Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, The Almighty Lucas does. Sue who?
Sue me? Ha, ha!
Spoilers: None (pre-TPM/AU)
Archive: M/A and SWAL fine, everyone else, please ask so I can
visit. :-)
Summary: Stranded on a desert world, Obi-Wan discovers a part
of himself that he didn't know existed.
Feedback/LOC's: All of them are appreciated and adored.
DBKate2@aol.com
On T'riiark they call sandstorms "g'nar piet" or "flesheaters."
It's a literal minded word, for the sandstorms on T'riiark can
indeed tear the flesh from your bones, leaving nothing behind
but a dry white skeleton buried beneath a sea of crystal grain.
The season for them comes once a year, when the dry air departs
from the northern mountains with a vengeance, gusting in swirls
up to two hundred knots, whipping the normally sanguine desert
into a devouring creature ... savage and deadly.
It's during this season that the T'riiark nomads take residence
inside a steel encased communal shelter. They turn it into a
festival of sorts; a celebration of family and togetherness,
while outside a tempest rages. There is music and dancing,
ancient stories acted out -- most of them revolving around
tales of glories past. Wars won, enemies overthrown ... even a
love story or two thrown in for good measure.
It was only by good fortune that the Shar'ht caught up with
myself and Qui-Gon before the storms hit and decided we were
interesting enough to invite inside for the two weeks it would
take for the storms to pass. Even offered to repair our
battered ship afterwards, so we accepted his invitation ...
myself with trepidation; Qui-Gon with his usual mixture of
grace and wise gratitude.
Soon, I found myself caught within a dizzying whirl of
unfamiliar activity. Bustling women, playing children, boasting
men ... all locked together in an area roughly the size of a
ship's hanger. It made me uneasy for I'd always preferred to be
on the move, alone with Qui-Gon, and my natural reticence was
being sorely tested.
Qui-Gon, on the other hand, appeared perfectly within his
element. He mixed in easily with the nomads, learning their
customs quickly and making friends with almost everyone he
spoke to. The children overcame their initial shyness and began
to follow him wherever he went, calling him "Kwi-Jonn," a play
on his name that meant "Generous One" or "Wise Man." Generosity
and wisdom meant the same thing to the nomads of T'riiark, and
it was no wonder. A life in the desert meant that you depend on
the generosity of others and it was certainly wise to make a
practice out of giving so as to receive in turn.
I didn't fare as well as Qui-Gon in the nickname department and
was dubbed "Ob'tr-awn" or "One Who Dwells Alone." I was neither
followed, nor spoken to much and Qui-Gon gently encouraged me
to reach out, to socialize and make friends during my stay.
Of course, being the stubborn creature I was, I tacitly
refused. Instead, I watched and waited, and withdrew even more
when I saw the young men attach themselves to Qui-Gon with an
easy familiarity that alarmed me. The T'riiark youths were an
affectionate sort and often I'd see them sitting with Qui-Gon,
their arms slung playfully over his shoulders or their hands
resting on his arm as they laughed and hung onto every word he
spoke. They often kissed his cheek, embracing him impulsively
and soon I was feeling the stirring of something hereto with
unknown to me . . . something painful and strange.
Something dark ... and ugly.
There was one youth in particular whom I began to watch. And
dislike.
He had light hair, cut very short in the style of youth. His
eyes were the typical violet color of most desert dwellers and
his face was browned with the sun. He was quite handsome, on
the threshold of manhood, not more than a year or so younger
than myself. Bore himself with confidence and pride, and from
what I could see was quite popular throughout the commune,
adept at making everyone around him laugh and smile.
Even Qui-Gon. My Master, lover and only friend.
Like the other youths he hovered near Qui-Gon, but held himself
aloof as well, treating my Master more as an equal instead of a
superior. He joked lightly with my Master, smiled easily while
telling him stories of the T'riiark, occasionally leaning
against his knee, spinning his tales as Qui-Gon smiled.
I watched this daily, my resentment growing by the moment.
Retreated further into the shadow corners of the commune,
feeling bitterness loom and fought madly not to let it show ...
not to let Qui-Gon sense it. But it was there, gnawing and
eating at some dark place inside of me, whispering words that
I'd be terrified to hear myself say aloud, but made perfect
sense murmured behind a wall of silence.
Whispers about the boy, the interloper ... the threat. Whispers
of my Master ... how he was cruel, fickle and a traitor to the
one who truly cared for him. His wretched and faithful lover,
his sworn Padawan and friend, once adored, now abandoned in the
corner of some miserable hovel.
The whispers grew into howls the day I spied the boy lean up
and kiss Qui-Gon, not on the cheek, but on the lips. Lips that
were supposed to be mine and mine alone. It was a soft kiss,
ending swiftly enough, but not in time to save the last tenuous
hold on what remained of my composure.
The voices began to rant. It was all so unfair and wrong,
hatefully wrong, and I shouldn't have to stand being treated
so. Soon, self-pity was fighting with anger ... and losing. A
fierce rage began to color my vision red and I could feel my
control slipping, even at night when Qui-Gon came to rest
beside me in the communal sleeping area, asking me softly if I
were well, practically begging me to come out and enjoy our
surroundings, and not spend so much time meditating alone.
I declined, telling him it would be wiser to spend my time that
way, as it was obvious I wasn't much good at anything else.
Ignored the worried look that flickered across his features and
rolled over to sleep, but instead, I let the voices keep me
awake and allowed them to whisper their bile to me the entire
night through.
The next morning I could hear the worst of the storm passing
directly overhead.
Battering the steel walls of the commune, its ghostly howl
echoed the anger that was edging its way toward my soul.
Retreating into my lonely corner to meditate, I shut my eyes
and was immediately assaulted by a vision.
//A vision of myself walking in the desert, abandoned and
alone, my gnarled hands covered in blood.
The boy's blood.
I thought I was happy, finally content, but I was terribly,
terribly thirsty. I needed water, water to wash my hands and
then to drink. Everything would be all right, as long as I
could find a few drops of water, somehow ... somewhere. But
there was no water to be found and I was soon dying of thirst.
I had to have something to drink, or I'd go mad. Peered
at my fingers, still dripping with the boy's blood.
Brought the crimson soaked fingers to my lips and . . .//
I jerked out of my trance, my gut roiling in horror. Rose on
unsteady legs, and stumbling toward the back rooms, I lost
whatever food I'd eaten over the past few hours. Found myself
sitting on the cool steel floors ... trembling with terror.
Realized just how far I'd almost gone ... and how close I'd
actually come.
Darkness. I'd touched Darkness.
Misery, horror ... dread, they each fought for their rightful
place in my heart. Shaking, I got up and heard Qui-Gon's voice
calling for me . . . desperately. Reaching through our link and
demanding I reveal where I was. Ordering me to his side, -now-.
He knew. He'd felt it as well. Felt my brush against the Dark
Side and was now coming to confront me with my shame. Perhaps
even to disown me ... to cut me from my apprenticeship, excise
me from his side, his life ... his heart. He called out again,
crying out my name and I fairly ran for my life, mindless with
fear. I'd let him down in the worst possible way and there was
no way I could possibly face him. No way I could face myself.
Ever again.
The storm doors beckoned in the distance and I pushed my way
past the nomads who stood there, gaping at me with surprise,
their breakfast bowls still in their hands. Qui-Gon's voice
boomed out behind me and I kept running, blind with grief . . .
terrified. Crumpled against the thick steel that stood between
myself and the tempest raging outside and drew on enough Force
to wrench it open.
The sandstorm drowned out the shrieks of the people behind me
and I hurled myself past the doors. Ran blindly into storm,
letting the sands devour the evil I'd almost become.
Letting the wind tear the flesh away from my treacherous bones.
It was some hours, perhaps days, later when I felt the cool
touch of water drip down my cheeks.
It afforded me little comfort as the skin on my face was raw,
practically singing with pain, as if burnt. My lips were
parched ... swollen and cracked, and I could taste a faint
residue of grit still clinging to my gums.
Tried to touch my face, but my hands felt as if they were
encased in mittens. I realized they were bandaged, wrapped from
wrist to fingertips ... useless. A sudden flash of fear seared
through me, but I quelled it with a cleansing breath. Murmured
hoarsely as a soft cloth touched my forehead and vanished
again.
Opened my eyes and wondered why the room was so incredibly
dark.
"Obi-Wan."
My Master's voice. My heart leapt and then plunged to my
stomach.
"Don't be afraid. I am here and you are safe."
I fought the urge to get up and run. Felt another gentle brush
of the cloth and began to tremble. -He- was here. The man I
loved and betrayed with thoughts so hateful, I wondered how he
could even look at me, let along touch and comfort me.
"You must relax. I want you to repeat the T'aiJbrl and breathe.
Do nothing else."
The T'aiJbrl. The litany against fear.
I blinked and peered into the blackness once more. Saw nothing,
not even the shadow outlines that the darkest of rooms usually
afforded. How odd, I thought hazily as I silently chanted the
litany. It must be some sort of special room we were in, I
thought. A room where light was either forbidden or
inaccessible. Yes, that must be it, I thought as I began the
second verse.
A gentle whisper of fingers through my hair. "The litany and
breathe. That's all you need to do right now."
I winced as a bit of sand trickled down my neck, but continued
to chant. Was well into the third verse when I realized that
there was no special room, and that there was light present for
I could feel the heat of it against my raw skin. Yes, the room
was well lit, but for some reason, I just couldn't see it.
By the fourth verse, I realized the reason why.
It was because I was blind.
Completely and utterly blind.
At first it struck me as funny, and I felt the urge to laugh,
as a child might when attending a funeral. A moment later, the
terror, ancient and primal, roared through me. But before I
could scream, a slight touch of fingertips against my lips
silenced me and a smooth Force enhanced command was whispered
in my ear.
"Sleep."
This time, the darkness brought peace.
Time has little meaning when you're blind.
It could have been day or night when I awoke from my sleep,
groggy and forgetful of my injuries. But the memories returned
with a chilling rush as Qui-Gon whispered to me in soothing
tones, commanding me to relax ... to accept and not to give up
hope.
Simple enough of an order to hear ... but to obey, that was
another matter entirely.
But I tried. I chanted the litanies, breathed deeply and
refused to flinch away from Qui-Gon's gentle touches along my
cheeks and arms, as undeserving as I was of their comfort.
After I'd reached some semblance of calm, he talked to me
softly of trivial things ... the status of our ship, the lunch
that would soon be on its way, the fading storms ... all of it
hollow and unimportant.
It was then that I realized my situation must have been dire
indeed, for small talk was something that Qui-Gon rarely
indulged in. "Master?"
"Yes?"
"Is this ... do I ..." The dry, scratching sound of my own
voice choked me and it became impossible to go on.
But I didn't have to. As with all things, Qui-Gon knew my
question long before I'd even thought to ask it. "You still
have your eyes, Padawan. The lenses are damaged, but the flesh
itself is intact. " His tone turned grave. "You were very
lucky, Obi-Wan. Very lucky indeed."
I wanted to feel relief at that news, but there was only a
renewed sense of shame. It grew worse when I felt Qui-Gon's
fingers slip into my bandaged hand. "We will return to
Coruscant and let the healers take a look." A soft squeeze. "Be
patient, Obi-Wan. I believe you will do very well yet."
No, I wanted to rant aloud. There would be no more doing well.
I was a disgrace ... a shame to the Jedi, a shame to myself and
worst of all, a shame to Qui-Gon, my patient Master and love.
I'd allowed my emotions to ruin me ... allowed something as
petty as jealousy destroy not only a lifetime of work, but a
lifetime of potential. I'd practically begged it to devour me,
to eat me whole and alive, offering myself as one would offer a
banquet to a starving creature, only to have it want more and
more, until nothing remained but dry, white bones.
And then there was the matter of The Darkness.
Another whisper in my ear. This one commanding ... stern.
"There will be none of that, Padawan. You will only let me down
if you give up before the battle has even begun. That is the
one thing I will neither abide nor tolerate. Do you
understand?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes, Master."
A soft kiss against my forehead. "Good. I will go see if there
is any lunch to be had and together we'll eat, as I know you
must be starving. Relax and I will return shortly."
A small flare of terror passed through me when I heard the door
open, then shut. I was alone and as helpless as a newborn,
without the use of my hands or eyes. Found myself forced to lie
in one place, still and focused, letting senses beyond my
vision take over. Listening carefully, I heard the faint bustle
of activity from the commune, the muted roar of the final
storms still rattling at the steel doors, even the scurrying of
small creatures hiding in the corners of my sick-quarters. A
cool breeze from an unseen vent tickled my nose and I fell into
meditation, letting the sounds and touches be my guide.
Another vision quickly followed.
//A vision of swirling, blinding winds, dark and filled with
infinite shards of glass.
I was stumbling, allowing the tempest to carry me ... then
begin its meal. There were shards of pain, and growing
darkness. Lost I was, lost and uncaring, losing sight of the
pain, losing sight of myself, allowing the darkness to take
over.
Then, the strong grip of a hand in mine. Pulling me back,
silently demanding I return to safety whether I wanted to or
not.
It was my Master's hand. Tearing me away from the storm that
raged both without and within me. Forcing me to choose light
... and life.
Even at the price of his own.//
The door opened and the sound of it pulled me out of my trance,
away from the vision. Heard a soft rustle of fabric and the
clatter of a tray being set down. There were small scrapes of
eating utensils against a plate and the splash of liquid being
poured.
I rose from the pallet, blind and definitely shaken. Carefully
made my way toward the sounds and trembling, I knelt, hoping I
was somewhere close to him. Bowed down until I felt cold steel
against my forehead and murmured a single word.
"Forgive."
A small sound escaped my Master's throat, and over our bond, a
tempest of emotions flared ... sorrow and terrible guilt, fear
and unbounded love. I was raised up by two strong arms,
effortlessly lifted from the ground and carried back to the
pallet. Kisses rained down on my cheeks, replacing the pain
with comfort ... with joy.
The loose robe that covered me fell away and kisses melted down
my throat and chest, taking away the darkness, replacing it
with a light much brighter than I'd ever imagined. I still saw
nothing, but felt everything. The softness of his beard against
my skin, the warmth of his lips gentling, then igniting,
everywhere they touched. Reverent, careful, fingers soothing
places untouched by the storm, carefully avoiding my injuries.
I couldn't reciprocate; I could only be still and accept. No
demands were made, but my body began to arch and undulate
beneath his touches nonetheless. I was helpless in every way,
but this time, there was no fear. I was in my Master's hands,
and the warmth of complete trust washed over me in waves, soon
overcome by longing. By desire.
My legs were parted and he took me into his mouth, sucking
gently, until I was writhing and pleading for release, every
nerve in my body alive and exposed. The pain disappeared and
when I came, I did see, flashes of indigo and crimson behind my
closed eyelids, making me cry out with hope, as much as with
pleasure.
Afterwards there was no more talk of blindness, for I could see
Qui-Gon's light and it eclipsed whatever else I'd ever
considered illumination. As he curled up beside me, his warmth
more comforting than any blanket, I realized that all would be
well, no matter what the future held.
For there was no Darkness that did not submit to Light.
We returned to Coruscant a few days later and the healers took
me under their care. They tutted over me, made much of my
injuries, but in the end they felt hopeful that whatever damage
I'd incurred could be undone.
My eyes were swathed for two days following, while my hands
were finally unbound.
For those two days we talked, Qui-Gon and I, about the
insidious nature of the Dark Side, about jealousy and control,
about life and love and trust. I admitted to my greed, my
neediness and was forgiven without another word.
We discussed what the future might hold if the healer's
predictions were incorrect, and argued about its direction. He
insisted that sight was an unnecessary requirement of a Knight
well trained in the Force, while I insisted that without my
eyes I was as good to the Order as no Knight at all.
He silenced me with a deep, demanding kiss, one that made any
more argument impossible.
The bandages were removed the next morning and Qui-Gon's face
was the first thing I saw. The wonder of it eclipsed all else
and I drank in the details I'd never noticed before, reveling
in everything about him great and small. The true color of his
eyes, blue with flecks of black and gold, a tiny scar on his
cheek, the pale lines of concern that creased his brow. All of
it was new, wondrous and very, very beautiful.
"Can you see, my Padawan?" he asked, knowing the answer but
wanting to hear it anyway.
"Oh, yes," I answered, unwilling to tear my eyes away from his,
even as the healers closed in to begin their examination. "I
can see, Master." Was kissed once more and I returned his
luminous smile. "I can see forever, I think."
NOTE: This was going to be part of our "Storms" series of
PWP's, but my dear Darth Zoot, Kassandra, encouraged me to turn
it into something more. As always, I'm glad I followed her
advice. /bowing before The Wise One/
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