Predestine

by DBKate

Category: Vignette

Rating: PG-13 (some implied m/m)

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. George Lucas does.

Spoilers: For TPM and the Exiles Universe.

Summary: A brief bit of Qui-Gon introspection in the "Exiles" universe.

Thanks: As ever to my buddy Kass, who actually turned this drabble into something readable. :-)

Everything ages quickly in the Tatooine desert. The very young grow haggard rapidly beneath relentless twin suns, turning into miniature crones and tiny old men, bearing the weight of the entire Outer Rim upon their small backs often before they learn to talk.

The middle-aged are ancient by comparison, so withered and hopeless, they are but husks of the creatures they should be on more temperate worlds. As for men as old as myself -- I dare not contemplate what parts of them might remain.

I first came here a much younger man, a Jedi filled with ideals; I now live here as an old man hiding from his past. A past that is at once a lifeline, and a death sentence. A past I cannot go back and change, no matter how badly I wish I could.

"Have you come to free the slaves?"

He asked me that so long ago.

Anakin.

Looking back at the what might have beens is painful. I see a small boy, his expression earnest as he looks up at me. Trusting me. Believing in my ideals as surely as if they were his own from the very beginning.

I encouraged that belief, no, I insisted upon it, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the warning signals that should have stopped me in my tracks.

He was older than his years suggested. But it was his soul that was old, not his face or body. Already old in a way that was at once horrible ... and wondrous. Strong in the Living Force, prescient and attuned to the life around him, he had knowledge of things both bright and terrible, knowledge no child of nine should ever have been burdened with.

I thought those were the signs that he was blessed ... Chosen. Destined for greatness and joy.

How wrong I was.

His only happiness was in his mother. His beautiful soft-spoken mother, who one day awoke heavy with child and lived her days enslaved by a cruel Fate, who gave all she had to that child, asking for nothing in return.

No wonder he adored her. Such comfort she was to him, that child old before his time. If he had powers, so be it, as long as he could make her life a bit easier to bear. Only she could soothe his rage, share his pain, alleviate the smallest bit of the awful shame and anger that walks hand in glove with the word "slave."

He had dreams, so many of them. The Jedi were his lifelong dream and I gave him it to him, but forced him to leave his comfort, his love ... his humanity behind. It was, in essence, his first trial and what a price to pay for a life that turned out little better than a hollow stone, an empty shell upon a desert shore.

Is it any surprise he turned out as he did?

I was blind; I should have seen, should have known that her death would turn him, turn him from the bright, thoughtful boy he was into the monster he seemed ever fated to become. I should have never asked him to leave her behind that day, I should have never presumed that my way of life was ever so eternal and holy and august . . .

I should have found a way.

"Should have, would have, could have," Obi-Wan repeats scornfully, as always having little patience for such pointless reflections.

He is right of course. He is so often right.

He is right when he tells me to eat, to drink, to keep up my strength and health. Keeps me out and away from the cruel suns, insisting that he is more suited to the hard labor of this life. Taking on all of our burdens, whether it be want or hunger, and only he can soothe my pain, alleviate the smallest bit of the awful shame and anger that walks hand in glove with the word "fugitive."

He asks very little of me beyond setting the past aside and facing the future.

Begs me daily not to cut my hair, but instead carefully braids it each and every morning, until it hangs behind me in a single tight plait, making me look much the ancient Navache. He delights in undoing it while we lie in bed, running his hands through its length and smiling at me when I laugh at his extravagance.

He takes great joy in such strange, small things, but who am I to deny him this pleasure?

Who am I to deny my Obi-Wan anything?

He is everything to me, my reward for a life not well-lived, but, at the very least, survived. He keeps me younger than my years, insisting I am not old, that many happy years lie ahead for both of us and proving it with warm kisses, with even warmer caresses.

Still arching beneath touches that should have grown cold for him after all these years, whispering that he wants more, complaining ... laughing when I protest that I am an old man and in need of his pity.

Never, for I am pitiless he says, the mischief shining in his eyes. You will find no mercy with me, he growls, wrestling me down, onto the hot sands and pebbles that litter every corner of this desolate world, making love to me with a fervor that would surprise even the young.

Leaving me trembling in the wake of his desire, awed by his love.

Warm lips, fingertips that start a flame where ever they touch, and I cannot resist, I catch fire for him, victim and predator at once, feeding on the sun gilded skin as if nothing else would satisfy.

Nothing else would. He owns my heart and soul, and the only price is his joy when he looks on me, even during times of trouble. I can almost feel that joy, it illuminates my Obi-Wan from within. Such a young man, and the suns for all their fury cannot touch a beauty such as his, and I often wonder why he chose to spend the remainder of it with an ancient creature such as myself.

He could have had any being he desired: I have seen kings fall victim to his charm, but instead he chose me. Chose me, loved me, and offered me the gift of his heart and body, something I have not ceased to treasure even though the old pain makes me look backward, makes me feel old.

He keeps me younger than my years; thirty years we've had together, fifteen of those spent as lovers, as life-mates and while the circumstances around us have changed, so very little else has. Thirty years blessed with him, and perhaps he's right, looking back does nothing useful, it brings only pointless pain and what might have beens and what should have been. None of which, as my Obi-Wan points out rightly, makes any difference to anyone or anything.

How did he become so wise? How did he learn so much? Certainly not from me, I regret to say, and tell him so in our bed, moving my mouth over the long, thin scar on his shoulderblade. I tell him so when I am deep inside him, or he is deep inside me and I can feel the pleasure radiating out from our joined flesh, our joined souls.

If the tables had been turned, if I had been forced to make such a choice, would I have given up my Obi-Wan for anything?

I fear not even in the face of my death. He is my comfort, my love, my humanity ...

He keeps me turned toward the future, despite the savagery of the desert sun.

Everything ages out here in the desert.

Except for love.

Except for Obi-Wan.

fini

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