Summary: Obi-Wan has trouble sleeping in the aftermath of the
events in JA#8 The Day of Reckoning
Feedback: Please! :) Send comments to apumpkin@slashcity.org
for forwarding
The dream always began in the same way. A barren landscape,
filled with steam-- none of the splendid beauty of Telos, even
through the veil of Offworld's despoilment. The landscape was
slag-gray and barren of life, hot under Obi-Wan's bare feet.
Steam filled the air, belched forth from volcanic vents, and
there was an ugly vivid orange glow in the distance, but that
was not where he was bound, not yet, though somehow he knew
that destiny awaited him there.
Sulfur choked thickly in his lungs, beckoning him forward and
he followed helplessly. Sometimes he wore only his sleep
leggings, sometimes the regalia of a Jedi padawan, and
sometimes he was bare, but the destination was always the same.
Tonight he wore his leggings at least, protecting part of his
flesh from the acrid bite of the air.
The steam parted sullenly and he found himself at the brink of
the deep black pool. Its surface roiled queasily, echoed by the
turning of his stomach, and his feet sealed to the stone,
refusing to move, every muscle taut with tension. The scream
froze in his chest-- something in the pool, something alive! He
knew what it was and yet he didn't, in the way of dreams...
frozen on the cusp of familiar horror.
A flailing black claw broke the surface, scratching for the
sun, and yet there was no sun. Obi-Wan whimpered, struggling to
move. The claw was followed by hunched shoulders, cloth eaten
away, black acid streaming from sizzling flesh, mingling with
crimson sheets of blood. Skin hung in tatters over muscle,
eaten away, but he couldn't move, neither to help nor to run.
Obi-Wan moaned as the acid-rotted carcass stirred, struggling
toward the edge of the pool, toward him. Drops of acid
flung by its flailing progress spat and sizzled on his skin,
but he could not stir away from them. And then the thing was
there, was rising from the murk in front of him, and half-eaten
eyelids snapped open to reveal hate-filled blue eyes, the
bloody claw clenched around his ankle, and Xanatos snatched
hard, tumbling Obi-Wan into the boiling acid--
He screamed, sitting up in bed, sweat clammy on his bare chest,
plastering his braid to his neck, and hands caught his
shoulders. Obi-Wan thrashed, fighting them blindly, still
half-trapped in the throes of the nightmare.
"Padawan!" Qui-Gon's anxious voice suddenly penetrated the fog,
and Obi-Wan went limp, his chest heaving in great gulps of
blessedly sweet, pure air. "The same dream?" Qui-Gon's blue
eyes were somehow the antithesis of Xanatos'; warm and caring
and filled with tender concern.
"Yes." Obi-Wan's throat felt raw and scraped, and his hands
were chilled and trembling. The dream had recurred nearly every
night so far since their return to the temple for a time of
contemplation, but usually he could break it, or at least choke
back his screams. Tonight he had failed, for the third time in
a week. It was getting worse. Originally, Xanatos had never
touched him. Tonight, he'd almost felt the acid eating away his
flesh.
Qui-Gon's arm slid around Obi-Wan's shoulders gently, soothing
their trembling. "Come into the common area, Obi-Wan. I'll fix
us tea." Qui-Gon stood but did not move to leave, extending a
hand for Obi-Wan, and he took it gratefully.
It felt strange to be the subject of his master's open care;
such a thing had happened only rarely even before the schism
that had divided them on Melida-Daan. Now, however, both
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan were making a concerted effort to heal the
rift that had opened between them, efforts that consisted of
understanding and supporting each other both in weakness and in
strength, rather than disregarding and condemning.
Somehow, Qui-Gon's poise made his solicitude sincere rather
than contrived; Obi-Wan knew that this offer came from the
heart, and he responded in kind, holding Qui-Gon's hand clasped
in his as his master led him into the common room. "Sit,"
Qui-Gon directed him, releasing Obi-Wan and moving into the
kitchen area. Obi-Wan obeyed, but in his own fashion; he
trailed Qui-Gon inside and sat at the dining table to watch his
master prepare tea. Traditionally it was his own task, but
rejecting the offer of nurturing would not have fostered the
newly growing bond between them.
Qui-Gon moved with unhurried grace, catching water in the
chipped earthenware kettle and setting it on the heating unit
rapidly, but with no evidence of haste. Obi-Wan watched him
surreptitiously, admiring the play of muscle in Qui-Gon's bare
back as he reached into the cabinet for the canister of tea and
again for mugs.
On the run through the many missions since his apprenticeship
formally began, he'd never had much time to think of his master
as a man. Living in his quarters together was an adjustment for
both of them, a settling in. There was a need to wear away
rough edges with the friction of daily contact, and a sense of
discovery in every day and every action.
Qui-Gon scratched at his ribs lightly, thoughtful, waiting for
the tea to boil. Only when it had been poured into mugs and
Obi-Wan sat cradling the soothing heat between his chilled
palms did he speak. "The Master-Healer says a certain amount of
trauma is to be expected following the events you've endured."
He carefully did not mention Bruck Chun's name, but Obi-Wan
could see it behind the concern in his eyes. "It troubles me
that the dreams are worsening, padawan."
Qui-Gon reached forward gently and untangled Obi-Wan's braid
where it lay twisted at his throat; his large blunt fingers
brushed Obi-Wan's skin. The padawan shivered, not quite certain
why-- it felt different from the chill of apprehension that
came with his dream.
"I believe..." Obi-Wan sat still, inhaling the fragrant steam,
so different from the choking miasma of his dream. "The dream
may be trying to tell me something," he finished doggedly,
feeling foolish. Qui-Gon raised a questioning brow, not
offering a comment, inviting more.
"There are other things there, that I've never seen, but that I
know I will," Obi-Wan mumbled, feeling inarticulate. "It's like
the paths there aren't open to me; the only one I can take now
leads to the pool. To Xanatos." Qui-Gon nodded sympathetically,
sipping his own tea, waiting with interest.
"Master, I believe Xanatos may not be dead," Obi-Wan spoke in a
rush. "There was no body, no proof. He wanted to go to
the pools, he invited the citizens to follow him. Don't you
think it's..."
"Too convenient? Too pat? And with no way to verify." Qui-Gon
finished the sentence thoughtfully. "It is a possibility, my
padawan, but you burden yourself too greatly with thoughts of
an uncertain future." His tone was gentle, the words a comfort
rather than a rebuke. "Live in the now, my Obi-Wan. Focus on
the Moment and follow the guidance of the Living Force."
Qui-Gon's lashes dipped as he studied the surface of his tea.
Obi-Wan felt that odd shiver slide up his spine again... a warm
shiver, sweet. My Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon had never said such a
thing to him before, and the words left Obi-Wan's cheeks
flushed faintly pink. Perhaps he could attribute it to the
warmth of the steam; quickly he took a mouthful of tea.
After a long moment Qui-Gon raised his head, a solemn
expression on his features. "Too much knowledge of the future
is a possibility that troubles me. It has never been proven if
future events are responsive to foreknowledge, and such visions
may bring much pain." His hand moved outward again, one rough
knuckle brushing Obi-Wan's cheek. "That is why I advise you not
to dwell on such dreams too strongly."
Obi-Wan's heart thudded with a sudden rush of mingled fondness
and pride. Qui-Gon believed him! Qui-Gon took his dreams
seriously. "They are important, my Master. I know they are,"
enthusiastic words gushed forth, and Qui-Gon smiled a little
ruefully.
"Then listen to them, but do not seek them, and do not let them
play upon your fears." Qui-Gon met his eyes seriously, his gaze
a warm blue universe that spoke of wisdom.
"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan heard the note of pride and love in his
own voice; of faith and respect. Qui-Gon smiled a little
crookedly, then tilted his mug up for the last swallow of
cooling tea.
Obi-Wan mirrored him, finishing his own tea and setting the mug
back into the ring of moisture on the table. He glanced aside,
knowing that it was once again time for sleep; he had classes
to attend and his master had undertaken responsibilities as
well. As much as he would like to stay awake and continue this
conversation, as safe as it made him feel, it had to end.
Qui-Gon followed his gaze back toward his own room. Obi-Wan was
unable to suppress a shudder; the dream waited there, in the
twisted, sweat-soaked sheets of his bed.
Quietly, he rose and took their mugs to the sink, rinsing them,
aware of his master's eyes on him as he went through the
motions of the domestic chore, seeking comfort in normalcy and
failing to find it. He set the glassware in the drainer and
turned, meeting Qui-Gon's gaze with a brave smile, pretending
he felt no apprehension. "Thank you, master," Obi-Wan murmured,
inclining his head in a respectful bow.
Qui-Gon rose thoughtfully and moved to lean against the lintel
of the kitchen door, partly blocking Obi-Wan's exit. "You
should feel safe in the Temple, Obi-Wan. Given recent events,
perhaps it is unsurprising that you do not."
Obi--Wan tilted his head, a little puzzled by the non-sequitur.
"Safe, Master?"
"Now that we understand your dream, it need not recur," Qui-Gon
explained with elusive logic. Obi-Wan nodded patiently, still
waiting, and Qui-Gon extended his hand, a quiet offer. Not
quite understanding, Obi-Wan crossed the room and accepted it,
letting his master lead him-- toward Qui-Gon's own quarters.
"Oh," Obi-Wan spoke without thinking, then flushed and smiled
at once, embarrassed and pleased. They had shared close
quarters before, it was not unusual on missions to find only
poor accommodations. But he'd never thought of sharing his
master's room or bed as a matter of course. Obi-Wan flushed
again, indecisive.
"I can help you shield your dreams," Qui-Gon's tone remained
mild, completely unjudging, no pressure in his expression or in
the gentle touch of his hand as Obi-Wan paused to decide.
"I would like that," Obi-Wan admitted, his voice a little shy.
He hoped Qui-Gon would not think him a child, would not find
him lessened by this need for comfort-- but that was what they
had to learn; they had to come to trust one another. Qui-Gon
smiled, his careworn face blossoming with shy pleasure, and
Obi-Wan realized he had been afraid too-- afraid that Obi-Wan
would not trust him enough to see the offer as it was meant.
The moment passed, Qui-Gon's face firming into gentle authority
again, and he tugged Obi-Wan forward, inviting him in. Shyly
Obi-Wan scratched his fingers through his hair as his master
lay down and opened the coverlet for him. Giving Qui-Gon a
smile, acknowledging their mutual unease, Obi-Wan crept under
the blankets and lay at his master's side.
Qui-Gon reached, touching his fingers to Obi-Wan's forehead.
"You will not dream of ill things in this bed," he murmured.
"It is always open to you, should you need it. Here, you will
be safe." The Force welled in Obi-Wan, drawn forth by his
master's gentle call, and he rode the gentle waves, lapped in
security.
Sleep took him before thought could coalesce, and he slid away
into dreams, the landscape warm and green and welcoming, gentle
mists parting to reveal trees and flowers... and there stood
Qui-Gon Jinn, hands extended, mouth curved in a gentle smile,
awaiting him. Obi-Wan laughed and reached to clasp his hands,
and his master drew him forth into the garden.
Unconscious, home and safe at last, the sleeping padawan
snuggled into his master's arms. Together, they rested.
Archive 