Archive: Yes, please, at M/A. If anyone else would like to
archive it, please ask.
Category: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, First-Time, Romance, Drama
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: implied violence
Summary: A mission goes awry, and a year later, Qui-Wan and
Qui-Gon are dealing with the consequences of what happened, to
their relationship and to themselves.
Feedback: any, all, yes, please and thank you
Disclaimer: I wish they belonged to me, but no such luck. They
belong to George.
Author's notes and thanks:
First of all, a huge round of 'Thank You Kindly's to my
editors, cheerleaders, and betas: Sandy, elynross, Rosa, Maata
Hari, Vivienne, Thomas and Maygra. These are the guys that keep
me going, and I really owe them all a debt of thanks. Thanks as
well to the people on #tpm for, well, letting me babble about
this from time to time.
On Milara, ice kestrels once nested in the rocky cliffs next to
the Bagdroon Ocean. During the fall, right before the onset of
the forty-week-long winter, the birds mated and constructed
their igloo-like nests, packing rock, mud, ice, and spiderweb
moss together into an expandable shell to protect them from the
harsh winter. To line it, the mother and father ripped out the
female's feathers, rendering her flightless until they regrew
-- a process that could last all winter. She stayed inside the
shell, warming the eggs with her body, while the father was
responsible for searching out what food he could find to feed
them both, often scavenging meat from the bodies of other
animals that died of hypothermia and starvation.
If the father died, the mother usually did as well, leaving the
children to feed off her corpse. And thus, the children
survived.
But on Milara, the people had not.
Obi-Wan might not, either.
Discipline helped Qui-Gon push the thought away; he told
himself to focus on the moment. He laid his hand over the image
of the bird carved into the wall, marveling at how large the
creature had been, and wondered if any of them were still
alive. He traced the edges with a finger, seeing how the stone
had smoothed out over time, and felt an echo of that carving on
his own back. Soft brush strokes on his skin, rather than a
knife and chisel, but still, the similarities echoed within
him.
And those similarities reminded him again of Obi-Wan.
Focus on the moment.
He covered the drawing with his hand, steeling himself against
his own thoughts. He needed to function, to move on. Counting
his failures served no useful purpose; the important thing was
to survive, to make sure Obi-Wan survived, to make sure the
Milarans survived.
He heard a noise and turned. Attendants bearing Obi-Wan on a
rough-hewn litter struggled through the crowd of refugees
gathered at the door, stopping just outside. Qui-Gon indicated
a corner of the room near what turned out to be a hearth of
some sort, once he had cleaned the debris away. He focused on
the ritual of greeting, letting it carry him rather than
looking at the battered figure that retained little sense of
self. The Milarans were giving him the best they had right now,
and it was his duty to be respectful of that.
They were a good people, warm and loving with their own, and
they had done everything he asked of them and more. They called
him Ser Jedi in the same tone that they used for their elders.
To them, there was no difference. He was simply a man who had
helped them destroy the mines, a man who had fought and bled at
their side, whose loved one had suffered the same agonies as
their own.
Obi-Wan...
He did not look at the litter they carried, could not, until
the formal welcome was complete. He kept his thoughts away from
the dark hole that gaped within him, the wound throbbing and
bleeding with each beat of his heart. He let his mind drift
with the moment, let it move to other thoughts, other issues he
should deal with, ones that were less...personal.
Well trained, his mind partitioned off the pain he felt and
turned to other concerns. For three thousand years the people
of Milara had lived in these caves. Now there were less than a
hundred families to pick the pieces up again, should any want
to remain. Most wanted to leave here, leave the place of their
enslavement, but Qui-Gon knew there was no hope for them in
space. The people were too primitive, lacking in all technical
knowledge -- they would soon find themselves slaves once again,
and Qui-Gon couldn't stomach the prospect.
So tired...
It was harder and harder to set the pain aside, to keep himself
present in the room. His mind drifted again; he hoped that he
could convince them to stay. The land was beautiful, from what
he had seen, and it would support life. The same could not be
said of the streets and tower corridors of Coruscant.
Coruscant...the temple.
He wanted to sleep for a week, to rest and relax, to have a
chance to enjoy life once again. His eyes darted to the litter
-- so many mistakes.
The crowd murmured something; he'd missed a response.
Chagrined, Qui-Gon smiled wearily and started the last phrase
over. The Milarans would not enter until the room was
officially cleansed, which was taking far too long as far as
Qui-Gon was concerned.
With a burst of concentrated energy, he finished the ritual and
bade the group enter. The healer and the litter attendants were
the only ones to cross the threshold, though the rest of the
tribe continued to mill around the open door, muttering amongst
themselves. A cold draught stirred the dirt in the room,
carrying with it the promise of winter. At the touch of chill
air, Obi-Wan turned fitfully, his fever obviously worse. His
cheeks were stained red from the heat where they were not
blackened with bruises, or pale from lack of blood. How had it
come to this, Qui-Gon thought to himself. How had he let this
happen?
Obi-Wan cried out, the words slurred and barely
distinguishable: "Let me go."
Frozen by the sound, his body leaden, it seemed to Qui-Gon as
if the gravity here were stronger than anywhere he'd ever been.
The weight of his feelings pulled him down, pressing him into
the ground; he fought for every breath he took, every move he
made was a victory. Live in the moment, the Jedi said; in the
moment, all he felt was cold, brittle, and numb. He could do
little for Obi-Wan in the moment, knew he might not ever be
able to make it right, and knew, too, that if he could not, he
might very well shatter like the ice beyond.
The healer touched his arm, pulling him away from his thoughts.
"He will sleep for a few more hours, and when he wakes, give
him this." She handed him a packet of leaves and moss and bark,
the raw sources of medicine in this place. "It will help, I
think."
"Thank you." Qui-Gon forced himself to turn away from Obi-Wan's
pallet and meet the deep brown eyes of the woman looking at
him. He inclined his head, just as he would have had she been
the ruler of a city-state, rather than the leader of a tribe of
refugees. Yet even that small movement seemed to take more
energy than he had.
Her eyes were wise and dark, as filled with the mysteries of
her people as any Jedi Master he'd ever seen. "We have all
known loss, Ser Jedi. May this one escape the welcoming fire."
She patted his arm once more. "Mix it with water once the well
is cleaned. It will be easier for him to take."
He nodded his thanks, slowly moving back to his Padawan to see
if he could help.
The drone of the ship's engine accented the tension between
them, the coolness of the recycled air the only thing keeping
the flush from Obi-Wan's face. He sank back against the
cushioned seat, glad that he no longer lay on a pallet and
equally glad he no longer needed to stand. He glanced over at
Qui-Gon sitting in front of the reader, catching up on
correspondence received while they'd lived on Milara.
Obi-Wan scrunched his eyes shut, as if by not looking he could
keep the vague images from invading his mind. It helped some,
and he blinked a few more times till the room no longer had
grey prison walls and the floor ash an inch thick. He could not
stop his stomach from roiling at the bite of memory, nor the
feelings that washed over him after.
Even now, after it was all over, he felt humiliated and
unclean, unsure if he would ever be whole.
The mission had not been good -- it had ended in disaster,
actually, with only the smallest group of refugees making it
out of the mines alive -- but it was Obi-Wan's capture and
imprisonment that preyed upon them both.
He did not remember much, knew the Crystlefire had enhanced his
use of the Force, knew that in some way it had affected their
bond. He assumed that he'd been under the drug's influence in
the mines, that he had not been able to shield himself, that
he'd fed every emotion he had through their link to Qui-Gon. He
blushed, thankful that they had never had the gift of
mind-speech; there were some things he never wanted Qui-Gon to
know.
But Qui-Gon had apparently been aware of everything that had
happened, probably felt more of it than Obi-Wan himself had.
Even without the occasional violent storms of what had been
their bond sparking through Obi-Wan's mind night and day,
knowing that, knowing that Qui-Gon knew how he'd broken, how
he'd cried...he could barely stand to look at his Master
anymore, other than when anger or fear pressed him. The pain
went beyond the merely physical.
He blinked again, and the room stayed as it was. Dull
industrial carpeting, flat, shell-colored walls, and a few
pieces of well-used furniture like the small, metal table
across from him. He looked over at Qui-Gon, trying to gauge his
reaction, see if he'd noticed anything.
But Qui-Gon continued to read. A thread of bitterness burrowed
deep into Obi-Wan's gut. Qui-Gon's reaction -- or rather, his
lack of reaction -- was the worst of it, the distance between
them as sharp and cold as a sliver of ice, a distance Obi-Wan
could no longer cross.
No matter how much he might want to. For Qui-Gon had done the
unthinkable. He had closed off their bond.
A blankness existed between them now, not quite the absence of
everything, not deadness, but a space into which every thought
sank, an intense silence punctuated only by spasms of feedback
and disorganized visions. The seizures hurt him, a physical
shock that seared his body and his mind, leaving him gasping
for breath.
Every time he or Qui-Gon had tried to see into the darkness, it
brought on a spasm, echoed in Qui-Gon. His Master had finally
insisted that they not try, that they leave it until they could
speak to a healer. Neither of them could afford to waste what
energy they had pouring it into a black hole.
It made sense, he knew, but the silence was killing him just
the same. It felt...thick in his mind, rough and scaly, dry,
dead and lifeless. Yet under that layer, there was a -- a
liquid, almost, that resisted him and dragged at him as he
tried to use it, as skin bled when it had been burned. He could
not keep from touching it, picking at it like a freshly-healed
scab, trying to get the liquid out. He knew if he kept at it
that it would scar, yet he could not make himself stop.
Qui-Gon still read.
Obi-Wan looked away, pulling his feet up off the floor, curling
around himself in the chair to rest his head on his knees.
Worse than any pain was the simple absence of connection; he
could no longer sense Qui-Gon's presence. He felt adrift and
alone, a separateness that was maddening. His whole life, he
had been with others. At the temple there was always someone
around: a friend, a rival, a Master out meditating, a child
taking the longest path home. And when he had become Qui-Gon's
Padawan, they had created their own, unique bond, never far
from each other's thoughts.
Now, just being in the same room as Qui-Gon could send a ragged
spark through his mind, a throbbing headache that wiped out the
world; each time the bond crackled, the static was like an
electrical jolt to the back of his spine. He gritted his teeth
and swore until the nothingness felt like an oasis when it
returned.
He stretched back out with a sigh, letting go of his anger.
What was, was. The past was the past, not the future. He needed
some time to readjust, some time to take control of the matter.
Some time of his own to heal.
At least until he could solder this broken link, make himself
useful again. He glanced over at Qui-Gon; obviously the
deadness didn't prey upon him the way it did Obi-Wan. It didn't
eat into his life. When asked, he had said it was...an absence,
an emptiness inside of him, but not...unmanageable, and he
apparently no longer suffered the spasms. Bitter herbs to
soothe the soul, at least. Obi-Wan needed more. Abruptly, he
blurted his thoughts out. "I need to speak to the Council."
Qui-Gon looked up from his reading and turned to look at
Obi-Wan. He reacted without haste, speaking in calm, clear
tones, ever the solicitous Master. "Yes, I can see that. I will
present myself to the Council, and you may--"
"No." Obi-Wan lifted his chin. The problem was his. His fault,
his failure, his pain. He would be the one to fix it, he and no
one else. He would speak to the Council; it was a matter of
pride.
If Jedi ever allowed themselves to feel pride. "I do not need
you to speak to them for me."
Some emotion, possibly surprise, flickered in Qui-Gon's eyes.
"I did not intend--"
"I am no longer a child." Impatiently, Obi-Wan cut him off with
a wave of his hand. "And I know that seven years of training
makes me no Master, never fear that." He could not keep all of
the bitterness from his voice, and he had to breathe and let
the emotion pass through him. "But I can and I will speak to
the Council alone."
The nearly invisible twitch in the fingers of Qui-Gon's right
hand was the only thing that betrayed the anxiety within his
apparent calm; Obi-Wan only saw it because he knew to look. The
tremor was reassuring, in its way. It made Qui-Gon seem less
the perfectly controlled Jedi Master.
"What is it you desire, Obi-Wan?"
Not Padawan. Maybe not ever again. "I wish to return to the
temple for a while." He had done with this, and he needed
Qui-Gon to understand, to know why he would ask such a thing.
"It will not settle, my Master. Not as things are." He looked
steadily into Qui-Gon's cool, clear eyes. "What happened must
be dealt with."
Qui-Gon was nodding as he spoke. Good. At least there was some
agreement there. "Yes, I will work--"
Again, Obi-Wan cut him off, not wanting to listen to soothing
words or platitudes now. He needed something other than
discussion and empathy -- and distance. "I am no raw
apprentice." He spoke slowly and carefully, letting his
determination show in his eyes and his voice, since he would
not probe the bond any more and neither would Qui-Gon. "You
cannot fix everything for me. This is something I must do on my
own." Qui-Gon had been a good teacher, but his heart was too
far away to heal the wounds that festered within Obi-Wan right
now. He took a deep breath and sighed. "I am sorry, Master. I
must go. I need time."
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall,
shutting out the sight of Qui-Gon as the silence stretched
between them.
Obi-Wan opened his eyes; Qui-Gon stood before him, his face
pale. Good, Obi-Wan thought. Reaction at last. Qui-Gon was
looking at him with that strange mixture of compassion and pity
that made Obi-Wan feel worse than useless. Obi-Wan caught his
gaze and held it, staring defiantly at him.
Qui-Gon looked away first. "There is a reader in my quarters,"
he said. "Feel free to use this one here to send your request."
As Qui-Gon left him, he paused at the edge of the door, his
final words spoken softly. "I will take no other. You will
return." His words seemed to echo faintly in the room, an
aching reminder of the connection they'd once had, the solid,
stable bond that no longer was.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and turned his thoughts inward, setting
himself on the meditative path that was his hope for inner
peace, hoping that he might yet find the serenity that seemed
to come so easily to his Master.
Twenty families left the planet with them. Obi-Wan returned to
the temple on Coruscant, and Qui-Gon followed up with the
itinerant Milarans, making sure they were settled as well as he
could. For most of a year he tracked and helped them, losing
three to the byways of the space lanes. Five died on other
planets, victims of some virus for which they had no immunity.
Three, he heard, fell to slavers, but the rest managed to find
a place for themselves on the sparsely settled planets of the
rim worlds, hundreds of light years from Coruscant.
One family even went home.
What was home to a Jedi?
Qui-Gon put down the crystal paperweight he'd been meditating
on, the cracks and crevices in the rock reminding him that no
matter how 'ordered' an approach the Jedi took to the Force,
chaos existed underneath. He pulled his robe to him and stood,
looking out of the small observation window of the shuttle into
the eternity of space, letting its horizonless expanse remind
him of the infinite possibilities and paradoxes that existed
within a single breath of time, the infinite definitions of a
word.
He smiled gently. Obi-Wan would indulge his philosophical
meandering, but only to a point. He probably would have laughed
at the thought. The image of Obi-Wan sitting and laughing with
him in the sunlight formed in his mind, followed instantly by a
searing pain that incinerated all rational thought.
Reflexively, Qui-Gon gripped the edge of the table so he would
not fall, breathing rhythmically, mastering the pain within
him. He had spent this last year doing just that, giving
Obi-Wan the space and time he needed to heal himself, his time
at the temple.
His time at home.
Qui-Gon unclenched his hands, watching as the blood flowed back
into them, changing their color from a pale white to a slightly
ruddy-pink. He'd learned to deal with his own pain in his own
way while making sure that Obi-Wan was taken care of, that he
got everything he needed while Qui-Gon kept out of his way. The
spasms were not so bad now, not what they once were, the
frequency far less. They had not affected his missions. Thanks
to all the others involved, he could call each of them a
success.
Perhaps it was time for him to go home as well.
Rumors reached the temple long before Qui-Gon's ship docked.
Obi-Wan ignored them. In the past year, Obi-Wan had learned to
ignore many things: the way eyes followed him, the questions in
everyone's gaze, the awkwardness in every conversation. This
was just one more chance to practice his resolve.
He made his way to the hydroponics room as a matter of rote.
The vegetable gardens provided most of the food for the temple,
and with limited space; workers here used the Force to make the
most of what they had.
A year.
It had taken a year to get this far, to the point where he
trusted himself enough to use what he'd been taught even in
this small way; he wondered if he would still be doing it a
year from now. No traces of his anxiety showed; not even Yoda
could feel a tremor in the Force around him anymore. He was
told to take pride in the regrowth of his mental discipline --
so clearly, a Jedi could feel pride -- to accept his
accomplishment, but all he saw was how much further he had to
go.
Everything is based on mind, is led by mind, is fashioned by
mind: the teaching of the Right Hand path.
He walked past the rows of full-grown plants and their long,
dark green fruit to where the seedlings sat in racks of
fibrous, spun-stone blocks. Letting the work calm his mind, he
grabbed one flat and carried it over to the track wires,
removing each plant from the fiber and threading the roots into
the tube that would feed it as it grew. With a small
application of the Force, he taught it to wrap around the tube,
sensing when the change took hold, when the plant no longer
wanted to run along the ground, but wanted to climb, instead,
making sure the connection was perfect before moving on to the
next plant.
A year of prayer and meditation, retraining in the ways of the
Force, re-channeling his thoughts and energies to accommodate
the changes that had been wrought, to try and fix the cup that
had been shattered. Oh, it held water now -- even he could see
that -- but it would never be displayed with the others, or
give its owner a sense of pride. Always the reminders, the
scars showing where it had once been broken.
He took the empty flat back to the planting station, then
returned to the seedlings for another set. In the back of his
mind he could feel an echo of the bond with Qui-Gon, but he
still could not tap into it the way he remembered -- even had
he wanted to. He wasn't in constant pain, and for that he
should have been grateful; instead, he almost missed it. He
felt the way he imagined blackblood patients felt, their
intestines rotting away inside their bodies, pieces of them
dying all the time.
When he came to an empty climbing wire, he settled the flat
down and started adding in the new plants. The bond still felt
like that at times -- not that he told anyone. There was no
hope in it. Necessity taught him to shut it out, to stop his
thoughts from bleeding down the line, to ignore the times the
energy ate back upon itself with static bolts, to focus on the
time that he was pain-free.
And now, Qui-Gon had returned.
With practiced ease, Obi-Wan pushed the thought away, focusing
in on the moment. He liked it here. The hydroponics room was
quiet, just the rustle of water as the plants were fed; few of
the Agri-Corps trainees asked him about anything anymore.
He had much to do before Qui-Gon arrived, preparations to make,
meditations to perform. He would be the perfect Jedi for
Qui-Gon, reassure him that he was doing fine and that Qui-Gon
could take a new Padawan learner without guilt. Maybe if
Qui-Gon formed a new bond with another his own mind would stop
trying to destroy itself. Obi-Wan felt slightly ashamed for
wishing that would be the case.
Once Qui-Gon was settled with a new student, Obi-Wan could
finally decide what to do with his own life. He already knew he
would take no new Master; he did not believe that he could
truly bond with another ever again, not with the scars that
existed along that path. The rawness was gone, yes, but what
was left...didn't work. Instead, he would approach the Council
about what else he might do should the hole in his mind remain.
As it was, the future remained clouded. Such things not even
Master Yoda could foresee.
Qui-Gon stepped out of the shuttle, wearily following his
escort out to the skimmer waiting to take him to the Jedi
temple. As he watched the boy load his luggage onto the craft,
he could not help but recall how Obi-Wan had looked when he was
near this boy's age -- he shut off the thought.
He waved the boy on, telling him he would walk a bit before
going to the temple, and smiled ruefully as the boy dejectedly
got in and took off without him. He had obviously been looking
forward to having some time alone with Qui-Gon...probably
hoping to have a chance to talk and perhaps impress the Jedi
Master with his cleverness and skills.
Perhaps to be taken on as a Jedi apprentice himself.
Qui-Gon set himself on the thoroughfare, the path before him a
familiar one, winding through the mid levels of Coruscant, and
let his mind free itself of the ropes that had held his
emotions in check. Without emotion, there is peace, he told
himself. Without passion, serenity.
His mind answered with the rasping hiss of the reikshaska's
hunting cry, denying his own thoughts.
Two voices warred within him: the voice of his youth -- taken
as he was in the time before the creches came into existence --
and the voice of his current path. Without passion, cried his
inner voice, there is no joy, and without emotion, compassion
does not exist. The training of his childhood, the teachings of
the Left Hand path: the heart is the center of the Force.
The truth of it was he wanted no new apprentice; he wanted
Obi-Wan back.
As Qui-Gon entered the temple, grit and sweat clinging to him
from his walk, he was startled to catch a glimpse of his
apprentice walking down the hall. No braid sat upon his
shoulder now, though the hair was still there, unbound and
masterless, just as the man himself was. Qui-Gon had to force
himself not to stop him and demand he return. Instead, they
smiled politely at one another and nodded, each of them
following his chosen path.
Qui-Gon was unsure how he made it to his room, the passages and
people a blur, but he'd had the same suite of rooms for so
long, since taking Xanatos as a Padawan, that his feet carried
him to his door without need of conscious thought. He walked
through the common room of the suite to his bedroom, his eyes
refusing to register how empty the suite looked without
Obi-Wan's things. He closed the door behind him and dropped
heavily on to the bed with a groan; no echo of Obi-Wan's
thoughts had reached him as they met.
His greatest hope and his worst fear realized: Obi-Wan had
found the answer he'd searched for during this past year, the
way to shut Qui-Gon from his mind and travel his path alone.
Bitterly, Qui-Gon arranged himself for meditation to clear his
mind of his own failure in this, for the injury he had dealt
his Padawan, for his betrayal of their bonded trust.
A breath, two breaths, feeling the Force fill him and move with
him, like air, like blood, centered on the beat of his heart.
He let go of his surroundings, of his need to be in control,
and opened his mind's eye. As if from a distance, he saw it
again, the day he and Obi-Wan had set out on this path...
He had been sitting at this desk, in this room, scanning the
briefing material, vaguely aware of the sound of the door
opening and closing behind him. Obi-Wan settled against him,
his warmth against Qui-Gon's back, looking over his Master's
shoulder at the briefing material. "It's not a diplomatic
mission, then?"
"No." Qui-Gon tapped the readout. "There is a drug,
Crystlefire, that has found its way to Coruscant, and the
Chancellor wishes us to investigate." He turned and looked up
at Obi-Wan. "The Council does, as well."
"Why?" Obi-Wan leaned against the table next to him. "I mean no
disrespect, Master, merely...why does this drug interest the
Council?"
Asked a question, Qui-Gon found himself falling easily into
lecture mode. "It enhances the user's ability to use the Force.
Even those who are only mildly sensitive can manipulate it with
ease once they have consumed the Crystlefire...at least, until
it burns them out. Their lives are short, and their senses
clouded from the drug, yet in that time, they have enormous and
uncontrolled mental strength. The drug's power lies almost
entirely in the dark side, acting on every negative thought and
emotion the user has. With the mildest thought they can lash
out in anger, incapacitating or killing others." Qui-Gon folded
his arms across his chest.
Slowly, Obi-Wan sank down next to him, his arms curling around
his legs, head tilting to one side, his mood no longer so
curious. "I can see the cause for concern."
"It is very troubling, which is why we are being sent.
Fortunately, the supply of the drug seems to be rather limited,
but there is some fear that it can be duplicated. Master Yoda
is concerned about what might happen should the drug be used on
a trained Jedi."
"A trained Jedi? But, Master--!"
Qui-Gon held up his hand. "And there is some truth to his
concerns. Can you feel the tremor when the idea is mentioned?"
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and concentrated. "Yes, some, but it is
very faint."
"A mere possibility, only," Qui-Gon agreed. "Which is why we
need to find the source of the drug and find out what can be
done to destroy it, if anything." He turned back to the screen.
"And failing that, what can be done to neutralize it."
Obi-Wan stood and brushed himself off. "I will check the pilot
logs from the last planet where the drug was in use. Maybe we
can check a few of the others, find a common source."
Ah, my Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon thought, his mind's eye closing, his
own eyes opening to the emptiness around him. He blinked,
adjusting to the change, sadness filling him. I should have
seen what might happen then. Why didn't the future warn me?
Instead, he had focused on following up the leads they'd
discovered, the two of them operating as a team, equals with
each man's strengths bolstering the other's weakness.
Finally, they had tracked the source to a rim planet with a
handful of colonists -- Milara. The smuggler with whom Qui-Gon
had spoken said the world was a harsh one, but that the winter
had been mild, and the colonists had been able to dig deep
enough to find the Crystlefire. The man had sneered when he
laughed, encouraging Qui-Gon to share the joke. "They didn't
even know what they had."
Few of the people who had lived on the planet survived their
exposure to the drug they mined, let alone their mistreatment
by their captors -- and Obi-Wan had fallen early to the same
fate.
Qui-Gon could not stop the convulsive shudder that wracked his
body, the dry heaves that caused his stomach to clench and knot
against the pain that arced through him; images swooped in and
hovered on the edge of his vision, as if he could reach out and
touch them.
He put his memories aside, for the hundredth -- the thousandth,
the millionth -- time, determined not to fall into the trap of
dwelling in the past. The feeling faded quickly, leaving him
feeling shaky and drained. Right now, he couldn't even remember
what Obi-Wan had looked like when they met in the hall; all he
could see was the image of that unbound braid, as if the braid
itself were all that Obi-Wan was.
Obi-Wan was more than just his Padawan, more than his role as a
Jedi. He was an individual first. Qui-Gon had to keep that in
mind.
What had happened could not be changed; only the present
allowed him to act. He would not die from the pain of this
separation, and neither would his Padawan; they would both be
the stronger for it. It was simply time for them to come to
terms with what had happened, as best they could, and to go on
with their lives.
Arming himself against the absence of Obi-Wan's things, he sat
up again and forced himself to unpack.
Obi-Wan's hand trembled as he opened the door to his flat,
shutting it quietly behind him and leaning back against it.
Qui-Gon had aged so much in the year since they had seen each
other; for a brief instant, he had not recognized the other
man.
When they'd seen each other, the bond had surged up within him,
and out of habit, bracing himself for pain, Obi-Wan had quashed
it, not projecting any of the joy he felt -- nor had he
received any in return. Rather than the warmth of his Master's
thoughts, only emptiness filled him, along with the calm, cool
detachment he'd worked so hard to find. A smile, a nod, just as
he gave all the Masters. And then each of them had gone his own
way.
He stood up, but his knees felt weak, so he stumbled over to
his spindle-backed bench and collapsed on it, his legs hanging
off over the edge, his arm over his eyes, head braced against
the small pillows he left there. He slept here most of the
time, avoiding the bedroom for fear that he would simply pull
up the covers and curl around the pillow like a child, seeking
comfort in a security he could no longer find.
Slowly, he lowered his arm to his side and repositioned
himself, listening to his breathing, letting the air flow in
and out, allowing the rhythm to soothe him. Master Yoda had
worked hard with him on this, finding a way for him to shut off
all emotion, yet still use the Force. Peace without emotion,
serenity without passion: his mantra this past year.
Resting there, he let the Force wash everything from his soul,
leaving behind an emotionless slate, empty and infinite, an
echo of the silent bond within.
Fight practice started early and went late. Many classes
filtered in and out of the room while the students practiced.
Some Padawans and Knights squared off against each other, but
few Masters were teaching today.
Qui-Gon watched from the steps of the observation deck above
the practice arena, the small classes going through their paces
with more fury and energy than he could ever remember having.
One boy -- Qui-Gon placed him as his driver from the night
before -- was fighting a training droid, instead of a human
partner, at the far end of the room. The boy was working on a
complicated maneuver, a sidestep jump with a half-twist that
would let the defender land behind his opponent--
He felt it the instant Obi-Wan stepped onto the arena floor. He
could not stop himself, he had to turn and look, but Obi-Wan
seemed completely unaware of him. Intellectually, Qui-Gon
admired his ability to focus, but emotionally...he frowned
while Obi-Wan removed his tunic and started through his warm-up
paces.
Neat, clean, exact. Virtually perfect.
Mechanistic.
Those were the words that came to mind as Obi-Wan moved from
basic stretches and katas to more complicated forms, completely
unlike Obi-Wan's normal fighting style. He looked better than
he had on Milara -- the shadows were gone, and the gauntness
had left his face, his body leaner than before, but not wasted.
His pale skin shone with sweat as he worked, yet the movements
looked alien to Qui-Gon's eyes. There was a hard-edged grace,
but the sensuality was missing, the buoyancy that seemed to
spring from a pact between earth and air, as if Obi-Wan were a
bird that might at any moment choose to leap up and fly. These
steps were more deliberate, more precise, the steps of a Master
too careful to risk much at all.
What had happened in the year that he'd been gone? Where was
Obi-Wan's fire?
The pain of that thought lanced through him; he needed to take
a moment to quiet his mind, to make the searing agony recede.
He knew where that fire had gone. He had spent the past year
shutting out those memories along with the newer ones, but too
often, Qui-Gon still felt it burn in the back of his mind...
Hands were on him again, stroking him, touching him, and in the
long delicate fingers, a thin paintbrush, fine and equally
delicate, carved from the bone of some other prisoner. "An
artist signs his work--" The fingers caressed his face, turning
his head so that he looked into the soulless, faceted eyes,
"--so that others will know who created you. They will know you
are mine."
The brush touched him, hot, sharp, fire eating into his
skin...and Qui-Gon screamed--
He heard Obi-Wan scream, too.
His skin hurt so much, like it was alive and burning with its
own fire, even the flow of air making him scream. Different
hands touched his face, his body, tearing away his robes,
leaving him lying naked on rocky black ground at the entrance
to a mine. "Who the fuck sent you in there like that, miner?
You know that the stuff clings to cloth. That's why the
tyveroth suits."
He couldn't move without pain, and he didn't really care what
happened at this point -- all he wanted was the cool relief of
water, something to wash away the pain that seared every inch
of his flesh.
He heard the guard's words, but couldn't quite understand them.
"Stupid-ass shit." Water hit him then, covering him, driving
the air from his lungs with the force of it -- and then he
found he could not breathe. He tried to crawl away as the rocks
cut into his skin, and the water shut off -- but the fire on
his skin continued to burn.
Not just Obi-Wan's pain, but his own.
Several days passed with short glimpses of Obi-Wan's torment
overlaying every sense he had, filling him with the
claustrophobic darkness of a miner's life and the constant ache
in his lungs and on his skin from breathing Crystlefire dust.
The images from Obi-Wan's life seemed to take root in his mind,
mixing and merging with his own memories -- especially those of
his imprisonment by the Quong-sha. People dead for years would
talk to him, smile at him, ask him to fight, during the
visions. Qui-Gon lost reality, reliving old horrors, old
missions, again and again. He couldn't predict when these fits
would come upon him -- morning, night, war council meetings,
meditation time -- every moment he breathed he was vulnerable.
Obi-Wan lost all ability to control the bond, his desperation,
his need, taking everything that Qui-Gon could give and more.
If he was in prison, he wanted Qui-Gon there, too. But Qui-Gon
escaped. He learned to shut out the pain. He had to.
The people of Milara were dying, but they wanted to survive.
They sent scouts to look for weaknesses in the smuggler's
defenses; none of the troops came back. The group of two
hundred that had survived the initial sweeps dwindled and sank
by a dozen, two dozen, more. They did not condemn Qui-Gon for
the fits, just looked at him with their sad, knowing eyes.
"Maybe, when you are better, you can help."
If it had been only his old memories, he could have dealt with
them as he had been taught, or so he told himself. If it had
only been Obi-Wan's enslavement, he could have lent his
support, helped Obi-Wan deal with the drug, or so he hoped. But
between the two, one fire fueling the other into infinity,
Qui-Gon was going mad.
He learned to shut out the pain.
Late one night, when the others were asleep, Qui-Gon
deliberately, methodically closed off the bond. Screams echoed
in his mind, Obi-Wan's despair matched only by his own.
Obi-Wan took everything that night, battering at him, trying to
keep the bond alive. He ripped through Qui-Gon's shields like
they were water, draining him, sucking at Qui-Gon's soul in his
desperation--
And still, in the end, Qui-Gon shut him out.
He came back to himself and found Obi-Wan staring back up at
him, his gaze as soft as a caress, no longer moving through his
paces, the rest of the room staring up at him as well. Obi-Wan
had remembered little of what happened, and for that, Qui-Gon
was thankful. He swallowed and stepped away from the
observation platform, leaving Obi-Wan to practice with the
others in peace.
The fact that the bond remained was a puzzle to the Council. It
should have shattered on Milara at the moment Qui-Gon closed
off his side. Instead, the wound had been left open, the
unstable bond a constant drain on Obi-Wan's mind. It would not
heal, and the council had finally agreed upon drastic measures.
A clean amputation was considered the best course.
Qui-Gon found himself unwilling to accept the decision, even
though he knew it was what Obi-Wan wanted. Since his arrival,
he'd had scarcely any time to himself without some Master or
Council member lobbying on Obi-Wan's behalf.
"Break the bond, free the boy. Simple is it, if you will it,"
Master Yoda said. He sat with Qui-Gon in the star map room, the
worlds spread above and around them, giving a sensation of
connection and peace. "Your choice, as well as his."
A good place for an argument, one long in coming. "Not so
simple, I'm afraid," Qui-Gon said softly, bowing his head at
the old Master's words.
Yoda looked up at him, his wide eyes blinking slowly. "Simple,
if you care not. Care too much, Qui-Gon, and the bond will
never break."
"So I have learned." Qui-Gon smiled wryly. "But if the bond
remains as it is, he cannot take a new Master." He looked down
at Yoda. "I have heard that even you tried."
Yoda shook his head, folding his hands over his staff. "Not all
apprentices are to become Jedi."
Qui-Gon's breath caught in his throat. "Are you saying that we
will lose him?"
"Cannot say." Yoda tapped the ground gently as he looked down
then back up at Qui-Gon. "You are his last Master. That much is
given. The rest..." Yoda's ears twitched. "Always in motion,
the future is. A Padawan and too many paths." He nodded his
goodbye to Qui-Gon. "Teacher, you must be. Break bond, seal
bond, find the right path. Let not your fear decide."
Qui-Gon did not watch as Yoda left the room. Rather, he kept
his mind and thoughts on finding patterns in the stars above
him, letting himself drift with their changes, finally letting
himself acknowledge that he was the reason the bond was still
open, that he was imposing his will on events instead of
seeking out their pattern and accepting whatever emerged.
He would have to let the boy decide.
He paused at the thought, backing up and replaying it, twisting
the emotions it generated around in his mind, turning the words
around and looking back at them, examining the phrase in fine
detail. Obi-Wan was not a boy any longer, had not been for
several years. And 'let' the boy decide? The man was in charge
of his own life, made his own choices. It was Qui-Gon's role to
teach him, yes, but he could not force his student to walk only
one path. He meditated on that thought, letting it fill him,
and felt for the edges of resonance within that would lead him
to truth.
With truth, came action. Qui-Gon let himself drift deeper into
trance, let each breath carry him forward, searching within
himself as if on the wings of a bird.
The invitation was plain, as befitted the occasion, merely a
time and a place to meet: midday in the meditation garden of
the conservatory dome, the room of a thousand fountains.
Obi-Wan folded the paper and set it on his desk, puzzled by the
formality of the language and the fact that the invitation was
written on paper in the first place. He placed his hand over
it, trying to fathom the reason behind the meeting, but as
usual with anything that concerned his former Master lately, he
could sense nothing.
Time was when they could each feel the other without resorting
to such crude communication, but that time was at least a year
in the past. He reminded himself to focus on the moment.
Obi-Wan picked up the paper again and unfolded it,
contemplating the elegant curves of his Master's handwriting.
Almost, he could feel something in the letters. Almost, they
had an energy to them, an image, a picture, something he might
have glimpsed in the past--
And then nothing.
In frustration, he nearly threw the paper away, but it would be
impolite to treat his Master's letter in such a careless
fashion. Instead, he set it aside and rubbed at his eyes; he
was getting a headache again, probably from thinking about
Qui-Gon. Master Yoda had said that until the bond was fully
severed, such things would happen. For the moment, all he could
do was distance himself from his emotions, letting them pass
through him rather than allowing them to cause him pain. He
curled over so his head was on the desk, his arms shutting out
all the light. Still, he could see pixilated jags of light
dancing around his eyes, feel the throb of blood in his temples
and at the base of his neck. He breathed slowly and carefully,
the chill air and relative darkness easing his pain somewhat.
Slowly, too slowly by his reckoning, the pain receded, leaving
him exhausted.
He stood carefully, trying not to jar himself as he found his
way to his pallet and lay down. He would rest a bit, then meet
his Master in the garden. Between them maybe they could find a
way to cut through the bond, freeing him from this
life-stealing pain.
Weeping Yanties cedar lined the entrance to the room of a
thousand fountains, their large branches and cascades of
dark-green leaves providing a natural screen, lending an aura
of isolation to the room, sealing off the heat, light, and
noise of the corridors from the meditation gardens.
Obi-Wan pushed the branches out of the way, inhaling deeply as
he did so, the sharp scent of the trees centering him and
soothing his nerves. The door shut behind him the moment he was
inside. His feet brushed the ground softly as he walked down
the designated path, a mosaic of painted tiles set in a river
of dark brown clay, imported from somewhere off-world. The
sound of running water echoed through the space, and the room
itself felt humid, the air thick with water and heat, the
source of life and the essence of the Force.
It was peaceful here. Spurs jutted out from the path on
occasion, leading to smaller meditation areas -- some near
pools, waterfalls, or simply other gardens. There were a few
screened off areas, places that welcomed in-depth examination,
designed to encourage the petitioner to dwell entirely in the
moment. Occasionally, one of these 'rooms' was used for
negotiations or discussions, when the Jedi needed to talk in a
place that vibrated with the Force.
Obi-Wan caught sight of Qui-Gon's symbol on the path leading to
one such room, separated from the main area by a lattice of
rattan bamboo. In neat gold lettering, the image danced on a
long red card, gently twisting in the breeze created by the
room's ventilation system. A welcoming, or a warning? Obi-Wan
wasn't sure.
Taking a deep breath, he re-centered himself and made his way
up the path.
Qui-Gon had let himself believe he was settled and focused on
the preparations he had made while waiting, but the sound of
the stream beside him could not hide the faint echo of
Obi-Wan's feet on the clay path. He'd willed himself to
stillness, to not force the future by looking too hard for
Obi-Wan, but rather to let the moment be as it may...yet he
could not help but notice the hesitation in the footsteps, the
way the soles dragged with each step.
He turned away from the entryway, surveying his work. Pillows
surrounded the low table, a concession to the amount of time he
thought the discussion would take. The tea was warmed and ready
for straining, dark brown, almost black sekani cups warmed. He
knew he had made too much food; he had set it aside where it
would not be seen, the tray replete with small bowls and plates
containing the things he remembered that Obi-Wan had
liked...but did he still like those things now? The tastes of a
thirteen-year-old boy and a twenty-one year-old man were
remarkably different.
Obi-Wan's boots crunched on the rock landing right outside the
meditation space. Heart beating faster, he looked up just in
time to catch Obi-Wan removing them before stepping down into
the clearing. "Qui-Gon." He bowed formally.
"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon returned the gesture. "Please, sit. We have
much to discuss."
When they had met in the hall, Obi-Wan had had little time to
note the details of the changes in his Master, and now he was
almost saddened to see how many there were. The long hair was
greyer, as was the beard, though much shorter than Obi-Wan
remembered. Qui-Gon's cheekbones stood out in sharp relief from
the rest of his face, and his eyes looked like they had sunk
deep within their sockets, leaving brilliant blue lights
surrounded by darkness, as if he had not slept in months. He
had obviously lost weight, making his muscle definition
sharper, but leaving the skin on his neck and hands stretched
tight. He didn't look exactly human, anymore, more like some
giant ogre stepped out of myth to come and have tea with him.
Yet despite the changes, he still looked the same, all
passionate features and visionary eyes. Obi-Wan plucked
uncomfortably at his robe, like a child. Who had been looking
after Qui-Gon for this past year? Who had fed him, tended his
clothes? Made him sleep? It bothered him that none of these
questions had crossed his mind the entire time Qui-Gon had been
gone. Obi-Wan had just assumed that there would be someone for
him, that another would step into what had been Obi-Wan's
place.
Clearly, no one had. He wasn't sure who he was more angry with
at the moment, himself, or Qui-Gon, for letting it come to
this. Obi-Wan caught himself picking at his robe again and
forced his hands to his sides, smoothing out the nubby brown
fabric.
He looked back up at Qui-Gon, who seemed involved in pouring
them both tea. There was one other change: Qui-Gon was wearing
a black tunic, rather than his regular attire. He couldn't help
the bitter grimace that came to his lips, but he quickly hid it
away before Qui-Gon saw. What a difference the year had wrought
-- his Master had changed what he wore.
A flicker of pain, and Obi-Wan winced. Peace without emotion,
serenity without passion, he reminded himself. Above all,
adhere to the code. He did not want to make any mistakes that
might put Qui-Gon to shame.
Qui-Gon's impression of Obi-Wan from the training room held.
His actions were slower, more deliberate, controlled. Even
picking up a cup of tea required at least three distinct
movements -- hand to cup, hand grasp cup, cup to mouth. Qui-Gon
closed his eyes, swallowed, and re-opened them again, trying to
release his tension. It was like watching the initial
programming on a training droid, each step a labor, repeated
endlessly until someday it ran at speed.
At speed. Not fluid, not graceful. Not warm, not welcoming, not
whole.
Not Obi-Wan.
Yet his Obi-Wan had to be there, somewhere, hidden beneath the
too-careful deliberateness of his movements. He smiled as he
used to -- but the smile was equally perfunctory. His eyes
lacked their mischievous nature. Everything looked to be a
chore.
This then, was the final result of his decision on Milara, to
shut Obi-Wan out. Sitting across from him was the embodiment of
that decision, and his secret hopes of the last year died. In
shutting down the bond, he had broken something, torn it so
badly it couldn't be repaired. He needed...needed to accept
that. Maybe with another, Obi-Wan could form a bond again, find
a way to make it work.
A painful stillness crept over him at the thought. Qui-Gon
tried to center himself, tried to release it and find
acceptance, but his eyes kept drifting back to Obi-Wan and his
too-exact touch.
His eyes followed the teacup's laborious path from table to
mouth, and the way Obi-Wan oh, so carefully drank it. Words
poured from his mouth as if directed by the Force itself.
"Don't worry about spilling it."
Obi-Wan looked at him and blinked, his confusion apparent.
"Ma-- Qui-Gon?"
"The tea. Don't worry about spilling it. Everything can be
cleaned."
Obi-Wan smiled that lifeless smile again, his hand fluttering
at the table and the room. "I would hate to mar the perfection
you've created."
The word twisted like a knife in Qui-Gon's chest. Perfection?
There was nothing about him that was perfect. He was an
impostor; he only needed to look at Obi-Wan to know that.
Qui-Gon had failed him on Milara, another instance of trying to
work his will, rather than letting the Force have its way.
Obi-Wan was as scarred as he himself was and might never reach
his full potential as a Master. And all of it because of what
Qui-Gon had done.
No, he was nothing to be idolized or modeled. He was a man,
nothing but. Qui-Gon just wished that there was some way that
he could teach Obi-Wan that.
"The bond must be broken." Obi-Wan could hear the slight edge
of desperation in his voice and hated himself for it. Peace.
Serenity. Let your emotions flow through you. He took a deep
breath and centered himself, acknowledging that his headache
had returned, proud that he had not let it distract him from
what needed to be done.
Even if no one knew exactly how to go about it.
"Where would we start?" At least Qui-Gon sounded as tired as he
felt. "It's not something that there is an advanced class on.
No one teaches the art of eliminating a bond."
"The mind workers--"
"Know as little about this as we do."
"What about when...a Padawan becomes a Knight? You remove the
bond then, don't you? Or if a Padawan...leaves the order?" A
flush of anger started to creep into his cheeks, but a deep
breath pushed it away. "You were not still bonded to Xanatos,
were you? Once he left the order."
Qui-Gon could not meet Obi-Wan's gaze anymore and glanced back
to the stream. "What I knew how to do I tried on Milara. I know
nothing else."
"So this is my problem. My concern."
"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon reached out for him, but pulled his hand
back before touching him. "I will do whatever I can."
"But it is not enough, is it, Master?" The world splintered
again, and this time Obi-Wan could not stop it. He pressed his
hands to his temples, rubbing them, trying to stop the pain,
but he was too tired and hot to have complete control over it.
"Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan!"
He knew Qui-Gon was calling to him, but all he could hear was
the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. His skin
burned with energy, and his stomach rebelled against the
tension he'd been holding at bay -- he lost his battle to keep
its contents in place.
Qui-Gon practically leapt over the table. Obi-Wan stopped
heaving quickly. Qui-Gon knelt and pulled Obi-Wan into his lap.
Tremors wracked Obi-Wan's body; his colorless skin felt clammy
to the touch. Qui-Gon lifted him up, kicking the pillows into a
roughly human-shaped pile, and laid him down on them. This was
so much worse than he had expected. Helplessness surged through
him, and again, he was on Milara, holding Obi-Wan as he waited
for another spasm to pass. Water had helped then, and Qui-Gon
took off his cloth belt, dipped it in the nearby stream, and
used it to wipe Obi-Wan's face.
His eyes fluttered open, intelligence surfacing in them,
instantly followed by...shame. Obi-Wan rolled away from him,
not looking at Qui-Gon, as if embarrassed by what had happened.
As if it was wrong to be seen like this, vulnerable and open
and in pain. As if it made him less than...perfect.
Qui-Gon sat back on his heels, his mind whirling. Why wouldn't
he see things that way? It was what the Master taught him do,
how the Master behaved. Show no fear, no weakness, no emotion.
Project a blank slate.
Be perfect.
It hurt, to think about how he'd showed Obi-Wan to hide
everything that happened to him behind a mask of calm insight.
When he'd been rescued from the Quong-sha, he'd done the same,
taken his pain and hidden it, letting it stay and fester and
grow. So many times in his life he had done that, had
sacrificed a part of himself to maintain the surface calm. Yet
none of those sacrifices had truly helped him attain the ideal
of the Right Hand path, perfect control over his mind and his
emotions. He'd had to learn to accept and move on. To live in
the moment, rather than in the failures of the past.
Had he ever, ever, let Obi-Wan see any of that? Or had the
boyish worship been so soothing that he could not show Obi-Wan
that a man lay behind the mask?
In four years, he'd never mentioned anything to Obi-Wan about
the imprisonment, or what had happened, had merely told the boy
he'd been injured during the assignment. Small things, quickly
covered up, never letting his apprentice see just how badly
he'd shattered -- and that he'd survived. Never shown him that
sometimes things that were broken could end up stronger than
they were before.
His hands trembled as they went to the fastenings on his tunic.
"Obi-Wan," he said softly, capturing Obi-Wan's gaze with his
own. "You did nothing wrong."
My failures. My mistakes. Not yours.
"Let yourself heal. You're still suffering from what happened
on Milara." Confusion registered in Obi-Wan's eyes as Qui-Gon
slowly undid the fastenings on his jacket, letting his tunic
fall open. "We all live with what has been written on us."
The cloth pooled around him, and Qui-Gon refused to look away,
finally letting Obi-Wan see what he had hidden for four years,
let him see how the glass had been shattered.
He had failed before, failed others. Obi-Wan needed to see
exactly that.
Scars. From waist to chest, Qui-Gon's body was covered in
scars. Not tiny ones, not the scars from laser burns or knives
or blasters or anything that Obi-Wan could remember seeing
but...scars shaped like animals and trees, sitting, standing,
or in flight--
All of them beautiful.
Obi-Wan stared at Qui-Gon, shock pushing him to his feet.
"Master! What...when..." He swallowed hard, his gaze locking
with Qui-Gon's. "How?"
The last word was a command and spoke more of pain and
disappointment than Qui-Gon could bear. "You were sixteen at
the time and due for a rotation assisting with the creche
children. You stayed at the temple, and I was sent to negotiate
a treaty with the Quong-sha."
"The Quong-sha? But...they're raiders, aren't they?"
"Now, they are." Qui-Gon paused. "They used to control a small
system of planets." He shrugged, trying to lessen the weight of
the memories, keep his distance for a little while longer.
"They wanted to control more. As the Republic's Ambassador,
they thought I might know more of a nearby system's defenses
than I did and where the Heir might live." He nodded back at
the table, indicating that Obi-Wan should sit, folding himself
back down to serve more tea. His hands trembled as he did; he
watched Obi-Wan glance at them as he poured, knew that Obi-Wane
could read his tension in that as easily as if it had been
spoken aloud. "Their plan was to kill him and take his sisters
hostage as bargaining chips for future negotiations. They
decided to persuade me to help them in their quest."
Obi-Wan seemed to be unable to tear his gaze from Qui-Gon's
skin, finally shaking his head to break the spell before
settling down at the table. "It looks like...you look
like...like someone used you as a canvas for a painting."
"They did." Qui-Gon acknowledged Obi-Wan's insight with a
slight smile before he went on. "Denshi, Lord of the Quong-sha,
took a particular interest in me. The guards flayed the skin
from my feet to make sure I could not walk without pain if I
some how managed to escape."
Carefully he poured the tea into cups and set one at Obi-Wan's
right hand with a small clay dish of spiced guarnam on his
left. He focused on performing the tasks precisely, all at once
understanding that this must be how Obi-Wan felt, what drove
him to be so precise, as if the slightest variation could bring
the whole thing crashing down on him again. "My arms were then
locked over my head, and Lord Denshi would come in to inspect
his work of the day before. What he liked, he kept, and what
displeased him...he painted over with neuplast."
His voice drifted. He had not spoken of this to anyone save the
healers four years ago; perhaps his own shame was what had lead
to Obi-Wan's pain. Perhaps his desire to shield Obi-Wan, to
block those memories, meant that the bond had never fully
formed, though he believed it had. Their bond had started deep,
but lacked the mind speech of the perfect Master-Padawan bond,
and that had not changed since the day he had accepted Obi-Wan
as his apprentice -- again, something contrary to common
wisdom. The bonds were supposed to strengthen over time, as
Master and student grew to trust each other. Perhaps his own
inability to trust had been the start of what went wrong on
Milara, leaving the bond unstable and open to the force of the
Crystlefire.
Obi-Wan was looking at him, his eyes full of concern, and
Qui-Gon was no longer certain of his own choices. Telling this
story would be a first step, and he wanted -- needed -- to make
sure Obi-Wan understood what had happened, needed to try and
mend what he had broken through his own ignorance and pride,
needed to try to...give him some hope.
He took a deep breath and let it out, centering himself. "I
stood, the soles of my feet aching and torn, while he waited
for it to heal, but I was not allowed to move; he would paint
over his favorites from the day before, adding more detail,
perfecting it." He tried to stop himself from grimacing, but
thought better of it and let himself show his true emotion for
the first time. It needed to come out; Obi-Wan needed to know
he was not alone. "Once the neuplast set, he would paint a
different image on his canvas, creating new shapes and forms of
whatever pleased him." Pain lived in him again, and Qui-Gon
found himself sweating from the memories, his mouth dry, the
glide of the brush on his skin echoing in his mind.
This was too much right now; he needed to bring back his
distance. It was too hard to keep talking calmly. He carefully
speared a piece of guarnam and popped the bite into his mouth,
savoring the pungent flavor, letting the juice give him
strength. "As to the how, I never knew. A form of acid, the
healers said, though it never ate away his brush. It merely ate
through my skin."
His eyes focused on Obi-Wan's face as he tried to explain why
it had taken him so long to speak of this. "I screamed each
time he painted me, Obi-Wan, and each morning when my feet were
torn. I cried openly, unable to find within myself any sort of
calm. I was as a child." Another slow deep breath, another slow
exhale, centering himself in the moment, letting his fear wash
through him and back into the Force. "There is no shame in what
I did, nor in what happened to you. We survived. We live with
what happened and count ourselves lucky to still have a life to
go back to."
And deal with whatever consequences come.
He picked up his cup and sipped at his tea before carefully
setting it back in its place. "I sought to protect you from
what had happened, and for that, I am sorry. I was able to hold
the barriers through everything, but I should have let them
down when I returned. You had a right to know."
Obi-Wan looked at him, his gaze softer than it had been before.
"What happened to the Heir?"
"They found him and killed him." He closed his eyes and
swallowed, the memory of the boy's torn and broken body still
etched in his mind. The child had been the same age as Obi-Wan
at the time. "His sisters also died."
He caught the way Obi-Wan kept looking at him, equal parts fear
and fascination written on his face. Qui-Gon wanted to laugh,
but he knew that would be inappropriate at the moment, his own
fears evaporating and leaving him a little light-headed as
Obi-Wan showed nothing worse than empathy and concern. He stood
and threw his arms wide. "Come, touch them. They are nothing
more than skin."
Obi-Wan stood and hesitantly ran his hands over the scars where
the flesh had re-knit itself, leaving behind a pale ridge of
tissue. "Why do you keep them?"
The words were gentle, curious, undemanding. Tentatively,
Obi-Wan's fingers ghosted across his flesh like a benediction,
a blessing. There was no censure in his touch, no anger -- no
disgust. Something fell away within Qui-Gon, a treasured fear
he hadn't even known he'd hoarded: that Obi-Wan would see his
torn flesh and turn away in horror.
But his calmness, his gentleness, belied that fear, and Qui-Gon
felt the dragon die. "For one, Lord Denshi honored me with his
work. These are the images he drew the most deeply into my
skin, his favorites, and there is a type of grace in them,
despite the pain they caused." He took another deep breath as
Obi-Wan's touch grew more aggressive, more sure, as if
memorizing each line etched in his flesh. "For another, they
are a lesson, a reminder of my own arrogance. And finally," he
paused, feeling at the edges of his words, finding the truth in
them, "once I finished healing, this was all that was left of
my ordeal. It changed me." Qui-Gon laid his hand over
Obi-Wan's, stilling the restless stroking. He curled his
fingers around Obi-Wan's, embracing them, then releasing them.
"I have become what I am because of them. They are a part of
me." He slid his hand up Obi-Wan's arm. "I accept them and have
learned to appreciate their beauty."
Just as I have learned to ignore yours.
Obi-Wan could not tear his eyes away from the pictures carved
into Qui-Gon's body. Strong fingers cupped his chin, forcing
him to look up from the marked flesh and into his Master's
eyes.
"Not everyone is so lucky. Not all scars can be seen."
The intensity of his Master's gaze drilled into him, igniting a
fire left untended too long.
"There is no disgrace in having scars, Obi-Wan, only in letting
them channel your life in a direction you would not otherwise
choose. Do not follow my example in this. Do not learn to hide
yours."
The connection between them -- sharp, tight, and ill-used --
stretched and trembled under the intensity of shared emotion,
almost as if it were trying to re-tune itself, only to twist
and shatter, leaving Obi-Wan with a pounding headache that
throbbed with each beat of his heart. He dropped his eyes from
Qui-Gon's and turned away, his hand coming to rest at his side,
his thoughts a morass of a thousand different things.
He needed to get out of here, get away from the heat and the
water for a bit, have a chance to breathe before his stomach
rebelled again. He grabbed onto the first thing he thought of:
"I will fetch dinner."
The hand fell away, and Qui-Gon's voice was gentle when he
spoke, soft with disappointment...and pain. "I will wait."
Obi-Wan nodded, not looking at Qui-Gon in any way, nor at the
small bowls of uneaten delicacies left sitting on the table. He
fled the room like a first-year student, unwilling to deal with
what had not been said.
He brought back bowls of rice and a clear broth soup, plain and
simple fare. Qui-Gon had dressed again in his new black robe,
but there was no belt to wear with it now. The old bowls had
been cleared away and the ledge cleaned; all that was left was
the scent of the cedar trees.
Qui-Gon had moved the table closer to the stream, where it was
cooler and the ventilation better. Obi-Wan set the tray down on
it and sat next to Qui-Gon, neither one looking at the other.
They ate in silence, listening to the soothing restlessness of
the water as Obi-Wan tried to piece his thoughts together.
Qui-Gon's words had changed something for him, and he found
himself looking around the room, filtering what he saw through
new eyes. The room still held the beauty it had before, but now
he found himself focusing on the tiny flaws and imperfections
that he had not seen, and to him, they seemed...beautiful.
The room was constructed so that it had a regulated growing
season, a natural cycle for the plants that lived here, tended
by the younger of the Jedi-in-training, getting them used to
the feel of the Force in all living things. In the far corner,
the flowers had died, wilted on the vine. To the left, what
should have been a perfectly smooth rock showed its cracks,
marked by the weather of its home planet, enhancing its
character. The path that led to the garden was imperfect, as
well, the glossy surface and mosaic pattern irregular in
places, showing the marks of craftsmanship, rather than
manufacture, and the rattan walls that partitioned off the
various meditation rooms were weathered and grey from the
terraformed rain.
Obi-Wan contemplated it all, seeing how the variations added to
the solace of the place, rather than tearing it apart. The
scars added a type of harmony to the environment, showing the
places where nature walked in a world that owed more to
multiple facets of engineering than any sort of stewardship.
They finished their meal, companionable at the last, and
formally bowed to one another.
The bow was one of equals.
Spring brought the thaw, and the living ice kestrel young were
raised by any and all of adults in the rookery, taught to fly
and to hunt, and to evade predators. At the beginning of
summer, the adults migrated to lush hunting grounds inland,
while the young were left on their own.
The strongest ones survived.
Still thinking, Obi-Wan walked slowly back to his room. What
did it all mean, that Qui-Gon would reveal this at last to him?
And how had he managed to hide the scars for so long? Since
Obi-Wan was sixteen...
A smile crept onto his face as he remembered that year and his
growing fascination with sex. It was only natural, and everyone
assumed that he would develop a crush...or two. And there might
be a few dozen dreams...his brow furrowed in thought. He
quickly shook his head and paced back to his room. That was how
Qui-Gon had managed to hide it, because at sixteen, Obi-Wan had
been given his own room, Qui-Gon requesting the suite be
remodeled so Obi-Wan would have his own bathroom. He'd assumed
it was because Qui-Gon was being solicitous of his privacy,
which was true, but it had also allowed Qui-Gon to have more
privacy of his own. Every world they were on for the next three
years they'd had separate quarters, and on transports, as well.
In fact, the only time they'd shared a room was...Milara, right
before the rescue.
That time was such a blank to him, from the drugs and the fever
of withdrawal, that he could barely remember a thing. A few
flashes of sound, some faces, the image of a bird -- he assumed
that it was the bird on the wall that Qui-Gon had told him
about, but in his mind, the bird looked different. Smaller, for
one thing, maybe the width of three fingers, rather than the
spread of Qui-Gon's hand.
He needed to think, to meditate, to understand the reason for
this -- change. Something had changed between them in that
room, and Obi-Wan was determined to find out why.
Unfortunately, the necessary serenity for a trance eluded him.
Obi-Wan's mind jumped from image to thought to sound to
sensation at a Force-enhanced pace. Part of him felt betrayed
at Qui-Gon's lack of trust in not mentioning this earlier, and
part of him felt soothed that Qui-Gon had been so concerned
about him that he had hidden his pain away. He smiled wryly to
himself. Perfect trust, perfect love -- no one lives an ideal.
Accepting the inevitable, he rolled out of the seated
meditation position and stood, pacing over to the window in his
flat. From here, he had a view of one of the large inner
courtyards; he watched a few people moving through the space.
He was lucky, he knew, to have drawn this room -- luck, and a
little bit of rank, truth to tell. If their Masters recommended
it, older Padawans were offered new rooms as they became
available, and then it was simply the luck of the draw. So now,
he had a perfect spot from which to view temple life, to watch
the Masters, Padawans, and Knights flit by beneath him, each of
them focused on some particular goal.
What was his goal?
He turned away from the window and paced back to the center of
the room, his arms folded around himself. He wanted to be free
of pain, but that seemed an almost futile wish. Pain pointed to
a problem, a weakness that should be dealt with, something that
needed to be resolved. He had spent the last year doing just
that; yet the pain remained. Lesser, no longer constant, but it
remained. To want the absence of something seemed very
negative, and negative was always wrong.
He was wrong to want his own freedom from pain; he should learn
to accept. He shook his head and walked to his common room and
sat down on the bench. He rested his hands on his legs, then
closed his eyes, trying to think.
What was it permitted to want?
Peace, Love, Happiness. An end to suffering. He smiled wryly
and ran his hand through his hair to the ends of his unbound
braid. Just not his own suffering.
His smile faded, the bleak humor drying up as fast as it had
fallen. He had no goals, no dreams at the moment. All he'd
wanted was to be a Jedi, to be someone's apprentice and then a
Knight, helping where his talents fit best.
But it hadn't been just anyone's apprentice, had it? He'd
wanted to be Qui-Gon Jinn's. A man who trusted rarely, who had
many acquaintances and few friends, whose first apprentice had
turned to the dark side and tried to destroy them, a man who
kept a thousand secrets hidden away where they could never be
seen. A man for whom the highest form of praise seemed to be
"acceptable."
No wonder they had never formed a proper bond.
He pushed a couple of the pillows behind him, staring at the
wooden floor as he thought. Was he still looking for that
perfect bond, the one where they could mind-speak to each
other? Is that why he couldn't let go? There had to be
something more.
His black humor returned, and Obi-Wan laughed at himself. It
would be so easy, wouldn't it, to blame Qui-Gon? To deny his
own responsibility in this, to lay it on Qui-Gon's broad -- and
willing -- shoulders. No, for the bond to form the way it had,
there had to be secrets on both sides. His job should be to
ferret out his own thoughts.
He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, remembering the moment
Qui-Gon had started to remove his tunic. He searched through
himself, letting his consciousness focus on his own reactions
at the time -- hurt, betrayal, a touch more surprise,
astonishment, joy --
And lust.
Surprise propelled him up off the bench, and he whirled around
to stare at it, as if he had just been bitten. How long had
those feelings been with him? Had that really been the reason
he stayed? He was Jedi because he had to be to stay at
Qui-Gon's side.
The instant he thought it, he knew it wasn't the entire truth.
He was Jedi because -- because he needed to belong. For the
last year, he'd focused on that goal, working as hard as he
could to be the perfect Jedi, to be able to remain in some form
within the order.
Perfect.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught an image of himself in
the mirror on the closed bathroom door, his own body swaddled
in the near-shapeless Jedi garb, only neck, head, and hands
really exposed. He looked at himself as an outsider for once,
seeing only the symbol of his station and not the person
beneath. How long had it been since he had allowed himself out
of the uniform, since he had allowed himself to be other than a
Jedi?
His reflection drew him like the flicker of candlelight as
Obi-Wan tried to see something in himself that was not defined
by the role he had taken. He reached out his hand to touch the
glass, feeling how cool it was where the image of his cheek and
his lips would be. He turned his head to the left and the
right, looking for something, anything, that made him an
individual separate from the other Padawans -- but all he saw
was a variation on a thousand others, a formless, shapeless
man, a rack for the clothing of a Jedi.
Was this perfection, he wondered, to be indistinguishable,
interchangeable with another, to lack all identifying marks--
He turned his head and saw it, the mole that flawed his skin.
He'd seen no other Jedi with that. It became a race, somehow,
for him to strip out of his uniform and find the few marks and
scars that had not been erased, the bits and pieces of
imperfection that proved to him that he was real and human, and
not a drone.
He stood naked in front of the mirror, breathing fast, his
hands skimming over his own body, smooth skin of his chest,
unscarred with achingly beautiful pictures. How different he
looked from Qui-Gon.... His hand drifted lower, and he began to
touch himself, stroking his slowly growing erection.
What would Qui-Gon look like if he were the one in front of the
mirror now, stroking himself like this? With his reserve set
aside for once, letting himself be watched? Or perhaps doing
the watching?
The images were exciting, just the thought of Qui-Gon being
so...naked made Obi-Wan's heart pound. Naked physically, yes,
but more. He remembered the look on Qui-Gon's face as he had
taken off his robe, how open and vulnerable he'd been,
stripping like that. He could not remember ever seeing his
Master--
Before the pain could start, he diverted his thoughts. Qui-Gon,
he thought to himself. Images overlaid themselves in his mind
-- his own naked body reflected in the mirror, Qui-Gon's form
as he'd seen it four years before, perfect and idealized with
the softened edges of time and teenage worship, and the way
he'd seen him today, tired and worn, with scars painted on his
skin.
In his mind, the images merged, leaving a vision of Qui-Gon
naked in front of him, healthy, strong, and scarred. The power
of his own reaction shocked him, his cock hardening completely,
his almost negligent touches turning insistent.
Yes, he wanted this, wanted Qui-Gon.
He brushed his nipple with one hand as he abruptly fisted his
cock with the other, then slid his hand down his chest to cup
his balls. Qui-Gon's words in the garden had somehow released
something he'd bottled up inside himself, something he'd
forgotten he'd wanted, something he'd never noticed in Qui-Gon,
his 'perfect' Master.
Need and desire merged in his mind, his hands stroking, pushing
him closer to the edge. His head lolled back as his breathing
churned itself in large shuddering gasps. He felt his balls
tighten as he imagined Qui-Gon's hands on him, and he wondered,
briefly, intimately, what Qui-Gon's body would feel like under
his own...and what his body looked like when he came.
The thought, the final trigger, pushed his body to its peak. He
could feel the liquid pulling up out of his balls, felt his
cock harden more in his hands, jerked and thrust with the power
of orgasm. His eyes fluttered open and shut, his body hot and
tight as if caught in a beam of light -- then it all tumbled
down.
His legs weakened, and Obi-wan slipped to the floor, gasping
like a man who had nearly drowned. His vision splintered again,
but this time, there was little pain. He waited patiently, let
himself come back together, his muscles stabilizing, his
breathing regular, before he even attempted to sit up.
The image of Qui-Gon was gone now, only his own image stared
back. Obi-Wan couldn't help but grin and laugh at himself; he
was a mess. He rolled onto his side, stood, and stretched. He
hadn't done that in a while, he thought, not any of it. He
opened the bathroom door and walked to the shower, turning it
on as he sifted through his memories.
A year.
Back in Qui-Gon's suite, the quiet seemed louder than blaster
fire, and his novel far from distracting. The remnants of
yesterday's dinner sat on a plate next to him, reheated and
allowed to grow cold once again while his glass of ice water
had grown warm. Qui-Gon found himself unable to focus on
anything tonight, not food, not entertainment. He just could
not let go of the day's revelations. His mind replayed
everything that had happened on Milara over and over, showing
him how he had failed. If only he had not been so weak, there
might have been something he could have done.
He was the Master, after all. His was the burden if anything
went wrong.
His was the need to be perfect.
A flicker of anger surged through him; he automatically
re-channeled the feeling into positive thought.
Obi-Wan survived.
He could not drive the memories from his mind and finally had
to accept that this was his night's entertainment. He turned
from his desk and settled himself on the floor to meditate,
hoping that it would lead somewhere. His memories of that time
were tainted. They had merged and blended with the ones that
Obi-Wan had sent him -- unshielded and drugged, his projection
at ten times the normal force -- and he could not separate the
two.
Qui-Gon wandered in a world of his own nightmares.
His mistake. His failure. His thrice-damned legacy to the one
he loved above all. His throat tasted of ashes at the memory,
and Qui-Gon forced himself to relax. He'd tried to repair the
damage, once he was no longer under mental assault, only to
learn exactly what had happened while Obi-Wan had been in the
smugglers' care. His regret had weighed upon him like a
grinding stone as Obi-Wan's pain and despair laid themselves
over him like a sackcloth, his Padawan's mind capable of asking
only one thing: Please. Let me go. He had cried, then, not able
to touch what was now so broken, had tried to repair what he
could...to no avail. When he could not stand the despair any
more, he had finally given in.
Jedi lore said that when a perfect bond was broken, the two
Jedi who carried that bond died instantly. Such hubris to place
his trust in a fairy tale, such arrogance to believe their bond
to be perfect. Was it any wonder that he had failed? The rescue
ships had arrived less than a day later, to find them both
comatose and near death. How lucky they both were to have
survived.
His choices after that seemed to only make matters worse. He
had let Obi-Wan go because he could not bear to see the
reminders of what he had done, of how he had failed them both.
He'd believed -- wanted to believe -- that the healers at the
temple could correct what he had done, heal the shattered bond.
But seeing Obi-Wan here, feeling his pain, knowing that he
himself was the cause....
The Council was right. All remnants of their bonding must be
eradicated; this broken, scarred bond was slowly killing them
both.
This time, the ache he felt was far worse than when he'd found
Obi-Wan in the tunnels, worse than when Obi-Wan declared his
intention to go. He knew the emptiness would diminish in time
-- as it had so many times before -- but for now he sought his
peace in ritual, hoping that by re-grounding himself in the
Force, he could find some island of peace in his sea of unease.
Obi-Wan entered the practice field hall, a little startled to
find it nearly deserted. He removed his outer robe and took
care to stretch, letting his muscles warm up. He couldn't help
smiling, as if his spirit were taking flight after a long
winter, yet nothing new had happened.
Nothing at all, except he and Qui-Gon had talked. That in and
of itself seemed a small blessing of the Force.
The door opened again, and Obi-Wan looked up, watching as
Qui-Gon strode into the room. A ripple of contentment went
through him; even though they'd had no plans to meet on the
practice field, it was as if he'd been expecting Qui-Gon to
appear. He looked the same as yesterday -- no, not the same.
The slightly hollow look was gone, though he still didn't look
like he was sleeping. Obi-Wan nodded at him, and Qui-Gon nodded
back; they would fight each other, something they had not done
in a year.
Qui-Gon removed his robes.
A few gasps and the buzz of conversation among the other
combatants surged like a wave through the room. Qui-Gon looked
nowhere else, only at Obi-Wan, as he started his own stretches.
Why?
Qui-Gon had kept this hidden for years. Why was he so open
about it now? Ashamed, wishing that in some way he could match
Qui-Gon's openness, he glanced away -- only to immediately be
drawn back by the mere presence of his Master.
Was Qui-Gon so open? Obi-Wan considered the question, his
optimism from last night dissipating under the cold light of
day. Qui-Gon made no move to talk to him now, kept to himself
at the far side of the arena. Perhaps there was something more.
Obi-Wan turned away, running through their last conversation in
his mind, picking it apart, applying the techniques of clear
thinking to what had been said.
Then he turned those same processes to what had gone unsaid.
Qui-Gon had given him the perfect gift, a chance to see someone
else who'd been broken, who'd learned to accept it calmly and
rationally and integrate it into his life.
Except -- that's not what he had seen. The scars showed him a
man tied to his past, who couldn't let go. He'd carried his
imprisonment with him for four years and had never mentioned it
to Obi-Wan at all.
This from a man who'd practically abandoned his Padawan after a
similar event. What was going on? Why was he making the choice
to show them now? What had changed--
Or were they serving another purpose?
Obi-Wan focused intently on Qui-Gon and realized that right
now, all he saw were the scars. He had to force himself to look
away, to look at the man behind them. He thought about that
idea for a moment, about the scars as a form of disguise. The
surface calm, the chaos underneath; Qui-Gon was as fragmented
as the meditation gardens. The more he considered it, the more
certain he felt.
His Master had something to hide.
Obi-Wan drew a breath, waiting for the pain...less this time,
thankfully. Why, he wondered again, standing fully upright,
preparing himself for battle. Why before, and why now?
Too many concerns for the moment, since it was their turn to
take the field.
The scars suited Qui-Gon, moving as he moved, like a predator
bird taking flight. Obi-Wan noticed it absently as they started
through their paces, moving faster and more surely the longer
they were together, pieces meshing almost perfectly, but not
quite, as if a gear were slightly off true. Intoxicated by the
freedom of movement he allowed himself, he wanted to laugh. He
tried a leap he would not have used with anyone else and sailed
by Qui-Gon, who moved a little too slowly to catch him in time,
landing behind him and turning before Qui-Gon could attack.
He froze as he caught sight of one of the birds painted there
-- and his mind splintered again, his blood pounding in his
temples, the world shattered and receding around him. Voices
echoed within him, just as they had when he'd had to mine
Crystlefire. "There is no other answer, Ser Jedi. You must
leave him. All of the miners--"
That was a woman's voice, not young, not old, and his mind fed
him the image of the Milaran healer. "They die, Master Qui-Gon.
The drug drives them mad, and they die. There is no hope for
it."
"I will find him, I will bring him back." Qui-Gon's voice,
assured...yet not. Strange how he could remember nuances in the
tone that he so rarely heard in reality: pain, anguish,
frustration, reassurance. More than that, though, the words had
etched themselves in his mind, bypassing thought and connecting
straight into his soul.
It was as if he'd never heard Qui-Gon speak before, as if his
voice had somehow gathered all the colors and depth of a
painted landscape and fused them into his speech.
The image frustrated him, strained and angular like the rest of
his world. Obi-Wan wished he could see his Master, but nothing
was clear -- except for the voice. He had to guess at what he
saw.
"How?" The woman's voice had grown quiet, and she laid an arm
on Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Through your dreams? They are from
dust, not a true vision." She handed Qui-Gon a comlink. "Call
your ships. If they are fast, there might be time. Better to
save a few than lose them all."
He strained to see more, and the world shifted again, this time
becoming...an elsewhere that Obi-Wan could not remember ever
having seen. A man with long black hair, faceted eyes, and
sallow skin, his features long and sharp as knives, holding a
brush in his hand. "An artist signs his work."
A movement, a feather light touch against his skin, inscribing
a figure -- a bird -- nestled against the base of his cock. The
brush felt soft and gentle, stroking some sort of liquid on his
skin. The liquid lay against him as it had been painted,
growing hotter and more painful as the seconds past, searing
his skin until he knew that blisters were forming, his flesh
weeping as it tried to save itself, save him, from that fire...
Obi-Wan screamed.
His cry was answered by another. "Obi-Wan. OBI-WAN."
Qui-Gon's voice called to him, but it was different now. The
texture and depth was gone, and only a fraction of the
emotional resonance remained. Obi-Wan realized that there were
hands on his shoulders, shaking him, holding him -- and that
the world was coming back into focus. "I'm all right," he
whispered, pulling away from Qui-Gon's touch. "I'll be fine.
It's been worse."
His horizon became a dozen pairs of feet, the other combatants
from the field. They pulled away, letting him rise by himself,
not offering their assistance.
He probably would have snapped at them if they had. He'd
certainly done enough of that this past year. Master Billaba
had pulled Qui-Gon aside and was talking to him in a low voice.
Obi-Wan wasn't sure if it was about his seizure, or Qui-Gon's
appearance, or even a little of both, but Qui-Gon had his arms
crossed in front of his chest like a recalcitrant child, and
Master Billaba stabbed at the air with her fingers.
Feeling stable, Obi-Wan waved off the healer's questions, his
mind already searching through what he'd just experienced. This
attack had been different from the others he remembered, yet
there was something that nagged at him, similar to something
that had happened before.
He looked back at Qui-Gon, who was staring back at him,
determination in his face, the scars covering his body.
The scars.
He'd never seen the scar he'd felt, knew that had never
happened to him.
It had happened to Qui-Gon, four years before, with the
Quong-sha.
How had that memory come to be his? What exactly had happened
on Milara?
He settled back against the wall of the practice hall, out of
the way of the other participants, and took a deep, centering
breath. He let go of his feelings and his need to be aware.
This room was safe; no harm would come to him here. A light
trance was easy to slip into -- he'd been doing it for years --
and it took only a few more breaths to move him into a deep
trance state.
Milara.
Guards. A camp. The Crystlefire ore. The way it burned his
skin, lungs, and eyes. The red-tinged eyes staring at him from
a hundred corpses. Burning the bodies, the ash mixing with the
drug, scattering over the camp like feathers, or snow,
smothering them, everything the same, dark and cold, even in
the heat of summer--
Other than the light of Qui-Gon's fire.
His eyes snapped open. The images made no sense, and while he'd
been looking within himself, Qui-Gon had slipped away. He
stared at where Qui-Gon had been. There was a riddle here,
something hidden that wished to be revealed. The Force would
have its way.
From the back of the arena, Qui-Gon watched the healers
approach Obi-Wan. His first instinct was to go over himself, to
see if there was something he could do, but Master Depa Billaba
was quite explicit. "Leave him alone. He had not had an attack
in months until you arrived. Your presence is causing whatever
is left of your bond to act up."
So rather than do as he wanted, he did what he was told, as he
had so very often, and left the arena. He had not managed three
paces away from the training arena before she called after him.
"Qui-Gon Jinn." Her words caught him in mid-stride, her strong,
low voice carrying easily through the halls. "I would have a
word with you, Master Jinn."
What words now, he wondered. He sank back against the wall of
the hallway and waited for her to catch up, accepting her right
in this.
He'd been -- pleased -- to see Obi-Wan at the practice arena,
and gratified when Obi-Wan indicated he wanted to fight. They
were moving forward, and Qui-Gon had not wanted to do anything
that might stop that momentum.
He had wanted this morning to be like it used to be, when
they'd first sparred together on the temple grounds. Instead,
he'd been treated to a dramatic presentation of why things were
not normal and probably never would be again. He closed his
eyes and waited, listening to Master Billaba talk to the healer
just outside of the arena grounds, letting the cool marble wall
support him with its slow-moving Force. The cold seeped into
his shoulders and back, traveling down to his legs and feet,
rooting him, calming him in stillness. It was as the Force
willed it.
The noise of her boots rang out in the hallway, and Qui-Gon
stood up again, his eyes open and clear. As long as Obi-Wan
came through this, let himself be human again, that was all he
could hope for. The mechanical creature he'd first met at the
temple made him shudder, remembering the softness of Obi-Wan's
smile and the warm sexual grace he'd once exuded as he moved.
The grace had still been there when he practiced, but the
playfulness, the mischievous charm in it, had all been gone.
The Jedi had too many dour Masters as it was; he did not want
Obi-Wan to join them...
Master Billaba was staring at him. "You know your duty in this,
Master Jinn. Why do you shirk it?"
Trapped, Qui-Gon turned in the hall to face her, threading his
hands across his chest and into the sleeves of the over-tunic
he wore. "Master Billaba. I thought you had finished your
lecture in the training room." He nodded toward the door out of
which she had just come. "You made your views quite plain."
"Not plain enough, I think." Her dark eyes sparked with fury.
"Your apprentice is your responsibility."
He held up his hand. "I know. And I made sure the healers--"
"That is not what I am talking about, and you know it. These
deliberate misunderstandings are beneath you."
Qui-Gon grabbed her arm and gently pulled her out of the path
of a group of students filing into the training room. "I think
it would be best if we held this discussion elsewhere, Master.
Unless you care to have the whole of the temple knowing our
business."
"The whole of the temple already knows about this, Master Jinn,
and none of us have any stomach for it. You have overstepped
your bounds, you know, treating him the way you have. You must
let go of the bond." Her voice softened. "Can't you see it's
killing him? It's time to let go." She laid a gentle hand on
his arm. "Let him be free."
"I have done what I can."
"Have you?" she looked at him steadily. "You swore for so many
years never to take another Padawan, struggled and fought it,
even knowing that that was the will of the Council -- Obi-Wan
had to be special for you to break your vow."
"Obi-Wan has been a good student, a fine apprentice. He will
make a great Jedi some day."
"Qui-Gon -- he is a great Jedi," her voice hardened.
"Midichlorians don't lie, the possibility exists within him. He
must be allowed to reach his full potential." She lifted her
chin and glared at him. "You are holding him back. As long as
your bond lays upon him, he is hampered, hobbled like an animal
in a pen. You cannot keep him at your side forever, you know.
He has to move on."
"Don't you think I've tried?"
"No, Master Jinn, I don't. If you truly wanted to set him free,
you would have by now. The fact that this bond remains --
despite what you've seen it do to him -- is just a sign of your
own selfishness." She flipped her cloak away from him as she
stepped back into the hall. "Have a care that such self-serving
behavior does not lead you to the dark side."
She turned and left him, her condemnation as just, meet, and
right as anything he'd ever heard. Anger flared again -- anger
at Master Billaba, Obi-Wan, the world, and himself; Qui-Gon
quickly contained it. He was the Master in this; his was the
duty, the sacrifice. There had to be something that he'd
missed. Some teaching, some story, a legend perhaps...
...something from his childhood. The stones whispered to him,
told him what to look for. The iron and steel in the walls lent
energy to him, speeding him on his way. Light and glass and the
dust in the air fueled him, moving him, and Qui-Gon found
himself running for his rooms.
The Left Hand path. He had been one of the last to be taught
those beliefs, before he had been caught up in the creation of
the creches and the standardization of the Jedi way. Turn to
the mind, insight and logic to lead all.
This, though, was a matter of heart.
He soared to the door of his suite, not noticing anyone in his
passage. He flung off his overtunic and turned on the reader,
trying to find the records from the small temple on the planet
where he'd been born. The Master there had been an old woman,
trained in the Left Hand path. Perhaps her records might lead
him to other sources, other texts that might show him how to
help.
At least it gave him a place to start. He would do whatever he
could to ensure Obi-Wan's survival.
Obi-Wan turned off his reader and sat back in his chair,
rubbing at his eyes. He wasn't sure how long he'd been reading,
but it was far longer than was wise. He stood up and walked
into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water and gulping
it down. His eyes ached, and his neck hurt from being hunched
over for so long as he read; why had he never adjusted the desk
and chair so it would all fit?
He had read through his old medical records and every record
they had of Milara. And once he'd done with that, he'd read
about the Quong-sha and what had happened years ago.
The whole thing made him sick. It was worse than Qui-Gon had
let on in the garden, and that alone was enough for a lifetime
of nightmares. Why was it impossible for his Master to ever ask
for help?
And why was it so hard for Obi-Wan to offer?
Qui-Gon had looked after him after Milara. He had never been
abandoned. Throughout his medical records were notes of
conversations between the healers and Qui-Gon, requests for
status reports and evidence of concern for what Obi-Wan needed.
Not once had anyone mentioned it to him.
Not once had he bothered to ask.
Where was that perfect Jedi calm that he'd spent the last year
working on? Right now, all he wanted to do was grab Qui-Gon and
shake him and insist he tell the truth about what had happened,
all of it.
He was shaking so hard, he clenched his hands around the glass
trying to let the feelings go. He felt sick at heart at what he
had not read in the records. There was no history of Qui-Gon's
attacks, yet in the reports he'd read of Qui-Gon's last
missions, the evidence was there. Not as bad as Obi-Wan's, but
bad enough.
Jedi didn't get angry, though. Jedi found a way to understand.
So, what was he missing? He set the glass back down on the
counter and picked up a tablet of paper from his desk, then sat
back down on the bench, stylus in hand. Sometimes, words
confused an issue, made it harder to see. He closed his eyes
and centered himself, opening his mind's eye to the Force. He
let himself be directed, let his hand move across the paper,
copying down the image that was given to him.
When he opened his eyes again, he'd drawn a small picture -- a
bird in flight. It resembled Qui-Gon's scars in some vague way,
yet it was not any of those he'd seen.
He stared at it, his stomach turning to acid. He knew where
this scar would be, knew, too, that it was no longer there.
How did he know?
He tried to calm himself, pulling his legs up and tucking them
under himself as he stared at the paper. He had to have gotten
that image from the bond, yet Qui-Gon insisted he'd stayed
shielded. So how had he--?
The drug.
Eyes wide, the hair standing up on the back on his head,
Obi-Wan swallowed convulsively. In the mines, he'd reached out
time and again for Qui-Gon, he remembered that. He'd always
assumed there had been no answer...
He stared at the picture he'd drawn, wishing he could erase it,
erase what he knew. So at least once, he'd been answered.
But he hadn't been able to listen.
The invitation was plain, the paper hand-made: meet me in the
garden at dusk. Qui-Gon carefully folded it back along its
original creases and placed it in a position of honor on his
desk, next to the small basket of stones he had found in the
rivers of many worlds. He pulled his robe closed and
contemplated the meaning of the note: Obi-Wan wished to meet
again.
While part of him took flight, the rest of him felt as heavy as
the rocks, sinking deeper into the water of his emotions. He'd
found hints of what he wanted, but it wasn't enough. He
couldn't be sure that any of it would work. He looked down at
his notes, to see what he would need to do--
Qui-Gon laughed, a low, rumbling sound that he hadn't made in a
long while. Written at the top of his paper was the first
lesson of the Left Hand path: The Force existed before
language, words, or any definition. It existed before time and
space. To understand it, look inside your heart.
He would have to trust his feelings. Oh, Yoda would love that.
He didn't bother with paper this time, merely left a message
for Obi-Wan agreeing to meet, but asking that it be in his
suite instead. He needed to be centered for what would happen,
to be grounded in the present to untangle the past. His room
had a shield that could be activated, so that they could both
talk freely and experience the depth of their emotions -- an
uncomfortable prospect, given their history.
But once the wound was lanced, it could heal. Qui-Gon hoped
that the cure would be worth the price.
Obi-Wan stood outside the door of Qui-Gon's suite, his heart
pounding against his ribcage. All he had to do was knock.
Actually, he didn't. The door opened before he could do
anything; Qui-Gon was waiting.
"Qui-Gon."
"Obi-Wan. Come in." Qui-Gon sounded both relieved and anxious.
Good. At least that meant that they were starting from the same
place. With a nod and a formal bow, Obi-Wan stepped past him,
walking through the narrow entryway into the main common room,
and pulled off his boots, setting them near Qui-Gon's. He
wanted to look around, to see if Qui-Gon's suite was as empty
as his own flat felt. He hadn't been in here since before
Milara; the healers had gotten his permission to move most of
his personal items to the new place as soon as it had become
available.
For the last year he'd believed that Qui-Gon had requested the
move; the records, though, revealed that the healer had
insisted it was a necessary for his treatment. 'Less chance to
spark an attack' read the note. How thoughtful and solicitous
everyone had been not to ask what he might want.
"I have some fruit juice and fresh bread if you want them. I
promise nothing fancy this time."
Qui-Gon left him, and Obi-Wan stepped into the center of the
room. The place looked barren, even though there were many
things here. The furniture was as he remembered, the desk that
Qui-Gon had built still looked as it always did, inlaid wood
gleaming under a coating of hand-rubbed wax. Several brightly
colored wall hangings gave the room some warmth, while the rich
hand-woven rugs scattered across the floor helped make the
place looked lived in -- yet everything seemed too neat.
Nothing out of place, nothing in disarray, no chaos.
Sterile perfection.
Funny, he never before would have thought to use those terms to
describe his Master.
"You wished to meet." Qui-Gon had entered the room with a tray
and set it on a small table in front of the sofa.
Obi-Wan realized he'd been staring and turned around to look at
Qui-Gon. "I do," he said carefully. "I have some questions I
need to ask." He gestured at the couch. "But it might be best
if we sat down."
Qui-Gon nodded. "Let me activate the shielding, first. "
Puzzled, Obi-Wan watched as Qui-Gon opened the control panel
and punched in a few codes. They hadn't needed to shield the
suite in years, not since he was a young Padawan and had not
been able to control his emotions. Was Qui-Gon afraid that he
could not control his feelings now?
Turning away from the panel, Qui-Gon caught his eyes. "Some of
what we must talk about will probably be uncomfortable for me."
He took a deep breath and released it, as if already
anticipating what would happen. "I would not want to share
those feelings with the rest of the temple." He moved
deliberately to a spot on the floor opposite Obi-Wan's seat and
knelt down before him. "You may ask me anything in here, and I
will answer. Our paths must be clear for any healing to work."
Obi-Wan stared at him, at the way his long hair spilled around
him unconfined, his black tunic wrapped lightly, so that the
scars could be seen. Compassion and vulnerability were written
in his eyes and in the pulse of the Force around him; it was a
heady feeling, like a drug.
"I cannot promise not to hurt you," Obi-Wan said softly.
Qui-Gon responded in kind. "All I ask is that you be open with
me."
"I will." The words held the weight of a vow, and Obi-Wan knew
the time had come. He pulled out the picture he'd drawn and
laid it on the table. "Last night, when I was meditating, I saw
this." He ran his finger over the paper, tracing the outline of
the bird with his index finger. "Somehow, I knew that this was
one of the scars he'd drawn on you. I remember seeing it
happen."
He looked over at Qui-Gon, needing to know. "It's gone now,
isn't it? You had it removed."
"Yes." No arguments, no distractions, just a simple statement
of fact. "I didn't want to be marked as his property."
He'd thought the words would hold enough power that he could
let this go, but it was as if his own skin held the memory of
what had happened. Obi-Wan needed more than to know with his
mind that it was gone; he needed to see it, feel it, know deep
inside himself that it was gone. "Would you -- take off your
clothes and let me see where it was?"
There was no hesitation in Qui-Gon's movements as he stood,
unknotting his belt and setting it aside, but Obi-Wan couldn't
stand to see him looking vulnerable again. "Let me help," he
said, offering this time, not needing to be asked.
"Thank you," Qui-Gon said softly, brushing his fingers on
Obi-Wan's cheek. "It will make it easier, I think."
Obi-Wan slid his hands up Qui-Gon's chest, his hands folding
under Qui-Gon's robes, letting the soft material caress the
backs of his hands. Hesitantly, as if he were unwrapping a
fragile gift, he edged the material off Qui-Gon's shoulders and
let it drop to the floor, surrounding them like a muddy lake.
He scooped it up and tossed it on the chair, adding a hint of
chaos to the too-perfect room, knocking a pen and a brush off
the desk at the same time. He then grabbed Qui-Gon's pants from
him and did the same, adding a sheaf of papers to the pile.
Qui-Gon stood naked when he turned around.
Obi-Wan swallowed. For some reason, he felt more hesitant now,
as if in discovering how much he desired Qui-Gon, his body had
become off-limits. He looked, but didn't touch this time,
almost as if he was awaiting permission. The scars were etched
down Qui-Gon's legs and up his arms, across his back, chest,
and flanks.
But the one he was looking for wasn't there; he knew it was
someplace else.
He knelt before Qui-Gon, and looked up at him, his mouth dry.
"May I touch you?"
There was a hitch in Qui-Gon's voice, an almost pleading sound
that Obi-Wan felt more than heard. "I -- would not mind -- your
touch."
Obi-Wan quickly brushed his hands over some of hardened tissue,
searching where he had not looked. He ran his hands up the hair
on Qui-Gon's thighs, brushed his hands against Qui-Gon's
flaccid cock, moving it aside. He hadn't realized he'd been
holding his breath until it came out in a long, deep sigh.
Not there.
He leaned over and kissed the place it had been.
Qui-Gon gasped, then stilled, as if the kiss had struck him
like lightning.
Obi-Wan looked up; Qui-Gon was staring back down at him, his
eyes bright as the midday sky. Their gazes locked. Obi-Wan
touched where the scar should have been, felt a hint of
moisture left behind by his kiss. "It was right here, wasn't
it?"
"Yes."
Another terse answer. Qui-Gon's voice sounded strained, and
Obi-Wan realized that he had not spoken during the examination.
No wonder he had activated the shields; thinking about what
he'd endured had to be painful. Force knew Obi-Wan had grown
sick of telling the healers everything he'd known about Milara.
Which, right now, didn't really seem to be all that much. The
fact that the bond had been traumatized was documented, but not
anything else. Not that he had re-lived Qui-Gon's
imprisonment--
He felt a chill creep up his spine. Qui-Gon had probably
re-lived his imprisonment, as well. They had both been caught
up in the maelstrom of each other's minds.
"An artist signs his work," Obi-Wan muttered softly, stroking
the outline of the bird no longer visible on Qui-Gon's flesh.
"I'm sorry," he said, standing. "I know that the memories still
hurt. But why only this one? Don't the other scars come from
being property, as well?"
"Not in the same way." Qui-Gon swallowed again and looked away,
but after a moment, he looked directly at Obi-Wan again. "No, I
said I would tell you whatever you asked. That one was his
mark, his personal badge of ownership. I was his slave."
"Just as I was a slave in the mines of Milara."
"Yes." The word was clipped out, and it gave Obi-Wan pause,
like a seeing a crack in what appeared to be a smooth rock.
Water had dripped here, worn away the stone. He pressed the
issue a little bit more.
"You could not accept that you were owned." Part truth, there,
but there had to be more. He opened himself to the Force, let
it dictate what he said: "He loved you, didn't he?"
"In his way. As one loves a thing that has no will of its own."
And what, exactly, did that mean? Obi-Wan stood and turned
away, picking up the picture he had drawn, a bird the width of
three fingers. He set it down again, not quite sure if he were
talking about himself, or Qui-Gon, Milara, or the Quong-sha. He
wasn't sure that any of it mattered. "Did you love him?"
"No."
That answer was direct and emphatic, rebellious and heart-felt.
Qui-Gon hated the Quong-sha lord, but he had not had the scars
removed.
Because...Jedi don't hate.
Yet Qui-Gon did.
Interesting.
"So you showed your scars to me because you thought--" He ran
his hands through his hair, his back still to Qui-Gon, unable
to look at him right now, his mind still digesting that last
contradiction. "I don't know what you thought. You didn't tell
me anything, you just took off your robe and let me see them."
"I thought if you saw them, you'd know."
Obi-Wan turned to face him, unwilling to let the past destroy
what they might have. "Know what?"
"Know I wasn't perfect." Qui-Gon's eyes were lit with
compassion, a feeling Obi-Wan considered misplaced.
"Then why didn't you say that?" He stalked up to Qui-Gon, tired
of all the subtle conversational games. He folded his arms
across his chest and stared at Qui-Gon, his feelings almost
tangible now. "I saw him paint this, Master, felt it etched
into your flesh. What else was I supposed to see, other than a
perfect Master dealing perfectly with his failure?"
"I don't know. I just thought...hoped...it would help." Qui-Gon
looked stunned, as if it had never occurred to him that Obi-Wan
might read something else into such an impulsive act.
"Well, in a way, it did." Obi-Wan smiled wryly at him. "It got
me to thinking, at least, even if that wasn't quite what you
intended."
Qui-Gon smiled ruefully. "Such are the ways of the Force."
Obi-Wan took a deep breath and pressed on, wishing that he
could reach out to their bond and know what Qui-Gon felt; he
felt like he was encased in an environmental suit while he
tried to do some delicate work, everything large and thick and
unresponsive. "Before you told me about the scars, I already
knew they existed. I saw them in my dreams, the ones I had
after Milara."
He wanted Qui-Gon to tell him he was wrong, that he could not
have seen what he thought he had seen, because the only place
it could have come was from Qui-Gon's mind -- and the only time
that could have happened was on Milara. "In my dreams, I saw."
Qui-Gon looked away, offering no reassurances. "I wish--"
So, it was true. "You wish what?" Obi-Wan tilted his head to
the side, his eyes flashing with fire as his stomach ate at
itself. "Last night, I read the briefing materials from Milara.
Everyone assumed I'd already read them, but I couldn't remember
what they were. I didn't really remember the drug and what it
had done to me at all."
Obi-Wan perched his hip on the edge of the desk and looked at
the ceiling, recalling the exact words he'd seen. "'Crystlefire
has made it to the markets of Coruscant. It can enhance a
pilot's senses and put them in tune with the Force, as well as
those of dock workers and artisans, and anyone else who takes
it. The high is reported to be exceptional. Within a day, the
addiction has set in; within a week, the mind is usually
destroyed; within a month, the user is often dead. A few races
last longer, some less, and some are not affected at all.'"
He looked back at Qui-Gon and swallowed. "'In theory, it would
enhance the power of a trained Force user immeasurably and take
away all control.'" He slipped off his perch and strode
forward, his eyes fused with Qui-Gon's. "Is that what happened,
my Master? Is that why you tore apart our bond?"
The words were sharp as broken glass and cut more deeply than a
laser. Yes. Qui-Gon wanted to shout it, but he couldn't make
his throat work; part of him knew it was a lie.
It wasn't just the drug, or the need to protect the Milarans
that made him close down the bond. It was--
He swallowed convulsively.
Every vision he'd had, every time Obi-Wan had been in his mind
on Milara, he'd taken something. Some thought, some memory,
some dream; he had not been allowed to say no. The visitations
had been almost--
No, he wouldn't think of it in those terms. That was hysteria
and madness, not what had happened.
He had not been raped.
Obi-Wan had needed him. And Qui-Gon had given what he could; it
had not been enough.
Obi-Wan waited; Qui-Gon said nothing. Qui-Gon was living in his
own head right now, and Obi-Wan wanted to do something to drag
him out. Instead, the silence grew. Qui-Gon slowly bowed his
head as Obi-Wan looked at him, no longer meeting his gaze, eyes
focused on the floor. His shoulders slumped, and Obi-Wan
thought he saw them starting to shake.
Still, Qui-Gon said nothing. There wasn't much to say: 'I
destroyed you so that the drug could be contained and the
people of Milara set free.'
If that were so...Obi-Wan would understand. It was part of what
they lived with as Jedi, that at some point, they would each be
sacrificed for the good of all. Why couldn't Qui-Gon simply say
that?
A whisper of Force spoke to him. Maybe...because Qui-Gon hated
it? Hated that he had done it? Hated himself for having done
it? Just like he hated the Quong-sha.
He kept the scars.
Pain was very precious to his Master.
He closed his eyes to meditate on the thought. With his eyes
closed Obi-Wan felt something else. He centered himself and
listened carefully, trying to make out what he heard.
Not words.
Not thoughts.
A feeling.
Infinite sadness, despair.
Obi-Wan's eyes flew open, and he spun around to stare at his
Master. Qui-Gon looked...defenseless. More than that,
shattered, standing naked, alone, in the middle of a nearly
empty room. The reason for meeting here dawned on Obi-Wan, the
true reason for the suite's shield. Qui-Gon had dropped all his
barriers, leaving himself open to whatever came out of the
emotional turmoil that existed between them.
Energy swirled around him, tangible to his touch. Hot and cold,
welcoming and hostile, gentle breeze and raging tempest, a
lattice work of reds, greens, blues, and yellows, color more
true than physical sight. Qui-Gon stood in the middle of the
room, knowing that if he wanted to, he could reach out and
touch the energy threads that danced around him, bring them to
him and use them. Make them do what he wanted.
Right now...
Qui-Gon turned aside the temptation. He needed to explore his
emotions, not act on them, nor deny them. He realized he'd been
standing for too long, his body locking rigidly in one
position, while he let Obi-Wan guide their encounter.
Enough.
There was nothing to be gained from staying silent; he
protected no one like this. The time had come to be present and
speak the truth, and to be open to the truth in turn.
Thought made action; Qui-Gon removed his shields.
Anger turned inward, Obi-Wan thought. That's what happened with
our bond.
The thought rippled from him out into the Force, and with some
astonishment, Obi-Wan felt it slip seamlessly past Qui-Gon's
outer shields, into his inner space.
No, not slipping past his shields; there were no shields.
Obi-Wan argued with himself. No Jedi removed all their shields.
Yet Qui-Gon had. He shivered with the strength of his own
reaction. He couldn't let Qui-Gon do this alone. "One moment,"
he said, taking a deep breath and centering himself. "Give me a
moment please."
Obi-Wan focused within himself, opening the doors he kept
locked, stripping himself down to his most elementary nature,
reaching deep within his own mind.
The outer ones fell easily, as did the ones that were linked to
his mind. But the heart-center shield eluded him, slipping out
of his grasp as if it had a will of its own. Startled,
Obi-Wan's concentration broke, his shields only partially
removed.
Yet -- he smiled. Mild pain, but fading, and he could feel
Qui-Gon.
Shields gone, the sudden connection startled Qui-Gon, like the
sound of a 'saber in a deserted training room. A trickle of
Obi-Wan's own Force presence pressed into him -- not the bond,
no, not that intimate a touch, but at least it wasn't the
deadness he'd felt for so long. He wavered where he stood, a
tingle of relief inching its way up his spine; his legs felt
like they'd collapse underneath him. "May I sit?"
Obi-Wan went to him and put his arm around him, guiding him to
the couch. "I'm sorry. I should have done this earlier. I could
see you were exhausted." He grabbed a blanket and pulled it
over Qui-Gon. "Let me turn up the heat."
"In a minute." Qui-Gon grabbed his wrist so that Obi-Wan
wouldn't pull away. "Would you sit next to me, please? What I'm
going to say isn't easy."
"I know." Qui-Gon let go of his hand, and Obi-Wan sat next to
him, not touching him, but close enough that Qui-Gon could feel
him. "Tell me what happened. Tell me why you closed off the
bond."
Breathe. Experience your emotions. Feel them. Accept them. He
knew the litany, but it didn't make it any easier. What he felt
about Milara was --
Anger.
Deep, passionate anger. Anger at what he had done, for what
he'd had to do. Anger, as well, for what had been done to him.
His mind counseled him to release his feelings, to let it all
go, but he felt the pain of it all dragging on him, as if he
had been wearing lead weights for the past year. He just wanted
it to stop.
A wall within him snapped, and the words tumbled out before he
could stop them, cold and calm and deadly. "I closed the bond
because...I could not find a way to give you what you wanted.
You had to take it from me."
"What?" The word was breathless, Obi-Wan's eyes wide.
"You took my memories and replayed them for me, trying to reach
me, to connect with me on your own. I couldn't tell reality
from fantasy anymore, and....I became afraid. Afraid for you,
afraid of you, afraid that I would not be able to finish my
task." He leaned his head back against the couch. "It started
simply -- you were hurt, I offered you support, tried to ease
your pain. It wasn't enough."
Obi-Wan thought back and nodded, some snippets of memory making
so much more sense now. He reached inside himself, to see what
he felt from that time, and was surprised at what he
discovered.
Anger toward Qui-Gon. For closing the bond, for letting him
leave. For never asking how he was.
For making him feel...unwanted.
He needed to belong.
Obi-Wan reached out for Qui-Gon's leg, the physical touch
reassuring him as he sought within himself for answers. "I
remember, I think. I remember you giving me--"
Harsh words broke his concentration.
"You needed more than I could give, and I was not strong enough
to save both you and the people of Milara. So I chose to sever
the bond. I think I hoped that I would die." He stared back at
Obi-Wan. "But I am happy that you lived."
"I am glad you did, as well. Master, forgive yourself. It had
to be done."
"No! There should have been another way."
"How? After I broke through your shielding like that?" Obi-Wan
sighed. "The Crystlefire is unpredictable in what it can do. I
do not blame you--"
"Don't blame yourself." Qui-Gon snapped back. "You were
battered, abused, and starved. You mined the ore. You lived
with it, breathed it. It covered your skin, your lungs. You
nearly died from withdrawal. You did nothing wrong."
"Neither did you."
They glared at each other, and slowly Obi-Wan's mouth curved
into a smile. "We are evenly matched, aren't we, Master?"
Qui-Gon stared at him and felt his anger recede, slipping out
into the Force. He shook his head and smiled back at Obi-Wan.
"We are."
And because he felt giddy, lighter than he had for the past
year, now that the burden of his own anger was manageable once
again, he reached out to touch Obi-Wan, letting his hands roam
up Obi-Wan's leg to his chest, and felt the way Obi-Wan's heart
beat beneath his hand.
A single moment existed between them then, time stretching to
encompass all of them, their needs, their hatreds, their fears.
A single touch could disturb the balance, tip it away, and
Qui-Gon wanted to do just that. But after so long, he could not
trust himself not to cause Obi-Wan pain.
The moment passed.
"I am to blame for what happened after. When I tried to help
you manage the withdrawal on Milara, my anger somehow warped
the bond. I nearly killed us both."
"That is your fear, Master. My fear was that you would leave
me, so I reached out to tie you to me as best I could."
Qui-Gon drew back, startled.
"Your anger would not have caused this if I had not pulled it
to me, tried to make you share even that." Obi-Wan laid his
hand over Qui-Gon's. "I needed to feel something of yours so
much, and your anger was all I had. I wrapped it around me like
a cloak, and for the past year, I have lived with that." He
stroked his hand upwards and grabbed Qui-Gon's arm. "I no
longer need to do that. How do we correct what happened?" He
looked down at his hand, as if surprised to see it there.
"Would you care to get dressed?"
His skin burned where Obi-Wan's hand touched it, as if a
craving had been too long denied. He blinked twice before
realizing he was naked. Well, that was as it should be,
according to what he'd read of the rituals. Obi-Wan would need
to be naked as well. "Actually, I need you to get undressed."
"Undressed."
"Yes." He wouldn't let himself process that thought and imagine
Obi-Wan naked. Instead, he fell into his teacher role, grateful
for the opportunity to lecture and distribute information,
keeping his logical mind occupied, keeping his anxiety at bay.
"According to the texts I've found about the rituals of the
Left Hand path, most of them were performed sky-clad. You will
need take off your clothes."
Obi-Wan didn't ask any questions, just did as Qui-Gon had
asked. Qui-Gon helped him out of the clothing, folding it
neatly and setting it with his own, talking all the while,
keeping busy, helping them both to be at ease. "The problems on
Milara seem to have come from two different areas, both of them
highly emotionally charged. For me, it was my anger at myself
for not being able to do more for you and for having been so
weak that I needed to shut you out. For you, it was your need
to be with me, to not be alone." He reached out and pulled
Obi-Wan to him, wrapping his arms around him and pressing their
bodies close together. "Would you say this is so?"
"That seems to be the gist of what were just discussing."
"Good." Qui-Gon dropped his arms and sat on the floor. "Since
the feedback is related to our emotional issues, the practices
of the Right Hand path, those related to the Master/Apprentice
training bond, didn't really apply."
"Qui-Gon, if it's an emotional concern, don't you think you're
being rather clinical about all this?"
He sighed. Obi-Wan was right. "Probably. It's how we've been
trained, to follow logic and distance ourselves from how we
feel. We must delve within ourselves to find the start of this
emotional tangle and gently unweave it in order to deal with
the bond." He looked at Obi-Wan.
"I need to know if you feel strong enough to do that."
Obi-Wan looked back. He'd promised Qui-Gon he'd be open, that
he would be honest about his feelings. Maybe it was time he be
honest with himself as well. "I am...not well, my Master. I
have not been since I was taken. What happened, what you
did...it was a kindness."
Qui-Gon cupped his hand around the back of Obi-Wan's neck,
pulling him close. "I wish I could ease what happened, make it
right." He whispered softly in Obi-Wan's ear. "I think I can
finally help."
"Maybe you can." Obi-Wan took a deep breath and let it back
out. "I have not been open to you since Milara. Maybe...if I
try..."
"Yes." Qui-Gon sat down on the floor, his legs crossed
underneath him, and motioned for Obi-Wan to do the same. "Knees
touching, please."
"With the healer, when we tried something similar to this...she
suffered much pain and collapsed. I was afraid I'd killed her."
"On Milara...I thought I'd killed you." He brushed his hand
over Obi-Wan's face. "I want to repair this, as best we can,
whatever the cost. I enter into this with my eyes open,
Obi-Wan. Do not regret whatever happens."
Obi-Wan opened his heart and held out his hands, left palm to
the earth, taking strength, right palm to the sky, seeking
wisdom.
Qui-Gon stared at his hands. "No," he said softly. "Reversed.
Here, like this."
He spread his hands so the left pointed skyward, the right to
the earth. "Cover mine with yours."
Facing him, Obi-Wan did as he was asked, his hands hovering for
a moment over Qui-Gon's. His hands looked so small in
comparison. Their palms touched, and it was like an electric
spark. Obi-Wan waited for the seizure that always followed, but
this time, he felt it dissipate, drain away, the feel of the
Force shifting, turning the opposite way.
He looked questioningly at Qui-Gon. "What is that?"
Qui-Gon smiled, as if he had just witnessed a miracle. "That is
the feel of the Force, Obi-Wan. If one is on the Left Hand
path."
When he visualized the Force, Obi-Wan thought of it as a great
river flowing around him, with current and rapids, eddies and
pools, an infinite supply of power. This time, though, Qui-Gon
asked him to look through his heart, rather than with his
mind's eye. He wondered if that would make a difference.
Breathe in, breathe out. Center and control. Seek out with his
heart, rather than with his mind. Deep within a trance state,
Obi-Wan opened his eyes.
It did.
The world was a tapestry, knotted and tied together; if he
looked close enough, he could see the individual strands of the
Force that made the picture. He touched a green thread that
attached to him, and felt the pulse of all the flowers and
plants in the Hydroponics room, the ones he'd cared for, the
way their energy flowed from them, though the temple, to
connect with him here.
That's what the threads were -- the energy of all of living
things that he'd ever connected with in his life. Their lives
affected his, and he theirs, an interdependent web, their
individual threads woven together into the Force.
He looked at Qui-Gon, saw the threads of his life surrounding
him, layers upon layers surrounding him. Obi-Wan sorted through
them, touching a few, to see what he could read. Most of them
were the same, people and friends he'd cared for, lending him
strength -- then Obi-Wan hit one that seemed so cold as to burn
his hand. Deep, dark, and black as an eclipse, taking without
giving anything in return.
Xanatos.
The connection was still there. 'There is no death, there is
only the Force.'
He turned away from Qui-Gon and back to himself, searching for
the thread that connected the two of them. He focused on it,
and slowly, the rest of the tapestry receded, leaving that one
thread in place.
Qui-Gon's hands covered his. Together, they slit the skein and
pulled the thread apart.
Obi-Wan jerked back as a wave of pain surged through him,
feeling the echo of it wash over Qui-Gon. He heard Qui-Gon's
gasp, then felt the pain re-directed, felt it being passed out
into the Force -- another part of the tapestry.
Qui-Gon's hands trembled; Obi-Wan held them, and the pain
passed for them both.
They started sorting through the threads, working from their
outermost levels in, finding the pieces that had tangled with
one another, smoothing them, working it through, repairing what
they could.
The work was ugly and brutal and drained them both.
At one point, Obi-Wan felt a spark of desire in Qui-Gon, then
felt it channeled back out into the Force, as inappropriate to
the moment; his own desire remained tightly locked behind his
inner shield. He was not yet ready to reveal that part of
himself to his former Master, he decided; that was why the
shield would not come down. In an instant, he had accepted it
and moved on, turning to work another thread.
Slowly they untangled the skein of their connection and re-wove
it into something different, stronger than what had been there
before. The scars still existed; there was no way to paint over
them, the way one could with a physical scar, yet the fibrous
tissue was more durable and longer lasting than what had been
there before.
Obi-Wan smiled as he slipped out of hyper-awareness into the
normal state.
They were a mess. Qui-Gon glanced at Obi-Wan. Sweat plastered
his hair to his body, and his eyes seemed dimmed by exhaustion.
He acknowledged his own thirst and rolled onto his knees,
grabbing the tray of food and water off the table and setting
it on the floor between them.
"Have something." His voice sound cracked to his own ears, as
if he'd spent days on a highly polluted world.
Obi-Wan nodded. "Thanks." He crawled around the tray and leaned
back against Qui-Gon, before pouring them both a cup of water.
Qui-Gon drank. How good the water tasted, cold and sweet and
clean.
How good it felt to have Obi-Wan in his arms.
Qui-Gon let the ends of Obi-Wan's hair run through his fingers,
enjoying the silken feel. "Do you miss this?" he asked softly.
"I miss you." Obi-Wan folded his hand over Qui-Gon's, holding
it there. "It will need to re-braided," he said softly and
turned his back to Qui-Gon, the unbound tail of hair spilling
down his back. He half-stretched, half-crawled to the brush
that had fallen to the floor and handed it to Qui-Gon.
Qui-Gon felt dazed. Was this all that was needed, just some
simple honesty between the two of them, for the pain to start
sorting itself out? He brushed at the fine strands, getting
them to lay right. Soft as feathers, the hair slid through his
hands as Qui-Gon plaited the length of it, just as he had so
many years before, when he'd first taken Obi-Wan as apprentice.
The plaited hair lay against Obi-Wan's neck, curling onto his
chest, braided, bound, and mastered -- but still not tamed.
Qui-Gon looked deep into his Padawan's eyes, seeing the wild
bird that lay beneath the civilized depths, the way it beat
against its cage, wanting to be free, needing to soar.
Within himself, Qui-Gon felt an answer to that need, from
something he'd kept caged within his heart.
Let not your fear decide.
He took a deep breath, leaned over and brushed his lips against
Obi-Wan's.
Obi-Wan wasn't sure if he was surprised by the kiss, or not.
Old hungers, old dreams were wrapped in that dry press of lips
against his, a slow caress, a new invitation. The first kiss
was quickly followed by a second pass, the lips more eager now,
making his body tingle with interest, heightening his
awareness. Obi-Wan let himself be kissed, felt the way
Qui-Gon's lips pulsed against his own, part of his mind
cataloguing the fact that they were broken and cracked.
His last inner shield fell. He wanted more.
Qui-Gon pulled away, and Obi-Wan snapped back to himself, no
longer willing to let his mind be in charge. He wasn't going to
let his Master get away so easily; he would crawl into his lap
and sit on him if he had to, to make Qui-Gon stay.
His imagination supplied the feel of Qui-Gon's thighs
underneath him and the press of that thick, hard cock at the
entrance to his body; Obi-Wan groaned.
Surging forward, he forced Qui-Gon's back against the edge of
the couch, demanding his attention, displaying his own desire.
A brief shiver rippled through him as Qui-Gon opened his lips
and welcomed him. Obi-Wan threw his legs over Qui-Gon's and
sank onto his lap, Qui-Gon's half-rigid cock brushing against
his own.
Better.
Skin on skin...Obi-Wan reveled in it, in the way his body
molded to Qui-Gon's, feeling the muscles in the arms that
wrapped around him and lifted him, resettling him in what must
be a more comfortable spot. He thrust half-heartedly, felt an
almost electric crackle when their cocks touched. Qui-Gon
growled, his large hands coming up to frame Obi-Wan's face.
Clear, observant eyes stared into his own, and Qui-Gon licked
his lips. "Obi-Wan..."
Fire searched him where Qui-Gon's hands lay against his flesh,
and Obi-Wan reached up to cover them with his own. "I want
you."
Desire and need and joy and pain and love filled him as he fell
into a kiss, his lips instinctively seeking Qui-Gon's. His
hands wrapped into Qui-Gon's hair, pulling him forward as
Obi-Wan opened his mouth and sent his tongue questing past his
Master's lips. Warmth and wetness and fever and hunger filled
him as he devoured Qui-Gon's mouth, and as Qui-Gon devoured
his.
Oh, this was good. This was very, very good.
His last shield had guarded the root of his body, the base,
near-animal need for food and for sex. Primal and ancient,
hidden desires flooded though him, leaving him taut, an
incessant craving for Qui-Gon's body stealing all common sense.
He needed both Qui-Gon's mind and his form, his body, mind, and
heart. Needs and feelings burning in time merged with the
reality of the present, and Obi-Wan surrendered himself to the
moment.
His nipples, stomach, thighs were touched and stroked, fondled
and explored; Obi-Wan did the same, running hands and mouth and
tongue freely over Qui-Gon's body, finding the places that made
him gasp, and the ones that made him howl, and the ones that
made his cock weep with need.
The wet rasp of Qui-Gon's tongue scoured him, and Obi-Wan
moaned out his need. "In me," he gasped. "Please."
Qui-Gon shoved him away.
Before Obi-Wan could think, he was being picked up off the
floor, Qui-Gon's eyes ablaze. "My bedroom. Now."
Not always the perfect Master.
His hand locked around Qui-Gon's wrist, Obi-Wan ran, Qui-Gon
stumbling after, as if his legs had lost the ability to
co-ordinate with his mind. They collapsed on the bed in
laughter.
Dizzy, now, his earlier exhaustion obscured by the rush of
desire, Obi-Wan pulled Qui-Gon on top of him, fitting the
lengths of their bodies together. He felt the velvet warmth of
Qui-Gon's kiss, his own hands running over Qui-Gon's body,
lingering over each of the scars. Sensual contact, the hardened
ridge of flesh next to unmarred skin, a feast of sensation. He
ducked down and let his tongue roam over the first one he
found, following the line of the tree up to Qui-Gon's nipple,
hearing his Master gasp as Obi-Wan bit down on it.
"Obi-Wan..."
Long and low, his name hung on the air between them, then
Obi-wan found himself pushed back against the mattress, staring
into his Qui-Gon's brilliant eyes.
The intimacy of Qui-Gon's gaze seared him, burning him in its
intensity. "Is this your desire?" he asked softly
Obi-Wan reached out and brushed Qui-Gon's hair from his face.
"Have no doubts."
Qui-Gon pulled himself off the bed and stalked over to the
corner of the room that held his meditation supplies. Obi-Wan
watched, his body shivering with need, as Qui-Gon sorted
through the bottles of oil there -- oils which, when heated,
gave off a scent that helped the mind to focus. Qui-Gon picked
a red bottle, and Obi-Wan smiled, recognizing it as Alderanian
Fire. Its purpose was to focus the mind on passion -- not that
they needed the help.
Obi-Wan just wondered why he'd never noticed that bottle
before.
He rolled onto his stomach and shoved pillows under his hips as
Qui-Gon sank onto the bed. He moaned as he felt the thick
fingers inside him, stretching him, making him ready. He heard
Qui-Gon's muted rumble, felt the rasp of Qui-Gon's tongue at
the entrance to his body, jerking upright at the sensation. Oh
Force, that felt good.
The tongue vanished, and Obi-Wan felt the weight of Qui-Gon's
body pressed hard against his back, felt the head of Qui-Gon's
cock pressed against his ass.
"Do it," he panted, his body singing with need. This was what
he had missed, what he had wanted -- to be totally and
completely enveloped by Qui-Gon, surrounded by him, head,
heart, mind, and body, knit together as if they were one.
Qui-Gon sank into him, opening and stretching him, filling the
emptiness he'd had inside. "So good," Qui-Gon managed, and
Obi-Wan felt him start to thrust, each movement breaking him,
shattering him, remaking him into something stronger than he'd
been before. "So...so good."
Obi-Wan pressed himself against the mattress as he was filled
completely. It was enough.
Gasping in passion, he thrust into the bed, rubbing and moaning
as he reached for completion, turning his head up and to the
side; Qui-Gon kissing, biting at him, nibbling at his lips, his
neck, his shoulder, whatever he could touch, still thrusting,
searing him with fire until his skin burned.
Obi-Wan cried out as he came, his cry echoed in Qui-Gon and the
warm slickness of Qui-Gon's desire pulsing into him.
Legs tangled together, skin slick with sweat, passion's breath
shared between kisses, they lay on the bed entwined, neither
one ready to part.
It felt like eternity.
But at last, they separated, leaning back against each other's
arms, contentment for the first time in what seemed like a
year...and was.
Satiated and drowsy, Qui-Gon stroked Obi-Wan's face, where he
lay nestled against his chest, unable to let go of how easy it
had all been. When his hand got too close to Obi-Wan's lips,
his fingers were playfully nipped. "Wanna sleep."
"Shhh... Rest. I have to make a call." He moved to slide out of
bed, but found his wrists caught in a vise-like grip.
"Stay."
"I'm not leaving you. I just thought..." He looked down at his
body, at the scars he carried, and shook his head. "You're
right. There's no point in keeping these. I let them tie me to
the past, held them as precious for far too long. I need to let
them heal."
Obi-Wan's grip relaxed as he lay back against the bed. "Can you
keep one?"
Qui-Gon blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Which?"
"This." Obi-Wan laid his hand over a small bird, its wings
outstretched in flight, centered on Qui-Gon's lower back. "It
moves as you move, and it reminds me of a bird in flight."
Qui-Gon considered and nodded. "Since you wish it--"
"I do."
"I will. But why?"
"So I can leave my mark on you, as you have left one on me."
Qui-Gon brushed his hand across Obi-Wan's cheek and let his
fingers rest on Obi-Wan's lips. "I will leave it, but there is
no need to keep it. If I have laid my mark on you, so you have
laid yours on me." He moved his hand, leaned in, and gently
brushed Obi-Wan's lips with his own, entwining the fingers of
their left hands.
The hands closest to their hearts.
With fall, the ice kestrels of Milara returned to the cliffs
near the Bagdroon Ocean, the air filled with their cries as
they sought one another, sky white from the feather display,
courtship rites begun.
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