SUMMARY: In a bleak future, Obi-Wan tries to search his soul,
but finds more truth in listening to his body.FEEDBACK: is
always welcome
Author's notes: Thanks to Yahtzee for support and constructive
criticism, elynross for commas and good advice, Nonie for
encouragement, Anne for intelligent feedback and C for words
and for being her sweet sarcastic self. :-) All errors are
mine, mine, mine.
*
Whispers, remains
*
"You're not going outside again?"
Obi-Wan turned, one hand on the tent flap, to look back at
Daris, who was kneeling in a tangle of blankets and covers,
trying to turn them into a makeshift bed. "I need some fresh
air."
"Don't be too long," Daris looked as though he regretted the
words as soon as they were out.
Obi-Wan looked down, tucking his hair back behind one ear, as
though he were thinking about it, and then looked back up
again, ashamed at the pretence. "Don't wait up for me," he said
softly and ducked out before he could see any answer to that in
Daris' worried honey-colored eyes.
He tugged his hood up and wandered off towards the center of
the camp, safely anonymous wearing robes and shadows, taking
care not to stumble on any tent lines, and not to think about
what he was walking away from.
Sometimes he thought of his heart as a hibernating animal,
sleeping dreamlessly deep in the cave of his chest. It had been
a long winter, and there were no signs of spring.
Frosted grass crackled under his boots. It was a cold night,
cold and dark. There were so few stars here, only distant
glimmers in the sky, and down in this hidden valley on a
desolate planet at the edge of the galaxy, the last fire was
going out. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and sat down on
a log, staring at what was left, watching the glow of red and
orange turn to grey and fade into ashes. Around him the camp
was settling in for the night, growing quiet. There would be
peace, he could stay out here all night and meditate.
The coward's way out, he told himself softly, watching his
breath cloud and then fade away. Don't think, meditate. Don't
think about where you are and what you'll be doing come
morning. Don't think about who you are--
Even if he had known who he was. He had been so many things.
Identities collected like shells on a beach, treated roughly,
broken one by one. Student, teacher, object lesson. Padawan,
knight, master, failure. Diplomat, peacekeeper, general,
refugee. Now he was a lonely man sitting in the dark, wearing
the robes of the order that had raised him and trained him over
the uniform of an army he had led to defeat, sifting through
the fragments of his past in the hope that they still held
something of value. The night was eerily silent. He could hear
his own heart beat. If he found something, would he even
recognize it any more?
He had been so many things, too many things, but not a lover,
never that, no matter what his body had done over the years.
Thinking of Daris waiting in the tent, he felt sadness and a
kind of tired shame. Daris was trying so hard to love him. It
wasn't Daris' fault that love was nearly impossible to see in
the darkness that had fallen over the universe. It wasn't
Daris' fault that love had died the silent death of things
unacknowledged and unspoken, many years ago, in a lightsaber
battle on Naboo.
There was a rustle, the clack of a stick on hard ground, and
then he had company on his log. They shared the silence and the
stars. The force hummed faintly between them, the gentle
resonance of friendship and respect dimmed by fatigue.
"Lose, we will." Yoda's voice was only an echo of itself,
distant, fading. "Forgotten, we will be, Obi-Wan."
He sighed. "Is that all that's left? Is that the future you
see?" It was as though he could see his words written in the
fine white mist of breath, for just a moment. "Then we may as
well not attack tomorrow. Dead, we will be, Master Yoda.
As dead as--" Breaking off, he stared at the invisible treeline
beyond the camp.
A short dry rattle that might have been a laugh or a cough.
"Miss him you do, hmm?" Trust Yoda to hear every unspoken word
in the conversation. "So do I."
Obi-Wan pushed his hood back and turned a little sideways,
studying Yoda, taking in the slumped posture and the drooping
ears. He wanted to say many things--that Qui-Gon had been
wrong, that this was all Qui-Gon's fault, that he wished he had
died instead, on that day, rather than having to live to see
the end of an era and the ruin of every hope. Instead he found
himself saying, unexpectedly, "I'm glad he didn't have to go
through this."
"There is no death," Yoda reminded him with the barest flick of
an ear-tip.
"Only the force," Obi-Wan said with a sigh. "Do you think he's
ghosting around out there somewhere, then," he waved a hand at
the faint few stars, "watching us?"
It wasn't a new thought, but he had never been able to make
himself believe it. Touching the force, he had never felt any
uncanny closeness, any echo of his master's once so familiar
presence. Nothing. From the moment of Qui-Gon's death, there
had been absolute silence in a part of Obi-Wan's mind, in a
part of his soul.
"No," Yoda said, an unexpectedly short and simple answer.
Obi-Wan nodded. "Good," he said, and it came out more harshly
than he'd thought. "I'd hate to think I could be facing an
angry spirit ready to tell me off for all I did wrong in
training the chosen one."
"Think you that things would have been different if Qui-Gon had
lived?" Yoda thumped his stick against the log, half-heartedly.
"There was darkness in the boy. Sensed it from the beginning, I
did."
It was an old argument, and Obi-Wan was used to finding himself
on either side of it depending on where it got started,
defending Qui-Gon's beliefs, defending his own fears, or just
thinking helplessly about predestination, about free will,
about the force.
"Always in motion, the future is," he said, with an edge to it,
and Yoda looked at him and pursed his mouth in disagreeing
agreement. Such an old argument, they could distill down to a
few sentences what might once have taken up the best part of an
hour; could argue each other's side with ease.
Now Yoda opened one small hand as if releasing something into
the cold night air, letting this particular discussion go. This
was the wrong night for it. This might be the last night for
both of them. "Live in the present we must," Yoda said.
"Qui-Gon would tell us so." He rapped Obi-Wan's knee with his
cane. "What is in your present, hmmm?"
Darkness, Obi-Wan thought, watching the sky, feeling the night
lie heavy over him. The moment, the present, seemed nothing but
a needle-sharp balancing point between the regrets of the past
and the dangers of the future. The things he had never done,
the things he would have to do. On the verge of being swept
away by worries, by might-have-beens, he breathed deeply and
tried again.
And saw, when his inner vision cleared, a pale silver-furred
face, troubled honey-yellow eyes.
"Bruises," he said, and rubbed at his knee. "I thought I would
stay up and meditate tonight..."
Yoda shook his head. "Need rest, you do."
"It feels wrong to sleep when--"
"Rest," another bruise was added to his collection. "Give
orders you can, but follow them, you cannot! Go to your tent."
"Yes, master," he murmured, and touched Yoda's shoulder lightly
before getting to his feet. The fire had gone out; the chill of
the night tasted sharp on his tongue. Obi-Wan sent a tendril of
force to cocoon the old master against the cold, and walked off
along the row of tents. He hoped everyone was wrapped up warmly
tonight, in thermal blankets, in the force, in each others'
arms.
In the distance the forest whispered, the creak and shush of
wind playing through bare branches. Obi-Wan reached his tent
and stood outside it for a moment, aware of the entire
encampment spread out around him, every living soul singing a
quiet force song. Alive for now, alive until the next day, when
they would be led into battle yet again. He'd never thought of
himself as a leader. Somehow, he'd just found himself in that
position, stepping in to do something that needed to be done.
And tomorrow he would do it again. But tonight--
He ducked his head and went inside. The tent was dimly lit by
an orange glowcone set on top of a box of supplies. Daris was
curled up in the nest of bedclothes, strands of white hair
spilling out over a khaki blanket. Obi-Wan tied the tent flap
securely shut to keep the wind out and shrugged out of his
robe. The air was warmer here than outside, at least: the
glowcone gave a little heat as well as light. Unhooking his
lightsaber, he laid it down next to Daris'. He folded the robe
and put it over a rickety camp chair, and turned his head to
find Daris awake and watching him.
Obi-Wan went on undressing, pulling off his uniform tunic,
unbuckling his boots. He was folding his trousers when Daris
said, quietly, "I thought you weren't coming back."
Naked now, skin pebbled with cold-shivers, Obi-Wan turned to
kneel by the makeshift bed and tug at an edge of the covers.
They parted for him, and he slipped inside, into the warmth,
into Daris' arms. Obi-Wan rubbed his cheek against velvet-soft
fur and sighed. "I'm sorry." With his head resting on Daris'
shoulder, he could feel the underlying tension. "I've been a
little preoccupied lately."
"Yes," Daris agreed, even as he began to stroke Obi-Wan's hair,
carding through it with long fingers. "Sometimes I don't know
if you're really there, no matter how close you are."
Obi-Wan, knowing exactly what Daris meant, closed his eyes in
guilt, and then opened them again. This time was too short to
waste on silent self-recriminations. He had a moment, and he
was going to live in it. Twisting his neck, he kissed Daris'
pointed chin, the corner of his mouth, and then Daris turned
his head and their mouths met, gently at first. Obi-Wan ran his
hand down Daris' side, careful not to disarrange the blankets.
He loved the sensation of short fur brushing his palm.
Sliding his hand over the narrow hip, he stroked his fingertips
over the short tail, the dimple above it. Daris growled into
his mouth. They writhed against each other, small, controlled
movements, kissing and kissing. "I'm here," Obi-Wan whispered.
Here and warm and excited, as Daris rubbed at his nipples. "I'm
here."
It had been a long time, he realized, a long time since he had
allowed himself to simply exist in the luxury of touch, and a
long time since the two of them had touched like this. Daris
was beautiful under his hands, all sleek fur and wiry muscles,
and openly, generously eager. Obi-Wan sank into the heat of
that eagerness and felt his own desire unfold to match it. Slow
thrusts, hardness against hardness; no room for acrobatics in
this makeshift bed. Obi-Wan buried his face in Daris' shoulder
and breathed in deeply, musk and excitement. When they shifted
and warm air rose from under the blankets he could smell
himself, too, a sharper and more acrid scent, somehow more
insistent.
Daris slipped lower, licking at Obi-Wan's chest. The raspy
touch made him shiver, and at the same time he began to relax,
willing himself to be there for Daris, present and
touchable. It did feel good, the warm wet tongue, and the hands
stroking his thighs, and the subtle caress that ran down his
spine. He felt wrapped up in an almost tangible sense of
caring, a pleasant mix of lust and affection. It was holding
him, sheltering him more warmly than the blankets did.
Suspended in the moment, in the sensation of Daris stroking him
and teasing him into desire, he felt almost safe. A feeling
that had been familiar once, then forgotten. Lips moving lower
over his abdomen, hands stroking, careful rasp of claws up the
inside of his leg, fingers tickling the small of his back--
Obi-Wan gasped. Safe and sheltered. That touch. It was
as thinly fleeting as the starlight outside, yet it was
unmistakable. He clenched his eyes shut, slammed his mind shut,
felt every muscle tense up. It wasn't possible. It was the last
thing he had expected. He felt Daris grow still, felt a hand on
his stomach, rubbing in a small comforting circle. "What's
wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry." The connection had broken like a
frost-stiffened stalk of grass. Obi-Wan felt shaken down to his
bones.
Rustle of bedclothes and Daris moved up to lie along him,
wrapping around him, holding him close. "You don't want to do
this."
Slowly, Obi-Wan opened his eyes. He saw nothing but the dimly
lit tent, Daris' eyes, full of equal amounts understanding and
hurt. He lifted a hand to stroke Daris' silky hair. "I do. I
just--" There was no way he could explain it. How could he
explain the presence of a dead man? "I'm sorry," he repeated,
and kissed Daris again, willing himself to feel nothing but the
sweetness of that kiss and the desire it woke in him.
He did want to do this, felt himself responding swiftly to the
kiss, his body picking up where it had left off, ready to be
pleased. And the pleasure, once again, acted like a drug on his
overstrained nerves. He was shivery, needy,
uncharacteristically passive. Clinging to Daris until his hands
were peeled away, until he was held down as Daris stroked and
scratched him, one hand teasing his nipples, the other stroking
the back of his knees. Raspy tongue at the top of his thigh,
moving in closer to where he wanted it. He wanted to move, to
reciprocate.
And then he felt it again, that touch, the brush of
something that wasn't there. Obi-Wan cursed under his
breath.
Invisible kisses on the back of his neck. A single finger
dancing down his spine. He shook his head in denial, then
gasped as Daris began to lick at his erection with the lightest
and most delicate of strokes. No. No, not real. Not the
hands, those other hands, stroking him, and not the
teeth grazing the back of his thigh. Not the tongue working its
way up, not the fingers spreading him wider, and at the same
time Daris sucked him in, raspy heat and wetness, and he
whimpered. Shook his head again, because he had to move,
because this felt too good and it couldn't be happening.
There was no tongue licking and stabbing at him, no thick
finger pressing inside, opening him up, making his hips jerk
forward so that he was pushed deeply into Daris' hot mouth.
There was nothing; after so many years, he wasn't feeling that
familiar presence again, and certainly not like this.
Green forcefire ran along his every nerve as the finger that
wasn't there was joined by a second one. Obi-Wan clenched a
hand into Daris' hair and felt a purr roll along the length of
his cock. Not happening. If the force were truly moving in
these currents, surely Daris would feel it too, would protest.
It felt so good. The deep suction, and that stroking inside. He
rocked back and forth between the sensations, until something
changed. There was a different pressure and he was stretched,
impaled, oh--
Not happening, his mind whispered, dazed. So many years of
silence, of pain, when a single touch would have made all the
difference, and now he got this, not happening, the
warmth all along his back like that of a lover pressed close,
not there. Obi-Wan cried out and pushed back, taking more of
the thick hardness that wasn't pressing into him, was shoved
forward by a deep thrust, fell into a compelling rhythm. He
grasped Daris' head and felt an answering grip on his hip;
Daris growled, moaned in pleasure as Obi-Wan fucked his mouth.
Throwing his head back, he could almost feel it resting on a
broad shoulder. Could almost feel silky hair, longer than his
own, falling forward over his throat. Obi-Wan made a desperate
sound, half pain, and closed his eyes, giving himself over to
what was happening, opening up to it. Daris, a smooth silvery
glow, and a big shaft thrusting in over and over to claim him;
the sweet heat of Daris' mouth sucking him in, and the strength
and comfort of a mental touch he'd thought was lost to him
forever.
"Yes," accepting it all, "yes, yes..."
He gave up control and let them take him, moaned as he was
rocked between sensations. Filled, completely filled by force
and pleasure. Fucked and sucked and loving every moment of it.
His fingers would not give up their death grip on Daris' hair,
but he angled his hand to rub his thumb around the rim of a
sensitive ear, got a scrape of teeth like wicked lightning in
return. When he tightened his muscles around the cock that was,
wasn't, was sliding into him, there was a flare of
response, and a deeper, harder thrust.
Tension built between them. Obi-Wan could feel it twining
around him, silver and green, stroking him everywhere, inside
and out. He was shuddering, his breath coming in short helpless
gasps. Someone tugged at his nipples, someone stroked his
balls, someone moaned, cried out. They wound around him, he
wound around them, all tangled up and shaking with the
pressure.
Yes, yes, his mind still babbled, yes, more,
please, because there could not be enough of this, even as
his nervous system overloaded and he was swept up on a wave of
sensation so intense that everything went white. He clung to
them, and then he was coming, and they were coming too, dragged
along with him into the wildness of release, an explosion like
nothing else he'd ever felt, orgasm of the soul as well as the
body.
Yes--yes--oh, Qui-Gon--
Coming down was like dying. Obi-Wan sobbed quietly. He knew it
was wrong, and had almost managed to stop it by the time Daris
recovered and crawled up to hold him. Soft kiss on his cheek, a
husky whisper, "That was good." He could smell his own seed on
Daris' breath.
"Yes." His voice wasn't as shaky as he'd thought it would be.
"Daris, did you feel--in the force--"
Daris drew back to look at him. "Did I feel what in the
force?" There was a glimmer of humor in the slanted eyes. "I
felt you. You went off like a star going nova."
"No." Daris' eyes went sharp, and then a little distant;
Obi-Wan could feel the stirrings as Daris traced the force
currents. "Nothing. Do you think someone was eavesdropping?"
More seriously, "You don't think we've been discovered?"
Obi-Wan shook his head and pulled Daris close, and they curled
up together in their warm nest of blankets, shifting arms and
legs, not getting quite comfortable. The glowcone seemed to
burn more dimly now, and the tent was full of shadows. Outside
the blankets, the temperature had dropped even more. Wind sang
through the tent lines, strumming them like the strings of a
discordant harp. After a while, Daris fell asleep. Obi-Wan lay
still, looking up at the slanting roof of the tent, his mind a
careful blank.
Daris didn't snore, but his sleeping breaths were loud and
regular. Obi-Wan counted them for a while. He ran a finger
along the edge of a blanket, feeling each coarse thread beneath
his fingertip. He rested his cheek against the top of Daris'
head and listened to the night.
Towards dawn, the wind died down again.
Obi-Wan moved slowly out of Daris' arms and got up, channeling
a little force for warmth as he got dressed. He clipped the
saber to his belt, pulled up the hood of his robe and slipped
out of the tent. It was still dark outside and he went towards
the treeline, stopping to relieve himself once he'd entered the
woods.
In there, under the bare black branches, he couldn't even see
any stars. Everything was silent and unfathomable and he had a
sudden flash of something close to vertigo, feeling the planet
beneath his feet swirl through space, a tiny drop of blue-green
life against the vast blackness of the universe. So small. And
he himself smaller still, utterly insignificant in the grand
scheme of things.
Ready to lead the last of the Jedi towards whatever awaited
them.
Perhaps his mind had made up a dream for him, something he'd
wanted, something he'd needed. Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a
long moment and opened them again. His heart might have played
tricks on him, but his body was convinced it had been real. He
felt numb inside, unable to choose between possibilities,
unwilling to know the truth. He didn't know who he was, but in
that moment, he knew that whatever the real answer was, he was
a liar, deceiving himself, deceiving another. One more identity
to add to the list. He wished he could strip himself down, find
the self closest to the bone.
But there was no time for that now. Come morning, he'd do what
he had to do. And if the force ever touched him again with
invisible hands... he'd take what he could get. It had been a
long winter.
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