. Xanatos carried his bondmate, cocooned in downy drifts of coverlets, to the comfortable nest arranged for them on the porch, and settled in, holding Obi-Wan in his lap.
The silence of the snowfall was soft and perfect, as the prince rocked the two of them in time with some silent cadence. They spoke little, having no need for words, occasionally exchanging tiny kisses and gentle smiles, and nuzzling against each other, as if to share the same skin.
The day wore on, and the silence deepened, and, just as the light began to fade from a sky of polished silver, a delicate chiming rose on a faint stirring in the air -- and there was suddenly a glow of warmth, the gentle rainbow radiance of a cloud of ice fyries as they swarmed through the lavender twilight and serenaded the silent lovers with their tender melody. At the same moment, in the shadows of the surrounding forest, tiny creatures of the night, and of the winter, crept forward, unable to understand the meaning of the soft summons that called to them within the resonance of the Force, but perceiving that it was important that they answer. I closed my eyes, and somehow knew what spoke to them, and knew the history they shared with the principle figures in this drama. They had come forward on such a night many years before -- and shared the creation of a miracle. They must now come forth again -- and witness its passing, as a deep violet strand of light, invisible to many - but not all - symbolic of a joining that transcended boundaries of reality, pulsed brightly once, twice - before fading into a web of pale strands that slowly dispersed into the night, no longer visible in the physical spectrum at all.
He died in the arms of his beloved, tasting a final, lingering kiss, and whispering his last words with his last breath. "Love. . . you." And Xanatos sat through the long vigil of the night, cradling the body that breathed no more.
We built the pyre -- Xan and Garen and I, each of us distracted enough by our grief to enable us to put aside our differences -- on the tiny platform that overlooked the river, in the place that he had come to love above all others, dressed him in the fawn-colored suede and creamy silk that suited him so well, and, with the sinking of the sun the next day, performed the simple age-old ritual of farewell. The flames consumed his wasted body quickly, and we allowed the wind to take the ashes, as he would have wanted.
Except for one small handful. Xanatos seemed embarrassed when he disclosed what he wished to do -- but I knew at once that it would be a comfort -- for all of us -- and I didn't think our beloved Obi-Wan would object to that.
Life went on from that point, as the universe continued to turn. Storms raged; stars were born and died; civilizations waxed and waned, and the filthy tumor that was the Empire metastasized and spread its darkness through most of the galaxy, crushing any race or culture that tried to stand against it. The Deep Core was first to succumb, of course; Borleias and Kuat were in no position to offer resistance, having been the scene of prolonged fighting between factions of the clone armies and the so-called Separatist guerillas, who, of course, turned out to be no such thing. What gullible fools we all were -- and how easily duped -- and what a terrible price we, the Jedi, paid for our short-sightedness. Kashyyyk is now enslaved, after successfully repelling invaders for almost two years; I am told it was an act of treachery that finally brought them down. Corellia continues to be a source of irritation for both Palpatine and his puppet; the world and the individuals it spawns are a stubborn breed; though technically conquered, the Resistance movement there is alive and well and, if not thriving, certainly robust enough to throw a spanner into the workings of the Imperial machine on a regular basis. Some worlds, like lovely Alderaan, elected to adopt co-operative postures, pretending full support of Palpatine and his minions, while actually providing massive support to the Rebel Alliance. Of Commenor, little is known; it has been ominously silent behind a blockade of droid control ships for many cycles now, but long-range sensors suggest a massive biological/chemical contamination of that once lovely world. Other worlds have suffered similar fates -- enough of them to convince most of the remaining unaligned planets to give up any notions of repelling the Empire's advances or retaining their independence, counting the cost as too dear..
Most have accepted Palpatine's yoke of bondage without a single shot being fired, as the Imperials have demonstrated neither reluctance nor remorse over the use of weapons of mass destruction.
And we, the remnants of the Jedi and the subjects of Xanatos Aji, prince of Telos, stood quietly on our secluded little sanctuary world and watched it happen -- and thought we finally understood the dimensions of the evil that stood back and watched us in turn -- and bided its time.
We were wrong.
Great care had been taken by all involved to make certain that no hint of the presence of former Jedi or other Force sensitives -- or, particularly, the enormously gifted children of Anakin Skywalker -- was ever whispered beyond the boundaries of Arbory, and, although it is impossible to be completely sure, I am still convinced that the effort to restrict that knowledge was successful. But the story of the love affair between the prince of Telos and his ex-Jedi consort was something else entirely. The tale had taken on mythical proportions -- and the depth of the love between the two was spoken of with great reverence, on a galactic scale, proving, I suppose, that even that hardest of hearts can be touched by a romantic epic of star-crossed lovers.
Obi-Wan had always expected that, sooner or later, Anakin would come for him, harboring old grudges that could only be satisfied with copious amounts of blood.
He was right, of course, but none of us realized at the time just how right he would prove to be. When he died, after much painful discussion, we decided that the fact of his death must be publicized, believing that the news of his passing would satisfy Anakin's dark cravings. Unfortunately, we all underestimated the depth of Lord Vader's thirst for revenge; we made the mistake of expecting rational behavior from one who was consumed with irrational passions. It was not enough, we learned, that Obi-Wan was dead; it would only be enough -- maybe -- if everything and everyone he loved were destroyed with him, with one particular prize being preserved as a gift for the Emperor.
Anakin -- who had never discovered the existence of his own children -- had learned that Obi-Wan had a daughter, and the discovery had renewed the dark fire in the Sith Lord's black heart. He would exterminate all those who had been loyal to Kenobi -- and he would possess the child of the usurper's loins, bending her to his will and to the service of darkness. Thus his revenge would be complete -- when the moment was right.
It was almost three years after that unforgettable winter afternoon when Xanatos and I received a communiqué from the co-ordinator of his clandestine intelligence network, advising that Vader's fleet had departed from the massive Imperial base on Obroa-Skai three days earlier, amid confusing rumors and conflicting clues about its destination -- but data collected from formerly trustworthy deep-cover agents indicated that the official word about a mission to investigate rumors of a newly-constructed shipyard on the fringe of the Cron Drift was nothing more than deliberate misdirection.
The fleet was actually on its way to Arbory -- and would arrive in eleven days.
There was no real evidence to corroborate that conclusion -- but the risk was too great. We dared not ignore the possibility that our information was correct.
The time had come to deal with the consequences of the past.
Fortunately, we were not completely unprepared, thanks largely to Obi-Wan's precognitive visions, and the determination and logistic genius of the prince of Telos. Xanatos, ever mindful of his duty to his subjects and -- even more important -- the legacy left to him by the love of his life -- had prepared an alternative site for out little colony -- smaller, more remote, and not quite so lovely, but ideal in other ways. He had expended enormous sums of energy and effort and large portions of his personal fortune in constructing shelters and stockpiling supplies and building passive defenses including shielding that was virtually undetectable, even on a planetary scale.
It was located on one of a cluster of small moons in a system so remote and so unpopulated that it had no name, only a numeric designation -- CX5477 -- just light minutes away from the vast darkness of the Unknown Regions.
During the next four days, I had good cause to remember all the characteristics I had so admired in the young boy who had been my second apprentice. Xanatos was a dynamo, organizing, planning, guiding, cajoling when necessary and browbeating when cajoling didn't work. He eased fears, and soothed frayed tempers, and bolstered flagging spirits, solved problems and found solutions, and, in the end, he accomplished what he set out to do. So efficient were his methods, and so exacting his blueprints for progress, that the entire colony was ready for transport in record time, early enough to evade even the speediest of long-range imperial scouts. Even most of the fruits of the recent harvests were secured in the bins of two massive cargo carriers, which would be tethered to the transport ships.
On the fifth day, the two of us -- with Princess Ciara -- stood on the platform built over the river as the first slice of liquid sun eased its way over the eastern horizon, painting the water below with a patina of shimmering copper that always reminded me of the color of my beloved's hair. Xan's eyes were dark with memory, so I was fairly sure that he noticed the similarity as well. His daughter stood close against him, his hands on her shoulders -- and none of us seemed to find appropriate words to fill the moment.
Before us, in the exact center of the platform, a tiny geodesic framework was affixed to a stone pediment, and within that framework, there was a perfectly shaped crystal geode, which contained a pulsing flicker of brilliance, surrounding a miniscule pocket of dark matter.
The last of Obi-Wan's ashes, contained within a flame of Force energy that would burn forever -- as long as the framework around it remained intact.
We all knew that such a fate was unlikely -- but knew also that it would be wrong, somehow, to remove the tiny marker from the magic of that place. What remained of the man he had been was there -- in the place he had loved so well.
He was, after all, beyond the reach of the vengeance that sought to eradicate all traces of his life.
I spent a few moments reaching out through the Force, seeking that familiar presence, but finding only faint echoes of the connection we once shared. Still, it was enough to assure me that he understood what we were being forced to do and offered his blessing. I opened my eyes to study Xan's face -- and realized that he had found what I could not. A deep, abiding peace had settled on his features -- and I am still ashamed to admit that I felt a frisson of envy, as I wished I could feel -- for one moment -- the joy of a bond renewed and reanimated.
When he opened his eyes, and smiled at me -- I knew, but I tried to ignore my certainty.
"It's time," I said. "The ships are waiting."
It was unnecessary for him to say it, but he did anyway, to avoid any ambiguity.
"I'm not going with you."
I opened my mouth to rebuke him -- to remind him of his responsibilities -- but my harsh words were silenced by the wisdom of a child.
"Tell Daddy," said Ciara Kenobi/Aji, in a small, steady voice, "that I will always love him -- and that I miss him."
Xan went to his knees then, and gathered the brave little girl to his chest. "My beautiful poppet," he whispered. "I -- we -- love you so much, and we both wish we could have been here to watch you grow up. But it isn't meant to be. I can't . . . go on without him. I'm sorry to leave you -- but I know you'll be strong. Master Qui-Gon is going to keep you safe, and make sure that you always know how much you are loved. I beg you to understand . . . that I simply can't leave him here -- alone."
"I know, Papa," she answered. "And I know that both of you are always with me . . . here." And she touched her hand to her heart, as tears welled in her father's eyes.
He stood quickly then, lifting her and holding her close for a moment, before placing her firmly into my arms, and gazing into my eyes. "You saved me . . . for him," he said. "Now I ask you to save her -- for both of us."
I wanted to argue -- to threaten -- to cajole. But, in the end, I didn't. I simply clasped his hand -- and turned and walked away. When last I saw him, he was standing at the platform railing, framed by the rising radiance of morning. Though I saw nothing to indicate it, I have always believed that he was not standing there alone.
We made our escape in good time, and, sixteen days later, debarked at our new home. Settling in and organizing our new colony was time-consuming and involved much hard physical labor -- which turned out to be a blessing. We had little time to spend in conjecture or contemplation.
Ciara was quiet and introspective in those early days -- but she proved repeatedly that she was the daughter of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Xanatos Aji, carrying herself with a dignity far beyond her tender years. And she took comfort in her connection to the Skywalker twins -- a connection that would grow and bear sweet fruit in later years.
It was almost six cycles before we received any intelligence reports from Xan's clandestine operatives, and I think we had all believed that we were prepared to deal with whatever information might be provided.
We weren't -- but, in the end, it made no difference.
We survived -- thanks to the foresight and planning and determination of two brilliant young men. Arbory did not.
I cannot be sure of the course of events that saw the end of that lovely, bucolic world, and there is no way to verify what did or did not happen. As a result of the weapons unleashed there, the planet is now a barren wasteland, poisoned by toxic bio-agents and incapable of supporting life. It is unlikely it will ever recover.
Xanatos, of course, is dead; I felt him die.
But I also felt the tremendous rush of joy that touched him in his final moment. I know that he has found what he sought, and they are together now. Forever.
As for Anakin, it may be that he achieved his fondest desire in that last fiery cataclysm that preceded the distribution of the chemical agents that would scour the planet's surface of all life -- but I don't really think so. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking -- and how remarkable is it that I can even admit that to myself -- but I think that, in the end, Anakin lost.
I choose to believe that, in the grip of his deep, vile hatred, he did NOT find what he was looking for; he did not succeed in wiping out every trace of the one person he never managed to defeat.
I choose to believe that, on that barren, gray world, a small platform still stands, tall and visible in the blackened wasteland, and that, at its center, a tiny flame continues to burn, and that the one inscription -- eight small words -- is still discernible in the stone base.
It bears no name -- but its meaning is unmistakable for all who ever walked there and felt his presence.
"The river runs -- but the song is silent."
But that is no longer true. Somewhere, I know, Obi-Wan is singing.
FINI