Disclaimer: Lucas owns them all, more's the pity, 'cause if *I*
owned Obi-Wan...(pause for drooling)
Summary: Obi-Wan ponders his own death, and how he will be
remembered.
Notes: A little vignette that took shape last night as I
thought about the recent loss of someone incredibly dear to me.
I wrote it both as a present to myself to make me feel better,
and for my awesome listsibs, because the troll thing left me
with a bad taste in my mouth.
Feedback: All comments are welcome. destinaf@hotmail.com
Obi-Wan suspected he was dying, but there was no way to be sure
without calling attention to his weakness. To speak of his
plight would most likely mean death for them all. His master
would not leave him to perish alone, and would either try to
carry him out, or remain with him while sending the others
ahead. Without Qui-Gon, the rest of the party would die as well
- there was no question about that, but his master was not so
tied to his duty that he would abandon his responsibility to
his padawan.
It was a predicament he had long imagined, but never faced with
certainty. Some part of him had always believed that there
would be an alternate path revealed in the last seconds,
courtesy of the Force, or his master's ingenuity and insight.
It had been that way thus far, even in hopeless situations. He
had been ready to face death many times in his five years with
Qui-Gon. He was prepared to become one with the Force, but it
had never come down to inevitability. Even on Bandomeer, when
he had known his death was moments away as they stood together
in the mines, Qui-Gon's belief had saved him.
Some problems had no easy solution. He was experienced enough
to recognize that simple fact, and he let it occupy his
thoughts as he trudged slowly through the snow. He would walk
until he dropped, and then he would embrace the Force with
dignity. Once he was gone, Qui-Gon would not be tempted to
sacrifice himself. There was no other choice.
The visor and mufflers wrapped around his face stifled the flow
of air into his nostrils, making it difficult to breathe. He
moved across Hoth's frigid snows in the footprints left by his
master, staring into each deep hole as if nothing else existed.
Ice clung to the cloth across his mouth and nose, the moisture
from each exhalation frozen into crystalline structures that
scratched his face.
With every step, the stabbing pains in his left leg became
sharper, and he quickly found his entire being was focused on
those shards of agony. He catalogued them, defining and ranking
them, consigning them to the fringes of consciousness. He
focused on his steps, on the once-simple act of lifting a leg
and setting it down.
The glare from the shiny surface of glittering ice had already
caused one case of snow blindness. Obi-Wan was perversely
grateful for the heavy clouds and falling snow, which kept the
rest of them from losing their sight as they walked.
Hoth was one of the least hospitable planets in the galaxy, and
the worst place for a diplomatic ship to plummet out of orbit
while under attack. Two Senators lived through the fiery crash,
cowering and shivering, hiding from pirates concealed in ice
caves nearby. It was not an assignment Qui-Gon had wanted, but
they were obligated to follow orders, and so they had come to
lead the survivors out.
Obi-Wan was so cold that he hadn't even felt the burn of the
blaster bolt as it cut through his trousers, sinking deep into
muscle, nicking bone and creating a wound that would never heal
without treatment. He fought beside his master, pushing away
the pain that gnawed at him through deep layers of blackened
tissue and raw nerve.
Once, he faltered, and Qui-Gon set him back on his feet,
reaching for him out of habit to check for injuries. Obi-Wan
brushed the hands away, impatient, muttering hasty words about
moving in daylight and freezing to death. For once, Qui-Gon let
it go, only because of the urgency of their plight.
He was conscious of that now, grateful for his luck even as he
was focused on locking away the throbbing, screaming ache
spreading through his body.
Steps blurred into horrifying sameness as he moved without
thought. Step, exhale. Struggle to lift the leg. Drag it
through snow, each bit of pressure a hot knife against his
flesh. Lower his weight onto the offending limb gingerly,
inhale a hissing gulp of air. And so on, until the monotony of
pain was white before his eyes, colder than the air, larger
than the universe.
Time had no relevance. There was only the act of lurching
forward by will alone.
So programmed was he that he never saw the gray bulk of the
ship ahead, or the shape that loomed in front of him in the
roaring wind. He impacted a solid wall, and when it spoke his
name, the sound was lost to the wind. He pushed, but the limit
of endurance had been reached.
Slowly, he sank down into soft, swirling whiteness, and he
floated, lifted above the cold by a sheltering strength too
powerful to be denied.
"Master, how will you remember me when I am gone?" The question
came from nowhere, and shattered the calm silence of
meditation.
Startled, Qui-Gon twisted on his knees to look at his padawan,
who was looking over the edge of the bed, watching him. "Why
would you ask me such a question, Obi-Wan?" A small beat of
fear fluttered in his heart, like something trapped and
panicked.
The young man hesitated as he slowly turned his head away,
unable to speak.
Qui-Gon saw something unfamiliar in those eyes as they ran from
his scrutiny - a haunted sense of mortality, kindled with
bright shreds of fear. "You speak of this as though you expect
to leave me, Padawan." In a gentle voice, he reassured, "Your
wound is healing well. In a few days, you will be strong enough
to walk again."
"This mission was so difficult, and I felt...I didn't think I
would be able to keep pace, Master. When I fell behind, I
thought you would have to leave me, and I knew I would die. I
wasn't afraid, but I wondered if you would think fondly of me,
after-" Obi-Wan stopped, the words choked off by emotions he
could not contain. "I wondered if you would take another
padawan, if you would think of me with pride."
Qui-Gon tried to keep the look of surprise from his face as he
struggled to answer the earnest question. "I will never take
another padawan," he said quietly, getting to his feet on the
meditation mat. The edge of the bed gave way beneath him as he
settled beside Obi-Wan. "What you did was incredibly foolish,
but it is a measure of the man you have become that you could
accomplish it. You will be a great Jedi, Obi-Wan, and you will
live for many years when I am gone."
"But if I died, Master." The question was persistent, and
Obi-Wan moved again, catching his master's indigo gaze. The
soft green of his eyes glowed with need. "What then?"
"I would grieve for you, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon lifted one strong
hand and pressed it between his own, stroking the long fingers.
"And I would think of your grace, and your stubbornness, and
your impulsiveness. I would mourn all that which makes you
unique in this life."
Obi-Wan held his gaze steadily. "And what would you feel?" he
asked.
Qui-Gon felt the quick beat of a heart beneath his fingertips,
and circled the wrist where that rhythm pulsed. "I would
feel...regret, for what cannot be said, but must be understood.
And great pain, Obi-Wan."
Obi-Wan reached up and touched the corner of Qui-Gon's mouth,
and Qui-Gon's breath caught in his throat. Almost absently,
that errant hand dropped back to Obi-Wan's lips, fingertips
ghosting across them before resting against the sheet.
Qui-Gon followed that invisible path, bending until his lips
reached the parted lips of his padawan. He pushed them open,
tasting the sweetness of denial, of forbidden truth, sharing
his own relief and gratitude, and other things he would not
ever speak aloud. Press of softness, retreat, offering of a
gentle tongue which explored and soothed before retreating.
The Jedi master raised his head, seeking the expression on
Obi-Wan's face, memorizing the love and fierce loyalty there.
It was too intense a look to be borne for long, and Obi-Wan
turned his face, burying it in the satin mane of hair spilling
across his chest.
Softly, then, only a whisper. "This is how I will remember you,
my padawan."
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