Author's web page: http://www.ravenswing.com/ravendreams/
DPS Archive: http://www.ravenswing.com/DPS
Category: Angst
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic Violence
Spoilers: none
Summary: Qui-Gon lets go
Notes: All mistakes are mine. Thanks to Dee for the
encouragement. Thanks to Velma for the nagging. Smitty: you
need to keep your own bunnies. They won't leave me alone.
Feedback: Waited for with bated breath.
Disclaimers: Lucas owns it all. I don't have enough money to
pay attention.
I've held him for hours, feeling his blood soaking into my
tunics, seeping into my skin, staining me. His groans faded
when the sun fell, but he hasn't slept, his eyes haven't closed
except to blink slowly like some strange, blind, nocturnal
bird.
I pour my energy into him, keeping his heart beating, sluggish
and thin. I can hear a wet sucking sound with very shallow
breath. I would rock him, stroke his skin, if there was a place
to touch that was not raw and weeping, if he could feel me. I
wish I could believe he sees me, that he knows.
They left him for me. Broken and beaten and flayed against the
wall as a sign that my mediation was unsuccessful. They took my
bright one, my Obi-Wan and turned him into these shards of bone
cradled within something that I used to know by touch, by
scent. That my failures of protocol should come to this...
He has not spoken, not blamed or cried or whispered his love. I
will never hear his voice again, not in passion or in awe or in
joy or in fury.
They have taken his tongue.
Those angry fools with their stupidity and their knives and
their lack of understanding have shattered something I did not
understand was fragile.
My hope.
I cannot help him, not with all the years of training, not with
all the will and Light and love within me. All I am doing is
prolonging his pain as he bleeds out in pulses against my
hands. I am keeping him here because I cannot bear to lose him
yet, but I am not selfish enough to let him hurt.
I am not that selfish.
How many times have I lit this 'saber, heard it hum to life,
felt it buzz in my hand?
They say it is love when you cannot bear the suffering, when to
tear out your own soul is preferable to the plinking noise of
blood dripping from his fingers. This is love, when the memory
of his laughter can make me smile even as I can feel him
slipping away from me, not much more than a mental sob.
He opens his mouth and his breath smells like death and rot and
not like him, not like my Obi-Wan. This shell is not Obi-Wan.
I run my fingers over his eyes, not wanting him to fear. I am
weak in the face of loss. His eyes will not close and I
understand suddenly that he sees me.
He knows.
His eyes are dry.
My heart captures his goodbye and if it is an illusion, I can
live with that.
The image of my 'saber is reflected in his eyes, green on
green, as I let him go.
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