Archive: Yes. To Master/Apprentice and SWAL, and anyone else
who asks nicely (though lord knows why anyone else'd want it.)
Rating: R, I suppose.
Warning (CONTAINS SPOILERS): This story features reasonably
graphic violence and a lot of mental, emotional, and physical
distress on the part of Obi-Wan. Also (gasp) strong
implications, and some memories, of m/f sex, but the only
attempt at showing same was apparently so tastefully discreet
that two of my beta readers had no clue as to what was going on
in the first draft, so I took it out and will use the lovely
poetic image I came up with at some future time ;). Obi-Wan is
16 in this story, and there are intimations that he has had
some sort of, um, contact, with a boy his age. Absolutely
nothing happens during the timeline of this story. For obvious
reasons there is no sexual contact of any kind (even sexual
thoughts) between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan in this story. I can't
think of anything else anyone could possibly find offensive,
except a slight disapproval of Dark Jedi. This is pre-slash --
it's background and buildup.
Spoilers: Set well before The Phantom Menace. Major, major
spoilers for the Jedi Apprentice books, particularly #2: The
Dark Rival. This story doesn't give away the plot of that one,
but it does retail all of the backstory which is gradually
revealed over the course of that book.
Summary: Pre-slash, first in a planned series. Obi-Wan and
Qui-Gon re-visit a planet which holds pleasant memories for
them -- and find it not so peaceful this time around.
Feedback: Hell yes, as much as you like. To
ceciliaregent@hotmail.com. I've never planned anything as
ambitious as this series (which I hope will slowly bring us up
to TPM and just beyond); I'm feeling insecure about the story
and the whole venture; and I would dearly love any and all
commentary you might be willing to provide. I promise to
respond to all of it, too.
Note: If it weren't well past midnight, I would write a
properly metered and rhymed Ode in honor of my beta readers. As
it is I'll content myself with announcing to the world that
Raven, Megan, and Richel provided encouragement, speculation,
warnings of confusion, and -- in Richel's case -- a note of
every single place where I inserted an extra space after the
dash in "Obi-Wan." I cannot thank them enough.
The sudden absence when the hum of lightsabers ceased made the
room seem abnormally quiet. Qui-Gon Jinn swept the hilt of his
weapon across his body and bowed his head to his opponent, who
returned the courtesy. "May the Force be with you," Qui-Gon
said.
"And with you, Master," the boy across from him replied, still
poised to act. He seemed a rock of steadiness, but Qui-Gon
could sense a tendril of impatience underneath. He was working
through it well, though, and Qui-Gon decided he deserved his
reward.
"All right, Obi-Wan. That's enough for today," he said, and
pointed the hilt of the lightsaber at the door to the changing
room.
Obi-Wan Kenobi fairly sprinted for the door as soon as he was
dismissed, barely pausing to flash a grin and honor his teacher
on the way out. The single slim braid that was the only vanity
apprentices of his level were permitted flew out behind him,
contrasting with the spiky crewcut that shaped the rest of his
head. Sweat-drenched clothing revealed the rest of his body
clearly, to Qui-Gon's satisfaction. The boy was growing into
himself; he'd never be close to his master's height, but he no
longer tripped over his own too-long shins.
Good muscles, too, Qui-Gon thought as he analyzed his
apprentice's run across the salle. Perhaps he could use a
little more work there, or there, that would give
him more spring when he leaped. The Force could only take one
part of the way. Qui-Gon made a note to concentrate on those
areas in the next day's workout, but on the whole he was
pleased with what he saw in Obi-Wan. The sixteen-year-old had
been trained by the Jedi almost from birth, and had had the
personal attention of Qui-Gon Jinn, one of the best swordsmen
in the order, for the last three years. He could hardly have
failed to be a superior athlete; truly, though, Qui-Gon
thought, he is one of the best that I have seen for his years.
He nearly touched me today with the saber. Keep this up, and
the apprentice will outstrip the master!
The Jedi smiled to himself at the thought as he finished
toweling the sweat from his own neck. With Obi-Wan out the
door, released to an evening of freedom in the planet's main
city, he could concentrate on his own exercises. He tossed the
towel onto a bench at the edge of the room and returned to the
center. He bowed to empty air this time, although no less
concentrated for all that. The saber, powering up, was a
comforting sound.
He began to run through flexibility and balance exercises at
the next level up from those he had been doing with Obi-Wan.
Giving them all the grace and power he could, he relaxed into
the Force and let it lead him up to the next level. Allowing
the Force to guide his body through the leaps and spins it
asked of him, his mind was freed to go over, once more, the
events of the day.
It had been peaceful. Both he and Obi-Wan were glad to be back
on Deolos; they had mediated a settlement between two warring
peoples almost three years ago, at the very start of their
partnership. They'd been back twice now to check up on the
progress of the planet, and each time had spent enough time on
the surface that they could let acquaintances develop into
friends.
The morning had been spent in an extremely amicable meeting
with representatives from both sides of the old dispute.
Qui-Gon was -- justifiably, he thought -- proud of the treaty
he had designed for them, and they seemed to be living up to
its dictates. The afternoon's tour of the city and some of the
outlying farms only confirmed the picture of an idyllic peace
which seemed almost too calm only three years after such a
catastrophic war. Rebuilding had progressed at a dramatic rate
and the strides made in developing the capital city even since
their last visit were clearly visible.
The two Jedi had returned to their quarters in the palace
barracks well-pleased with the situation, and dispatched a
preliminary report to the Council on Coruscant with a request
to pass the information along to the Chancellor of the Senate.
Qui-Gon had promised Obi-Wan a night free from duties, time to
catch up with friends his own age, away from the formal world
of the palace. First, though, the evening workout which no
Jedi, of whatever power or age, would consider forgoing.
Qui-Gonn's body swung up to the next level of exercises, the
highest, as he reflected on his apprentice's performance. He
took considerable pleasure in the task. Even Obi-Wan's warmups
were flawless; really, the boy had extraordinary talent, and
his discipline was to be commended. Qui-Gon wished he would
work as hard at his diplomatic skills. Although he himself had
found the morning's meeting refreshingly relaxing, he had
sensed and quelled a bored Obi-Wan's cooped-up frustration
almost a dozen times, once narrowly avoiding an Incident. The
Jedi sighed mentally. To have the energy of a
sixteen-year-old...which returned him to the workout. The free-
saber duel had been exciting -- although Qui-Gon had never been
in real danger of being hit, Obi-Wan was definitely
progressing. Again fighting free-form, although this time
teamed with his master against practice droids, he had
submerged into the Force, and the deep bond which tied the two
men, with ease. Qui-Gon always enjoyed the team workout.
Against droids Obi-Wan did not often become frustrated or angry
enough to disturb his connection to the Force, and the Jedi
pair had developed a graceful partnership in battle, enhanced
by the bond they shared. Qui-Gon looked forward to the day
Obi-Wan would exhibit the same control against the real, living
enemies they were so often forced to confront. More and more
frequently, it seems, these days. The galaxy is heating up --
more disputes, more violent "resolutions". I know the Council
has noted the pattern; I wish they talked to their field
operatives more often. We're in danger of being stretched too
thin. All the more reason to give Obi-Wan good training,
then. When he had that control, Qui-Gon knew that the real
battles would be as...beautiful...as the antiseptic training
sessions were now.
The boy was developing real style, too, which was all to the
good. It was a distinct style from Qui-Gon's. He was becoming
quite an acrobat, prone to spending large amounts of time
airborne during combat. Flips and somersaults were his
strengths. Whereas Qui-Gon's economy of motion and clipped,
almost quiet style displayed his discipline and afforded him
the opportunity to use his tight control to his enemy's
disadvantage, Obi-Wan's expansive movements barreled through
his opponents with sheer energy. Qui-Gon knew he practiced
those flips on his own; his teacher had a decided preference
for remaining planted firmly on the ground, and had refined
that tendency to the point where, in Obi-Wan's initial
training, he had given only token weight to jumping. As it
became clear where his apprentice's desires lay, however,
Qui-Gon had revised his opinions and begun to lay more emphasis
on the acrobatics.
Better keep up with my student, he thought wryly, and
finished the sequence he was doing with a series of leaps and
flips which took him nearly to the high roof of the palace's
training arena. You never know when it will come in handy.
Perhaps I should turn somersaults over his head tomorrow
-- he might be so shocked I'd be able to get in a killing
blow! Actually, it wasn't a bad thought; he filed it away
for future use. Obi-Wan ought to learn not to get complacent
about his opponents' abilities.
Qui-Gon wound down his own drill with a simple lap around the
salle. Breathing no harder than usual, he came to a quiet stop
near the discarded towel and snagged it on his way towards the
showers. Yes, on the whole, a very good day. He looked forward
to a pleasant evening as well; he had his own reasons for
giving Obi-Wan the night off. A smile crossed his face as he
thought of his pretty friend A'le'ila, who had promised him
several uninterrupted hours of intelligent conversation and
excellent wine "if he sent that sweet child somewhere else for
the night."
Obi-Wan would not be thrilled at being described as a sweet
child, but since Qui-Gon did not intend to let him know of
A'le'ila's existence, let alone her epithet for him, he could
take no harm from either.
Obi-Wan dressed, as he always did, with care and pride. It had
never been strange to him, to wear the uniform of a Jedi --
he'd been wearing it since he was old enough to walk, an
unwanted sixth son suddenly discovered to have both a strong
connection to the Force, and a place in the world. But it
remained, after all these years, a source of deep comfort. He
still shivered when he thought how nearly he had missed the
opportunity to ever wear it again. Qui-Gon had saved him less
than three weeks from what would have been, as far as he was
concerned, oblivion.
So as he jerked his boot-laces tight, he was grateful. He
checked in the mirror briefly, making sure that everything was
straight, nothing stained. Satisfied that he was at least
presentable, he slipped out the door to the Jedi's quarters and
teased the lock shut with a whisper of the Force. He had given
up clattering down stairs long ago; his boots hit the treads of
the stairwell so lightly that nobody not listening could have
heard them.
Emerging into the street, he turned right, exchanged a word
with the guard, declined an escort, and set off with his robe
wrapped tightly around him. It was windy on Deolos, something
which his fond memories of the planet always seemed to make him
forget. Next time, he promised himself, I'll wear a
pair of tunics.
There were no clouds, however -- the upside to the wind -- and
the beauty of Deolos was eerie, bathed in starlight. The glow
picked out the fine white stone that most buildings were
constructed of, making it seem to emanate a light from within,
and the clean streamlined architecture reminded Obi-Wan of
spaceships poised gently against the rich, pearl-scattered
velvet of the sky.
At this time of the evening most Deolians were settled indoors,
and Obi-Wan had the silent street to himself. He was almost to
his destination, however, and before he became thoroughly
distracted, he wanted to check in with Qui-Gon. He pulled the
Force to himself and felt it settle into him, gossamer-light
threads wrapping his synapses. Grasping one of those threads to
himself and extending it, he was startled to find Qui-Gon
shielded from him. The shield was not so heavy that, had the
need been great, he could not have broken it; but it definitely
discouraged casual contact. He was worried for a brief second,
but decided that Qui-Gon merely wished to spend time with his
own friends -- and without the risk of his apprentice's
often-unguarded thoughts seeping across the city. Obi-Wan
flushed slightly at the thought that Qui-Gon needed to shield
in order to make up for his own shortcomings at keeping his
emotions private.
In time, will it come. First, learn control, you must.
As always, when he gave himself good advice, his mind took on
Yoda's speech patterns. He smiled ruefully, and then, reaching
the correct doorway, again with pure pleasure. An evening
entirely free from the Jedi Order was a rare occasion. He
planned to make the most of it.
The bar was brightly lit and Obi-Wan blinked as he ducked
through the door. If the street outside had been quiet, the
contrast was immediately evident, as music blared from the
speakers and a healthy cross-section of Deolos's youth shared
laughter and alcohol. Although he still wore the uniform,
Obi-Wan felt a few of the constraints of his position fall away
from him. He responded gladly to a wave from one corner of the
room, where five Deolians gathered around a table draped with
light-giving bubbles.
"Obi-Wan!" they said in greeting as he emerged from the press
of people he had ducked through to get to the table. "It is
good to see you again, my friend," added Ste'che as he stood to
greet the young Jedi.
Ste'che had risen as gracefully from his seat as he did
everything else. Obi-Wan met his handsome friend halfway. He
set a kiss on Ste'che's left cheek, received one on his own
right cheek in turn, and then leaned in to end the greeting by
joining his lips to Ste'che's. The two shared a secret smile;
the greeting, outwardly proper and formal, held a promise of
more to come later that night. Obi-Wan shivered at a sudden,
perfect sense memory of the last time he had been on Deolos.
Not too much time to reflect on that, although Obi-Wan's pulse
had quickened at the last kiss. The other four were crowding
round him now, exchanging kisses with a casual familiarity that
Obi-Wan reveled in. He was drawn into the group again with
warmth and kindness, and all six teenagers quickly settled back
around the table as Ll'aus'ta gestured for more wine. Obi-Wan
saw with pleasure that a sixth glass was already in place on
the table. "You expected me?" he said, indicating the glass.
Ll'aus'ta shook her head as she poured out the next round. "We
weren't sure exactly when you'd be coming, they only told us
the Jedi would be arriving shortly. And anyway, who knew if
Qui-Gon would let you off for a whole evening?"
"Seeing as he doesn't spend nearly enough time training you as
it is," Ste'che added with a straight face.
"Of course," his sister continued placidly. "We know you can
never spend enough time in your Master's company." Obi-Wan
blushed faintly at the teasing, but smiled readily enough.
Ll'aus'ta returned the smile and spoke again. "No, we hoped
you'd be here one of these nights, but the glass was intended
for someone else. A human like you, Obi-Wan, but older. A
recent conquest of Ste'che's."
Now it was the Deolian's turn to blush, although it was hard to
tell under his light blue skin. Obi-Wan's heart clenched
slightly. Of course Ste had a perfect right to 'conquer'
whomever he chose, and Obi-Wan had always known that he did.
Didn't mean he had to like hearing about it, though.
"Ll'aus'ta exaggerates," Ste'che said mildly, but with a quick
glance at Obi-Wan. "Manto is only a friend." Obi-Wan could not
deny the quick flash of relief he felt. "You'll like him,
Obi-Wan; he spent most of his childhood on Coruscant, and I
think he's traveled since then even more than you have. You
should have a lot in common."
Obi-Wan grinned, his quick downturn in spirits as quickly
forgotten. "I'm sure I will," he said, and raised his glass,
borrowed from the absent Manto, to his friends.
Qui-Gon dropped his head back against the couch, more relaxed
than he had been in a long time -- since the last time he'd
visited A'le'ila, to be precise. Dinner had been long and
leisurely, with only three well-chosen guests, all of whom --
save Qui-Gon -- were now on their separate ways home. The Jedi,
as he'd expected, had received a faint tug on his sleeve in
passing which said he was to stay.
A'le'ila had settled with her head in his lap and was playing
idly with a strand of his hair. The planet's trade
commissioner, her skin glowing the delicate green of new
shoots, sighed contentedly. "I'm glad you've come, Qui-Gon,"
she murmured. "Although no doubt you've used your Jedi arts to
discover that already."
"Mmmm. I'm often forced to use them in order to comprehend the
feelings of one so inscrutable as yourself, honorable
commissioner," Qui-Gon said drily, and was rewarded with a
laugh deep in the Deolian's throat.
"Such a mystery, am I?" She half-raised herself, and Qui-Gon
bent his head to meet hers. The kiss was sweet, familiar, and
Qui-Gon regretted having to break away from it.
"A'le'ila Zedor," he said, giving her her title in her own
language, "After we do this I shall be good for nothing but
foolish grinning for the rest of the night. And you did promise
me conversation and wine if I sent my apprentice away."
She accepted the compliment with grace equal to that with which
it had been given, inclining her head. "You've had both
already. However, if you wish to wait, we shall." She lowered
herself back down to his lap. "What did you want to talk
about?"
"Why do you think I've already selected a topic?" His hostess
said nothing, but raised an eyebrow. Qui-Gon gave in. "Too fast
for me, lady. All right, then. I do have a question." He paused
to take a sip of wine, and decided on bluntness. "Can this
peace possibly be as firm as it seems?"
A'le'ila was quiet for so long that Qui-Gon began to truly
worry about the answer to his question. He had thought that
relations between the two factions were, in fact, as good as
they appeared. Could he have been wrong, after all?
Finally the Deolian spoke, letting the lock of hair she had
continued to fidget with fall back to Qui-Gon's chest. "On the
whole, I think you need not worry. The leaders you met this
morning have truly worked well with each other; they are
friends now and will cause no disturbance if they can help it,
will try to fight it if it arises within their own ranks." She
paused, pursing her lips. "There are a few young people, around
the same age as your apprentice or a little older, who have
begun to catch the attention of myself and a few other leaders,
though. They take a great pride in their affiliation, even wear
clothing to match. This might not be so bad in itself, but
fights between small groups have been reported in the last few
months. Rest assured, though, I am keeping a close and personal
eye on the whole situation. I've even discussed an official
response with Ell'art Zedor, although we're waiting a while for
that -- we don't want anyone to get unduly alarmed."
A crease had appeared between Qui-Gon's brows as she spoke, the
fact that it showed at all a measure of the trust he placed in
her. "Why were the Jedi not told of this before now, in a
slightly more formal setting?" he asked, deliberately neutral.
He must take care not to forget that A'le'ila, however out of
the ordinary, was a member of the Chcloss faction herself.
He studied her closely as she weighed her reply. "Not everyone
you spoke with today knows of this, Qui-Gon. It has not become
such a problem that it is generally noticed outside the circles
of the young. I make it a point to keep my eye on that sector
of the population. Most do not. And, as I said, Ell'art and I
do not wish to worry anyone without cause. You should not worry
either; I don't think very many people are involved in this.
It's certainly nothing urgent at this point."
Qui-Gon accepted the answer, but knew he would talk it over
with Obi-Wan later. He wondered if the boy would see any signs
of trouble tonight; perhaps it would be a good idea for him to
do some digging in the next couple of days.
He put all thoughts of his apprentice out of his mind, then, to
take the advice he gave Obi-Wan all too often: concentrate on
the moment. He looked down at A'le'ila, her hair fanned out,
waiting amused but patient for him to decide if he needed to
know anything else. Yes. The moment. He ran his thumb
over the curve of her cheek.
"Hold on," Obi-Wan said. "Could you repeat that, Ja'oli?"
The Deolian's blue face was flushed from the wine. "I said that
Me'au'oa is a seudita Chcloss, Obi-Wan."
The tone was aggressive, the word so filthy that there was no
good equivalent in Standard. And Ja'oli had finished by making
a reference to this girl's faction. Obi-Wan was not anything
like drunk enough to let that pass by. "What's she done?" he
asked, exerting the Force cautiously to be sure he got an
accurate answer. He wished he hadn't drunk quite so much, it
certainly was easier to control sober.
Ll'aus'ta answered for Ja'oli. "She's the Chcloss standing by
that table over there." She pointed cautiously. "She led the
Chclisi, that's the six of them at the table, against
Ta'bo'an's Tatili last week, and four of them are still in bed.
They can't get medical care because they'd be arrested for
fighting. The Chclisi are ruthless, but Me'au'oa is the worst
of them all."
Obi-wan sorted through the implications of her words and came
up with one result: tell Qui-Gon, but get more information
first. "Let me be sure I'm right," he began slowly. He's
always trying to teach me not to jump to conclusions. Diplomacy
Corps, here I come.... "There is faction fighting going on
again?"
Ll'aus'ta nodded. She seemed surprised. "Didn't you know,
Obi-Wan? It's not the officials, maybe that's why not. But
we --" she struck her chest with a clenched fist "--we
saw the Chcloss rising again, and we could not let that happen.
The Toreo must survive on this planet."
Ste'che, next to him, seemed to suddenly sense the change in
Obi-Wan's mood. "Obi-Wan, she's right," he said soberly. He
took Obi-Wan's hand under the table. "We're all Toreo; in the
conflict we saw our families almost wiped out by the Chcloss.
They're more powerful, there are more of them. Their old men
and women may be reconciled to us now, but those our age are
jealous and proud. They'd willingly take us from this life just
as their elders took ours. We have to at least defend
ourselves."
Obi-Wan looked around the table. Each of the five Deolians, all
blue-skinned, was nodding agreement. Could they be
right? he wondered. He trusted them; if they said they were
being threatened.... He looked over at the table Ll'aus'ta had
indicated earlier. The six green-skinned Chcloss were dressed
in deep jades and emeralds. He couldn't read the glance the
leader cast at him when she noticed his scrutiny of her group,
but she immediately turned back to her friends and said
something which caused them to laugh, low and dangerous.
Obi-Wan snapped his attention back to his own table. Why had he
not noticed before that everything each of them wore was blue,
complementing the tones of their skin? Perhaps because there
had been absolutely no hint of trouble anywhere the Jedi had
gone today. Ja'oli was glaring at the other table.
He looked uncertainly at Ste'che, whose hand he still held.
"Obi-Wan, it can't be helped," the other boy said. "We don't
like to fight, and we only do when we have to, but you must
understand that we have to be ready. Almost everyone our age in
the city has joined a hliri."
The word he'd used meant something like a small group of
friends, halfway between clique and gang. Obi-Wan squeezed his
friend's hand and let it go. "All right, Ste'che," he said. He
stayed seated for a few moments more, planning his strategy;
he'd have to go through Qui-Gon's shield after all, this was
important enough. He wished he didn't have to cut his evening
off. It had been so wonderful, until Ja'oli had taken one more
glass of the purple wine than he should have done. He doubted
he'd be able to justify saving this until the morning, though,
and he had absolutely no desire to be reprimanded for that
level of negligence. Qui-Gon was strict enough about small
mistakes. He permitted himself one small pang of regret for the
lost night with Ste'che. Some other time. Well. If I claim
I've been summoned by Qui-Gon, I can leave and start to deal
with that shield once I'm alone outside.
He feigned surprise, jerking his chin up and staring at a point
above De'il'a's head, across the table. After a few seconds he
nodded briefly, then brought his eyes back down to find them
all, as expected, looking inquisitively at him. "It's Qui-Gon,"
he explained. "He wants me back for something, didn't tell me
what. I've got to go -- I'm sorry." Sorry about the lie, my
friends. He said the last two words especially to Ste'che,
sending his regret through his eyes.
The five Deolians voiced their own regrets. "He might have kept
his promise -- what can be so urgent it can't be dealt with in
the morning?" Ste'che grumbled, but he knew well that Obi-Wan
would never defy his master by delaying even a few minutes. The
ritual of the kiss was repeated in reverse between Obi-Wan and
all five of the others. The Jedi held Ste'che's hands a moment
longer than was really necessary, but just as he was about to
turn away, the other boy looked past him with pleased surprise.
"Manto! You're just in time. I thought you were going to miss
meeting our good friend." Obi-Wan turned to face the same
direction as his friend and felt his heart seize with terror.
It was Xanatos.
Obi-Wan's second of inaction was fatal. Staring at his master's
former apprentice, the one who had turned to the Dark Side, who
had almost killed both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan on their second
mission together, Obi-Wan panicked. He floundered, grasped for
the Force, failed utterly. It was too late. He was wrapped in a
cocoon -- the kind of web a tarantula must weave, he thought
somewhat hysterically -- stronger than anything Qui-Gon had
ever put on him, even to hold him still long enough for
healing. This is not meant for healing, he told himself.
Very perceptive, someone said into his mind, and
suddenly Obi-Wan felt filthy. No one but Qui-Gon had ever
spoken to him in that manner. Jedi usually waited to be asked.
Just hold still, my friend. This won't take long.
Obi-Wan wanted to shudder, but he couldn't even control his
body enough to do that, let alone scream, run, draw his
lightsaber, or any of the other thousand things he would have
given up years of life to be able to do. He could only take a
deep breath, which he did, and feel himself give Xanatos the
kiss of greeting. His lips seemed to shrivel against the
other's.
"This is a surprise," he heard himself say to the others. "We
have met before."
Ll'aus'ta looked confused, bless her. "But Obi-Wan, you didn't
say anything when we told you his name."
"Manto is a nickname only," Xanatos interposed smoothly. "When
Obi-Wan and I knew each other I went by my full name."
Ll'aus'ta accepted this. Why not? thought Obi-Wan
despairingly. It's even true, up to a point.
"But Obi-Wan is just on his way back to his master," Ste'che
said regretfully. "Will you join us, Manto?"
Xanatos shook his head, glossy black hair rippling. Obi-Wan
noted dully that he had dressed entirely in blue. What is he
up to? But there was little time to wonder.
"I have not seen Obi-Wan in a long time. I'll walk him back to
the palace -- that is where the Jedi would be staying? -- and
we can talk on the way." He paused. "Would you like to come,
Ste'che? I could use some company on the way back."
No! Obi-Wan's mind cried out. No, stay here, stay
here, please, let me be the only one he takes!
Of course Ste'che did not hear him. He said a quick farewell of
his own to his friends and his sister, mindful of the danger of
keeping Obi-Wan away any longer. Xanatos smiled, friendly, at
Obi-Wan, and drew the boy's arm through his own, Ste'che
falling in on the other side as they went out the door and into
the dead and empty street.
Obi-Wan felt naked and smothered at the same time. The Force
had been stripped away from him, leaving him totally exposed,
and yet there it was, stifling him, allowing him no options. He
watched, helpless, as Ste'che too was bound under Xanatos'
seemingly endless command of the Dark Side. The other boy had
time to cast him one look of disgust in the moment between
realization and invasion.
He'd been put to sleep at the end of their journey with the
ease of lifting a hand, tossed roughly into a dark void where
he lost touch with even the control he still had over his mind.
He had awakened flat on his back, aware that the Force no
longer swaddled him, that it was in fact available for his use.
Joy surging through him, he had clutched for it, sent a pulse
of distress -- Qui-Gon! -- only to find that the room at
a minimum, and perhaps the entire house, was shielded. Somehow
he knew the shields were smooth, inside and out. He damped down
the rush of despair, allowed himself to be calm as Qui-Gon had
taught him. If he could not control his surroundings he would
control himself. A way would open.
Floating in his fragile calm, he knew he needed to find out
more about his prison. He sat up carefully, surprised to have
no headache, no soreness of any kind. The amount of power
exerted on him last night should have left him aching.
Encouraged, if puzzled, he looked around and had yet another
shock.
Well, what were you expecting? Straw and rats? The room
was large and sunny, furnished with an eye to comfort and
taste. Desk, chair, and sleeping couch were all of white oak,
burnished in the sunlight of a very early morning. There were
two pillows on the sleeping couch; an open armoire at the end
of the room held blankets. Most miraculous of all, the windows
were not only glass merely, without bars, but one of them was
open.
What is he doing? Obi-Wan knew it was pointless, but
felt obligated to try anyway. Sure enough, one step too close
to that tantalizingly open window brought him up against a wall
of shields, and there was where the pain waited, a
numbing shock to the hand that the Jedi, cautiously, had held
out in front of him.
Obi-Wan leapt back, clutching his hand. The pain rocked his
fragile concentration. He clung to it, coaxed it back into
place like a cloak around him. The room was inviting but
Obi-Wan had no doubt it was riddled with traps, just waiting to
be tripped. Xanatos' style: concealing and revealing, he
remembered Qui-Gon saying. A pile of clothing caught his eye,
half-buried under the unused pillows of the sleeping couch, and
he blushed both for his nakedness and his failure to realize
this salient fact earlier, and then again in rage at the
thought of Xanatos undressing him, or worse, using the Force to
make him remove his own clothing.
Half-expecting another energy bolt, he walked cautiously across
the room and picked up what had been left for him, a pair of
loose pants and a simple smock. He pulled them on quickly,
missing the heavy weight of Jedi clothing, the rough swirl of
his cloak, the stiffness of his boots. Not the biggest thing he
had to regret, though, and, prison explored, he sank into the
lotus position with his back against the couch and set himself
to remember everything he knew about Qui-Gon's failed
apprentice.
Qui-Gon has had three Padawans. The first became a Jedi
Knight. The third is me. The second is Xanatos. He was a rich
man's son but gave it up to follow the Jedi. Qui-Gon loved him
as a son. He was overprotective. Xanatos was a bully, but good
at lying to Qui-Gon. He was proud. At the end of his training
he threw over the way of the Jedi, helped his father make war
on his own people out of greed and ambition. Qui-Gon killed his
father. Obi-Wan felt the tiny rush of pride which came
whenever he thought of Qui-Gon's accomplishments. He drew on
Qui-Gon and they fought, but Qui-Gon could not kill him. He
escaped, and did not give up his lightsaber. He adheres to the
Dark Side and the Force is strong with him. He is ruthless,
very intelligent, over-confident, still ambitious, still
greedy, still proud. He always has a back door. He is tricky
and he plays games. He wishes to harm me both to hurt Qui-Gon
and to take revenge on me for the other time we met.
That was all, a pitiful store of knowledge, but perhaps some of
it might be of use. He hoped Ste'che was all right. The look he
had seen in his friend's eyes, aimed directly at him, had hurt.
After this was over -- it will be over -- he would
explain. If he could. He steadily ignored the fear which pulsed
beyond the armor of the Force. It had its own place, it could
stay there. He would explore the boundaries of the shield. He
would be still. A way --
The door opened instead, and Xanatos walked in. Handsome,
confident, marred only by a scar on his cheek in the shape of a
broken circle, the Dark Jedi paused in the doorway and did not
speak. Obi-Wan was not stupid; he knew better than to move or
speak first. He let the Force whisper to him, and he waited.
The silence stretched. It was Xanatos who broke first, setting
one booted foot against the door frame. Obi-Wan suddenly felt
very aware of his own bare feet.
"I believe it is customary at times like these to say something
along the lines of 'So, we meet again, Obi-Wan Kenobi,'"
Xanatos said. He was not smiling. "But I'm not interested in
prolonging this. Your master will know very soon that
you are missing, as soon as he returns to your quarters. It's
in my interest, for now, that he not know I'm involved in what
is going to happen to you. His response has to be to others,
not to me. So, much as I'd like to draw this out, it's going to
have to be quick."
Xanatos paused to consider Obi-Wan's reaction, which was
outwardly minimal. "What are you going to do?" the boy asked,
tone as blank as any Xanatos had ever heard from Qui-Gon. He
was being taught well, and the thought sent a flare of pure
fury spiking through the Dark Jedi. He welcomed it, used it to
feed the shield around the room. It was crucial that what
happened next not be allowed to get through to Qui-Gon, and
Xanatos knew from long and patient study just how powerful this
Obi-Wan had the potential to be.
He took a step into the room, then two. The boy didn't move
from his seat in front of the sleeping couch, but Xanatos saw
his shoulders move back fractionally, pressing him closer to
the furniture. Good. There was much fear in him already. "I'm
going to find out everything you know about Qui-Gon," he said
simply. "Every detail, every look he's ever given you, every
scrap of approval he's tossed your way, every punishment he's
handed down. Every rumor you've ever heard about his past." And
now he used the Force, almost laughed at the power he rode, he
wrestled, he contained, he controlled. He lifted the boy to his
feet, and though Obi-Wan tried hard to use the Force he had
about him, his control was too shaky, his outrage and fear too
strong, and Xanatos easily shrugged it aside. He didn't even
bother to lock a looped shield between Obi-Wan and the Force,
the way he'd done last night. He could see how his contempt
stung the Jedi, pushed him to higher levels of emotional
turmoil. It was as good a block on the boy's use of the Force
as any shield he could have invented himself. He took three
steps forward and looked straight into Obi-Wan's eyes. "And
you're going to tell me, and then I'm going to kill you, just
as I killed your friend."
No warning, but his lightsaber, set to a low power, was in his
hand, and he swept it down against Obi-Wan's unprotected chest.
The scream, though devoid of the information he sought, was
satisfying.
So this is what I need in order to relax, Qui-Gon
thought as he slipped out the back door to A'le'ila's house in
the dark hour before dawn. He had declined her offer of a bed
to sleep in, an honor he knew she rarely accorded to anyone,
even the rarefied few she permitted to share that bed for a few
hours. He hadn't been sorry to decline; he never slept easy
these days unless his apprentice was across the room. That was
home, and Qui-Gon sent a wordless thank-you to whatever gods
were listening for the gift of this boy, so different from the
last one.
It had been good, with A'le'ila, nonetheless, although she was
not home. It always was. He trusted few people as he
trusted her. She had not asked that he stay twice, accepting
the decision without comment, and had instead offered what he
could accept with pleasure, an oiled massage which actually
brought on a second round. Qui-Gon had been incredulous. "You
are a fountain of youth," he had said to her, laughing. And
after they finished that, she'd insisted on completing the
interrupted massage. Qui-Gon had decided he would simply leave
all his bones lying on her bedroom floor, where she'd tossed
them as non-essential, and merely ask for a cart to get what
remained of him back to his quarters.
After all of which, here he was, and he supposed he might
almost as well have stayed to sleep the night. He hoped Obi-Wan
wasn't worried about him, but when he cast about for any sign
of his apprentice's distress, he found nothing. Probably sound
asleep hours ago.
He reached the barracks their room was located in shortly
after; the trade commissioner's house was on the palace grounds
and not so very far from the guards' cluster. They'd been
offered more luxurious accommodations on their arrival, but had
chosen rather to be as close to the salle as possible. All
right, Qui-Gon amended. I chose. But I don't think he
minded too much. Easier to just go out from a barracks than an
ambassador's apartment of state. He brushed the Force
across the eyes of the guard at the front of the building; he
didn't really want to talk to anyone, even a courtesy greeting.
Oh, I feel good. And old. And ready to sleep for a week.
He climbed the stairs, concentrating on being weightless, and
twitched the lock that Obi-Wan had set hours ago -- wait. Hours
ago. This hasn't been disturbed since he went out just after
the workout! Qui-Gon realized with a jolt. His mood shifted
abruptly and he almost jerked the door open.
The room was quite empty. There was only a bathing room beyond,
and Qui-Gon knew it was unoccupied. Don't panic, he told
himself. There's at least one good reason he could be out
this late -- the same one you have. Just check. He settled
himself on his own bed, leaning against a pillow. The tension
he'd thought completely drained by the night's activities was
back in his shoulders with a vengeance, but he ignored it, sent
the fear away, sent away the pain. He was one with the Force.
Obi-Wan, he said gently. No response. He hadn't really
been expecting one. He tried again, this time submerging
deeper. He scanned the city, and as much of the countryside as
he could reach, maintaining a strict hold on himself. Finally
admitting defeat, he released the Force and sank back.
Obi-Wan was not worried. He was not in pain. He was not happy.
He was not shielded from Qui- Gonn. He simply...was not. The
Force did not know him.
Xanatos brought the saber down yet again, this time across his
captive's shoulders. The boy knew it was coming, by now, and
didn't cry out.
"We can get started any time you like, Obi-Wan," Xanatos said.
"You can tell me about the first time you heard Qui-Gon
mentioned. When was it?" The boy's mouth remained stubbornly
shut, although Xanatos set the tip of the saber against his
wrist and held it there until the flesh smoked. Obi-Wan's eyes
strayed to the wrist, fascinated, but he snapped his head back
to stare blankly a little to Xanatos' right.
"No," the boy said unexpectedly. Xanatos was pleased, but a
little surprised. Perhaps some headway was being made, after
all.
"Call me 'Master,'" he suggested pleasantly. The word would be
a big step on the way to being granted access. All he got in
return, though, was a soft sound, halfway between a laugh and a
snort.
This would not do. He did not have the time. Qui-Gon would be
home soon, it was a good hour past dawn and even if that pretty
commissioner was as wearing as Xanatos had heard, his former
master had always been an early riser. It had taken too long to
bring the boys here, too long to deal with the other, too long
to cover his tracks in the Force, too long, now, to get what he
needed out of this stubborn baby Jedi with the ridiculous
martyr complex. He wanted very badly to set the saber to a
higher level -- everyone had his breaking point and more could
often be learned through relative delicacy -- but sometimes, he
had learned through experimentation, it was better just to
smash his way through and worry about any details he might have
missed, later.
"Look at me," he said abruptly, and when Obi-Wan didn't he
emphasized the command with a sharp tap of the saber. Obi-Wan's
gaze rose to the bridge of Xanatos' nose. He knows somehow
that this is something dangerous. Smart child. Make me do it
the hard way. The Dark Jedi seized the Force and wrapped it
around Obi-Wan's eyeballs, dragging them up, forcing them to
focus on his own. He only needed to hold them a split second --
and he was through, ripping down the boy's mental barriers,
shredding them and tossing them aside like so much trash,
raking through his memory. There was one section which might as
well have been labeled 'Qui- Gon,' so clearly did the Jedi
Master's imprint shine. Good boy. Don't be subtle. Make it
easy for me. Xanatos took all of the thoughts and memories
in that category, sorted them out. Most were relatively
mundane, although even those might have their uses. One at
least was deeply -- interesting. He wondered if the boy was
even aware he had this, it was so well-buried under a stack of
other thoughts. That might have been something in a few
years. I wonder what Qui- Gon's opinion on the subject is?
Probably nothing, knowing the insanely heavy conscience of the
other man. He wouldn't take it if it was offered to him on a
platter, if he thought it was only hero-worship. He could
figure out a good use for the information later, though. First
he did a cursory check of the boy's other mental systems,
trying to dredge up any more hidden tidbits of Qui-Gon's
presence. It would have been easier to do if he had been let in
by an exhausted or defeated Obi-Wan; that he could overcome the
resistence without too much trouble didn't mean he'd wanted to.
But there was enough, easily findable, that he was pleased to
discover that the forced blunt tactics had probably been not
too bad a second choice, after all.
He withdrew from the young Jedi's mind and stepped back. He had
been too absorbed in his task to really monitor the boy's
reaction to his brutal invasion, but he was more than happy to
study the fallout now.
The lightsaber had left ugly burns wherever it had struck and
they stood out against the boy's flesh. I'll have to leave
his own saber a few feet from him, as though those thugs had
hit him with it before he died. Better, though -- much
better -- was the expression on his face and the knot of horror
Xanatos could feel without even reaching out through the Force.
I suppose that pays for your part in my last meeting with
Qui-Gon. It's a good thing for you we won't meet again, boy --
I'd have to find a way to make you hurt even more.
"Stay there," he said aloud, and knew that Obi-Wan heard him.
"I'll be back for you soon." He didn't bother to close the door
on his way out.
Qui-Gon ripped off the informal tunic he had dined in and dug
through his bag for the most impressive item of clothing he
owned, the rank-bearing robe of a full Jedi Master. He jerked
it down over his head. What if he tried to contact me and
couldn't get through the shield? Oh, Obi-Wan! The worst
part was that he couldn't ask anyone who knew the planet better
for help. If Obi-Wan's disappearance was a result of renewed
faction fighting -- and that was one cause Qui-Gon could not
rule out, given his conversation with A'le'ila last night,
which loomed larger and larger in his thoughts with each
passing second -- then he could not be sure in whom he could
trust. Even A'le'ila. The thought sent a flash of pain
down his spine, but he did not shove the fear and pain into the
tiniest spot he could. That was an apprentice's mistake.
Instead he gathered it all to him, clenched it in one mental
fist -- and then released it. He felt it dissipate as he
wrapped his dark brown cloak over the robe. No need to
advertise himself. He was strong in the Force.
He reversed his earlier course, this time nodding to the guard.
"Have you been on duty all night?" he asked. It was not quite
dawn; perhaps the man had not yet been relieved. When the guard
nodded, Qui-Gon sighed in relief. "Did you see my apprentice
leave here yesterday evening? He's young, but he would have
worn a brown cloak like mine."
"Oh, I know him, sir," the guard said. "Yeah, he left right
after I came on. You're in luck."
I don't believe in luck. "He's not," Qui-Gon said
sternly. "He didn't come back on time."
The guard rolled his eyes in sympathy for the absent Obi-Wan.
"You probably don't need to look too far for him, sir. He
turned right. Young kid like that, out for a night -- the bars
over towards Tir'lia."
"Towards Tir'lia it is. Thanks, my friend." Qui-Gon inclined
his head and set out at a brisk walk, a grim look on his face.
Let him have met his friends someplace big and public.
Someplace that many people have to have seen him.
The fifth bar he came to was the one. The girl who opened the
door to him was sweeping broken glass up just outside the
entrance to the kitchen when he knocked. Qui-Gon brushed her
mind, soothing, coaxing. "Where's your master?" he asked.
The girl pointed with the broom end. "Out back. Gwan out if you
like." Qui-Gon thanked her and ducked through the low door.
Everyone here is so short!
The man in the courtyard was as blue-skinned as his girl. He
recognized Qui-Gon's cloak immediately and bowed, looking up
nervously. "Don't be afraid," Qui-Gon said quietly. "It's not
about you or your establishment. I'm looking for someone -- a
boy, sixteen years old, with short brown hair and a braid like
so --" he indicated the Padawan braid with his hand "-- he
would have been wearing a cloak like mine. Did you see him last
night? I think he was meeting someone."
The bar's owner didn't have to even pause to think. He scowled.
"Oh yes. He was with Ste'che and those idiot Torendi. Stupid
children -- we just finished a lifetime of war! What do they
want to go provoking the Chcloss for? Your boy's friends
would've challenged the Chclisi right in the damn bar if I
hadn't stopped 'em." The Deolian paused reflectively. "Course,
that was after yours left. Took Ste'che and that human he's so
thick with these days with him."
Qui-Gon stopped him, seeing that he was about to continue his
rant against the young Deolians. That was interesting enough in
itself, and put A'le'ila's information into a more alarming
light, but he had to leave it until he found Obi-Wan. Ste'che,
he remembered, was the son of a leading Toreo businessman who'd
been a part of the initial peace delegation. He and Obi-Wan
were almost exactly the same age. Another human in the party,
though? "Who was the human?" he asked casually. "Do you know
where he comes from?"
The Deolian shook his head. "Quiet type, that one. Seemed to
know your boy from somewhere, kissed him real friendly. Little
shorter than you, sir, black hair, always wears the blue." He
indicated his own clothes, a sober brown. "Always watching Ste.
Seems nice enough. Oh -- of course. Scar on his cheek, like a
circle with a chunk taken out. Is he friends with your
boy?"
Obi-Wan curled around himself on the floor. He hadn't even been
able to reach the bed. The Force was not being kept from him by
Xanatos, but he couldn't reach it, nonetheless. He wanted to
whimper, but what if Xanatos heard? Not that it mattered.
Everything had been taken anyway, there was nothing new left to
find out.
He tried to concentrate on the itch and sting of the lightsaber
burns. Focus enough, and you can make that go away. Accept
the pain, welcome it, heal it -- come on, you know what to
do! But he couldn't use the Force. His mind was a messier
wound than the stripy burns on his body. He felt as if his
whole head should be bloody, little rags of flesh hanging off
where his barriers had been. He was laid open as surely as if
Xanatos had used a whip.
The Dark Jedi was still in his mind; he could feel traces of
the man clinging like damp cobwebs. Dirty, like the rest of
him. He couldn't bear to think of Qui-Gon. He'd tried several
times, but everything connected with his master -- his mind
even hissed at the very word -- was twice as rawly painful as
the rest of his mind.
Trapped, with the window open just a few feet away. If it
weren't happening to him he might have laughed at the comedy of
that. That window beckoned. But Xanatos controlled the window,
just as he controlled Obi-Wan. There was no escape from this
room except the one the Dark Jedi allowed.
Dimly he knew that beyond this room terrible things were
happening. If he could believe Xanatos, Ste'che was already
dead. He wished he could care. When the door darkened again,
after a length of time he could not measure, he couldn't even
bring himself to flinch away from his own coming pain. He knew
it was time to go.
Qui-Gon knew now what he was up against, and the knowledge that
Obi-Wan was in Xanatos' hands provided all the spur he needed
to drive him without ceasing until he found his former
apprentice -- and dealt with him once and for all. Grim-faced,
he hurried through the streets. Xanatos had a purpose; he knew
he had all the clues. They worried away at the ragged edges of
his fear for Obi-Wan and he could not collect them into one
place.
It was fully morning now. The Force hummed in him. It was
giving him so much strength that he knew not much time could
remain. Only a short distance from the house of Ste'che's
father, though. He hoped the elder Deolian would be able to
provide some insight into his son's recent friendship.
He never reached the house. Half a block away a young woman
dressed in a blue clear enough to match her skin slipped out of
an alleyway and set herself directly in his path. He stopped,
uncertain if he recognized her.
She bowed slightly. "I remember you from the final
negotiations," she said. "Qui-Gon Jinn, I am Ll'aus'ta Tador."
He inclined his head in turn. "Ll'aus'ta Tador, you have
changed a great deal, but I remember you as well." She had been
a shy child of eleven, he recalled, brought with her brother to
witness the signing of the treaty for which her father had
worked so hard. She had a stubborn set to her chin, now, and a
worried look in her eyes which resonated with his own --
admit it, Qui-Gon -- fears. "May I serve you?" he asked,
hoping desperately that what he sensed was right.
She gestured him to her side and took his arm. They fell into
step together, retracing Qui-Gon's earlier path. "Sir, my
brother has been missing since last night," she said. "He left
the place where we had gathered, left it with Obi-Wan and our
friend Manto, very early in the evening. I wasn't really
surprised when they didn't return immediately, since Obi-Wan
had said you called him, and Manto and Ste'che -- well." She
ducked her head slightly.
"Go on," Qui-Gon said gently, though again he had to
clench-release the anger which threatened the edges of his
consciousness. "I didn't call him, but I believe there may have
been some trickery involved."
Ll'aus'ta shot a sideways glance at him. "Or Obi-Wan may have
made that part up. He was a little disturbed by some things we
had been saying, and I think he wanted to talk to you."
"What things?" he prompted.
"We...were telling him about the faction-fighting that's been
happening again." Now she was definitely nervous. Qui-Gon
didn't have to try to sense it. "I think the boys may have
become mixed up in it." She stopped speaking, and licked her
lips. Qui-Gon would have used the Force on her in another
second, but suddenly she made up her mind. "Sir, the hliri that
my brother heads was challenged four days ago by a group of
Chcloss. The meeting is scheduled for this morning, a little
under two hours from now. When Ste'che did not return.... I
have...begun to fear...that he was ambushed with the other two,
in order to prevent him from fighting the Chclisi with us
today."
Qui-Gon stopped, drew her back to the shadow of the houses, out
of the way of other travellers. A pulse of anger beat steadily
in his neck and it took all of his willpower to release it
before he spoke to her. A Jedi Master again, he looked long and
deep into her eyes. She returned the gaze, obviously afraid of
him, but just as clearly telling the truth as he saw it.
"Why are hliri forming again in the city?" he demanded, showing
her with his eyes that nothing less than the truth would be
acceptable. He did not exert the Force to avoid deception, but
he would know if she tried to lie. She only shrugged
helplessly, though, and he sensed that the answer, so complex
and enormous as to defy rational explanation, would not be of
much help in any case. "More to the point, then -- when did you
meet this...Manto?" He could not help the slight twitch of
disgust that pulled one corner of his mouth, and he saw her
surprise.
"About four months ago, sir. He and Ste'che became very fast
friends. He helped to train the Torendi, he knew a lot about
fighting."
"Do you know where he lives?"
She frowned slightly. "No, I've never been. What does Manto
have to do with this? It's the Chclisi I'd be more interested
in finding."
"I wish I were too," Qui-Gon said softly. Things were beginning
to come clear to him. The Force swept through him, gave him
glimpses of a future playing out. Oh, Xanatos was clever. If
Qui- Gon had done one small thing differently -- stayed the
night with A'le'ila and come home too late, gone to a different
bar-district in search of his apprentice, come only a short
time before or after to the Tador household so that he met with
the father rather than the daughter.... He had no doubt
Obi-Wan's body would be very artfully arranged, probably along
with that of Ste'che's and a few suitable clues to point the
way towards some group of Chcloss. If that could not have
started the faction fighting again, nothing would. And Qui-Gon
knew, with some shame, that being given the body of his dead
apprentice would probably have inspired him to allow that
fighting to happen. He might even have sought out Obi-Wan's
supposed murderers and dealt with them himself. How Xanatos,
hidden in the shadows, would have laughed! Qui-Gon shivered.
His own destruction, as well as his apprentice's, would have
been assured.
There would be time to dwell on that later. Not for the first
time, Qui-Gon cursed the weakness which made him susceptible to
his former apprentice's manipulation. But he knew now,
he was certain of it, and better, he knew what he had to do.
"Ll'aus'ta," he said. "You'll have to show me where this fight
would have been."
"Master," Obi-Wan said, almost under his breath. Was that good
enough? He had his answer when the lightsaber caressed an
already-painful burn. "Master!" he yelped quickly, much louder.
That was enough. Misery clamped down on what was left of his
consciousness. The Force was a dream far beyond the reaches of
his universe, which right now consisted of himself, the tall
man next to him, and the body on the floor. But the lightsaber
removed itself and he almost gasped in the purity of his
relief. He could do this. It would only be a little while
longer.
"Pick him up," the man said.
He did not resist. No point. Save his strength, that was the
thing. He concentrated so hard on not falling when he bent that
it came as a surprise to find himself crumpling after all, took
him a moment to realize that a burning strike of the saber
against his shoulders had actually sent him toppling to the
floor. He landed hard. Sweat and dust stung his back.
"Apprentice mine, you know what to say when a command is
given."
"Yes, master," he said softly, no defiance in his tone, and he
was allowed to push himself up, to take the body of his friend
in a hold over one shoulder.
Xanatos smiled to himself. Yes, blunt tactics could be
fruitful. The boy was so drained by the experience of having
his mind half-raped away that it took very little to get him
making the right noises. Xanatos stored each one of them
carefully away. One day, long after today, he would come
directly to Qui-Gon. He would present these memories, show
Qui-Gon, not tell him, how the boy had felt, how he had been
broken, how he had died. It would be the final touch, although
in the time which stretched between now and then, he would use
what he had learned in the pillage of Obi-Wan's mind to make
Qui-Gon ready for the blow. Hundreds of ways to undermine the
Jedi Master's calm composure presented themselves, a crystal
path branching into a delta. Qui-Gon would turn himself to the
Dark Side through his own actions after his apprentice died in
the faction fighting of Deolos. Imagining it sent shards of
pleasure through Xanatos' brain. It might have been easier to
turn the new apprentice rather than the master, but this would
give Xanatos infinitely more satisfaction. It began here, now,
with a death. And a revenge.
I wish it weren't so noticeable when a six-foot-four Jedi
Master breaks into a dead run. Qui- Gon quickened his pace
regardless, squinting into the sun. He saw Ll'aus'ta, forced to
lengthen her strides as well, shoot him a resentful glance. She
did not know, because Qui-Gon had not explained it to her, why
they were moving so fast. The fight was not for hours yet.
By then it would be too late. Qui-Gon prayed as the Jedi did,
by releasing himself into the Force, that he might be in time.
Please, was the substance of the prayer, although it had
no words. Please let me change the course of this path.
Obi-Wan did as he was told and set Ste'che's body down against
the wall which ended the blind alleyway. He knew vaguely that
he was close to coming full circle, very near to the bar he had
left last night, back before the nightmare had truly begun.
Xanatos had cloaked their passage with the Force. Obi-Wan had
watched the eyes of everyone they passed slide over and through
their forms, as if they weren't even there. Obi-Wan wondered
how he was hiding his profligate use of the Force from Qui-Gon.
Mysterious, are the ways of the Dark Side.
The thought of Yoda rose unbidden from the morass of his mind,
somehow untainted with any stink of Xanatos. He clung to the
tiny spar which had been flung to him.
He winced at the sound of the Dark Jedi's voice. It told him to
drape himself across his friend's body. The artist did not take
much time with his creation, but he made sure maximum damage
from the saber-burns would be on display. Finally, he removed
something from the interior of one of his vast sleeves and set
it near the two boys, one living, one dead, though the object
was not quite close enough to touch. Obi-Wan saw what it was,
and his pulse quickened.
"Ah-ah," Xanatos warned, and Obi-Wan's attention returned to
him instantly. "No, my...apprentice, it's not for you." Obi-Wan
thought he might have said more, but the alleyway exploded and
he had no more time.
Qui-Gon did not stop to assess the situation more carefully. He
simply acted, used the Force to bring an entire wall crumbling
down, sealing off the little heap of bodies at the end of the
alley and compelling Xanatos to concentrate on him.
He shed his robe in the first seconds of the battle, as Xanatos
did. There was not much space. Qui-Gon deliberately crowded his
former apprentice against the fallen wall, meaning to exploit
his own close-up style and Xanatos' old difficulties with
footwork. The robe would have only been an encumbrance.
Xanatos sneered at the Jedi Master's formal costume, but had no
time for exchanging words. Fast and intricate the battle
between them. Cut left, block right, cut high, sang Qui-Gon's
mind. The Force filled him with living music. He bound Xanatos'
blade up and over, about to twist for a disarm and a kill.
When the wall crumbled between them the first thing Obi-Wan did
was to hold still. He thought he knew what had happened, but he
did not reach for the Force to be certain, although he had
enough training to accept his pain and release his fear.
Instead he waited and let his ears work for him. Within ten
seconds the hiss of two active lightsabers gave him his answer.
Qui-Gon had come at last.
The knowledge left him strangely cold. It still hurt to think
about the Jedi, but the parts of his mind concerned with the
older man had begun to do what felt like scarring over. But he
could not pause to worry that he did not feel. Someone needed
him.
He pushed himself to his hands and knees, shuddering when he
pulled away from the dead flesh across which he had rested.
There it was, within his vision. His lightsaber.
It took time to climb the wall, but he would not use the Force
to vault it. It was a heap of brick, easy to scramble over if
he had been whole; as it was, he painfully struggled upwards,
one-handed as he clung to his saber. He reached the top, and
then he jumped.
Qui-Gon stumbled backwards, stung that he had been fooled by
the trick. Perhaps he was not so calm as he had believed. The
bind had been turned back on him through the simplest of
disengagements and he had to duck out of the way quickly to get
out of the way of the Dark Jedi's lightsaber.
"Sorry," Xanatos said. "Time to use the back door, Qui-Gon."
Breathing harder than his former master, he gathered himself
for the jump that would take him to the top of the new 'wall'
and away. Qui-Gon guessed he had a speeder hidden on the other
side. Time slowed and broke around him like a crashing wave as
he started forward, began his own jump, knew that he would be
too late.
And then Obi-Wan was there. Not in tune with the Force, but
physically present, lightsaber in hand, emerging from the
escape route Xanatos had planned, taking the Dark Jedi totally
off-guard and knocking his lightsaber out of his hand.
Xanatos looked stunned. He glanced from his still-clenched hand
to his former captive, who now held a saber to his throat with
a steadiness which belied the purple bruises and angry burns
which covered his exposed skin and made Qui-Gon's shoulders
ache in sympathy.
Seeing that the boy was not about to immediately end the
standoff he had created, the Dark Jedi decided to ignore him,
turning towards the one with power. Qui-Gon approached him
slowly, warily. Before he could raise his own saber Xanatos
spoke.
His words came to Obi-Wan through the noise of a distant sea
beating in his ears. It was like the sound the Force made, he
thought dreamily, as he heard his former captor tell Qui-Gon
that it was impossible for him to kill an unarmed man.
"You failed at it once," Xanatos said, holding Qui-Gon's eyes.
"You will again. You can't bring yourself to commit a murder."
Obi-Wan sensed another conversation, this one based in ancient
memories.
Qui-Gon shook his head wearily. "No, Xanatos, you don't
understand. This isn't a murder." He took the final step
forward and brought his saber down. "It's an execution."
Two days later, with forty-eight hours of anxiety over Obi-Wan
sinking into the past and many more looming in the future,
Qui-Gon sat at tea with Ste'che's parents. As he had done with
a dozen officials in the interim, including a sorrowing
A'le'ila, he discussed methods of defusing the confused but
tense situation which now existed between the young men and
women of the two factions. It seemed that Xanatos had been
stirring them up, but if they were willing to be stirred,
Qui-Gon knew, relations between them must have had elements of
strain already. It was his next job, as architect of peace, to
shore up the stress points. The hliri had to be disbanded,
counseled, given something more constructive to do with their
time: in short, the entire peace process would have to be gone
through again, this time with the youth with whom Qui-Gon felt
he should have begun in the first place.
This particular set of officials, though, demanded something
more than strategy. He wanted and needed to give them what
comfort he could, enhancing his few words with the Force.
The thought of Ste'che led him, inevitably, to Obi-Wan again.
How nearly he had escaped the fate of the Deolian's friend!
More than friend, he admitted. Obi-Wan was growing up.
Qui-Gon wondered if he would get much further, though. He
won't if he doesn't overcome this fear of the Force. I've got
to help him get through the mental block. He wasn't certain
that last night's actions had been for the best.
The evening's workout had been an unmitigated disaster. Obi-Wan
would not grasp the Force. His body was healed, Qui-Gon had
seen to that, but he would not take the most tentative step
towards healing his mind. Still, driven by a belief that a
return to routine would serve them best in beginning to recover
from the time -- less than twenty-four hours! Qui-Gon marveled
-- that seemed to have broken down three years of training and
friendship, Qui-Gon had insisted they at least run through the
first level of exercises.
Qui-Gon knew that Obi-Wan was pushing himself to his physical
limit, but without the Force he seemed to have lost the spark
which had formerly made him so entrancing. "Obi-Wan!" he had
called, abruptly halting his own stretch in the middle of a
sequence.
His apprentice had stopped immediately, stood straight and
shaken his braid over his shoulder. "Sir?" he said, breathing
harder than he should.
That was another thing. Obi-Wan would not call him "Master." He
had not described, or allowed Qui-Gon to see, most of what
Xanatos had done, confining himself to a quick description of
being swaddled by the Force during the actual kidnapping and
letting his saber burns speak for the rest of it. But it was
abundantly clear that more had happened. Qui-Gon simply knew
that the best way to inflict more damage was to push for the
information he needed in order to heal his apprentice.
It was so frustrating that he could have screamed.
He walked out onto the salle floor. He did not touch his
apprentice, instead gesturing towards the mat they had
unrolled. Both men sat, Qui-Gon folding himself neatly, Obi-Wan
almost collapsing. The Jedi exercises were punishing to a body
that did not use the Force.
Qui-Gon had hesitated one more time. He hadn't wanted to do
this. It would show too many of his own imperfections to the
boy. Nevertheless -- it had seemed to be the only way.
So he had opened his own memories of the last two days, laid
them out in careful order. He communicated with his eyes,
telling Obi-Wan he would have to use their bond, use the Force,
in order to understand what he was doing. He waited long
seconds which stretched out like hours, holding his breath.
Then he felt the boy's tentative first try, felt him gather his
fear to him and then release it, as he had been taught. A
minuscule grain of hope began to burn inside the Jedi Master.
He had not reached out, instead staying in the back of his own
mind while he watched Obi-Wan look at what was being given to
him. He had softened the time with A'le'ila (some things the
boy did not need to know) but made no effort to hide the
general outline of their actions. In all their dubious glory,
the apprentice could see Qui-Gon's fear, his anger at Xanatos,
his missteps, his wasted time, and finally the calm, the end of
passion which had led to the killing.
When he was finished Obi-Wan had not spoken. He had closed off
the link, but Qui-Gon felt him still holding tenuously to the
Force, as if afraid to commit to it more fully. He had left the
room then, and Qui-Gon had seen no more of him. Although the
night had passed without Obi-Wan's presence in the room, he
knew the boy was safe; he checked every few minutes to ensure
the bond still existed, Obi-Wan still held the Force.
Reviewing the memories, he felt a change in his mind. Like
sunshine seeping through a shutter, Obi-Wan permeated him. The
bond flared.
A picture appeared, a certain room of a certain house. No words
accompanied it, but Qui-Gon made his excuses as soon as he
decently could. He had been summoned.
Qui-Gon checked in the doorway before he could truly disturb
his apprentice. Obi-Wan stood in the center of the room, eyes
wide open yet unfocused. Qui-Gon watched as a bowl lifted
itself from the heavy desk, held its position in mid-air for a
short time, and then returned to the desktop so gently that it
barely disturbed the dust motes dancing in the sunlight that
fell in a diffuse pattern across the room. No sooner had the
bowl reached a safe landing than the desk's chair scraped out a
few inches and levitated in its turn.
One after another each object in the room, from the heavy
armoire in the corner down to the light blanket crumpled on the
floor by the couch, took its own trip to midair. The
performance lasted well over two hours, but although the boy
had to stop several times for a brief rest, he never lost the
unfocused stare which meant he was completely concentrated on
the task at hand, at one with the Force. Qui-Gon stood quietly
through all that time, keeping half an eye on the stairs and
monitoring his apprentice. If the fine edge of control Obi-Wan
maintained had shown signs of deadly stress he would have
stepped in in an instant, as ready to cushion a fall as Obi-Wan
was to let down the objects he lifted. But the young Jedi's
diamond concentration never wavered.
When the last item -- a slim fountain pen from the depths of a
desk drawer -- had been returned to its rightful place, Obi-Wan
drew a deep breath, expelled it slowly, and seemed to deflate.
He blinked, slowly, and turned to face the doorway. His pupils
were slightly dilated and he had the dreamy look of one just
come from deep trance, but that would pass. He did not say a
word or make a gesture, but Qui-Gon felt that now, in truth,
the time was right.
He let the Force guide him. This was too difficult for his own
human judgement to handle without aid. Now was the
moment, he knew, and so he emerged from his half-hidden post on
the landing and enfolded his apprentice in his arms. The boy
stiffened for half a second, then collapsed so quickly that
Qui-Gon might have imagined the sudden awkwardness. There were
no tears; none were expected. Qui-Gon could not remember his
apprentice crying. But Obi-Wan's face pressed into his
shoulder, Obi-Wan's body was fluid against his own.
He formed a name in his thoughts and let it hang, a faceted
jewel. Obi-Wan. He did not push, did not even "knock."
He simply held the name like a thing of great worth, and
waited.
When it came it was not what he had expected, something
excruciatingly slow. Instead he was no longer himself. He was
of a piece with Obi-Wan's mind. He did not wince away from the
still- raw patches. They were important. He shared, with sorrow
and without passion, what Xanatos, his own creation, had done
in order to take revenge. Fear leads to anger; anger leads
to hate; hate leads to suffering. The Dark Side showed
clearly in Qui-Gon's former apprentice. The Master let him go,
as he spun to his thread to completion in the story. Obi-Wan's
thread, the important one, continued, as it always would. There
were no dead ends for him.
Qui-gon released the meld. For a very short time they stood
together at the center of the room. Obi-Wan was the one to
break the embrace, slipping out of his master's arms. Each
stood straight, perfect mirrors of each other: hands tucked
into the sleeves of their robes, heads held high, backs like
iron rods. They stared at each other without knowing that they
did so; and they did not speak, not even in their minds.
Without warning a tiny smile appeared on Obi-Wan's face, and
Qui-Gon saw him make a decision. Not stumbling at all, he
walked slowly towards the window, pausing for only a fraction
of a second a few feet in front of it, putting his hand
slightly in front of him. Where the shock came,
Qui-Gon's new memories supplied.
Obi-Wan pushed the frame open the rest of the way and leaned
out, looking down. Presumably satisfied with what he saw, he
sat on the frame and swung both legs out, twisting his body to
get a good purchase on whatever he apparently planned to climb
down.
I can get out this way, now. A way he wouldn't allow me,
didn't expect me to take. My own back door. The thought was
Obi-Wan's, echoing clearly along the bond-link in explanation.
His upper body re-appeared in the window. Their eyes made
contact. Qui-Gon felt the bond pulse between them. "Are you
coming?" his apprentice said. "Master." The dying sunlight
limned his silhouette. He reached out a hand.
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