loryn wilde

Summary: When Obi-Wan is separated from his master and thrust deep into the wicked core of slavery, Qui-Gon will scour the universe to find him…but both Jedi are about to discover just how big a place the universe can be.

Rating: PG-13

Insanely huge thank you to Megan. :o)

Obi-Wan is 15 years old in this story.

The Long Drift: Terrible Dawn

The stinging light had become so harsh that it made his eyes water. Only when the tears began to leak past tightly squeezed lids did he realize they were closed. Obi-Wan opened them and immediately regretted it.

The light was white and scorching and it buzzed and was all around him and it was, oh, entirely too bright –

His eyes snapped shut but he found the burning redness there too much to bear. He squeezed them tighter still and twisted where he lay, searching for relief. Panic blossomed in his chest when he rolled too far and abruptly fell off an unseen edge. He landed hard on a cold and solid surface with a loud thud and did not move.

Obi-Wan cautiously opened his eyes, relieved to find it darker where he had landed – which, he noticed wryly, was the floor. He pushed himself up and got as far as his knees before his vision swam and blurred. Nausea bubbled up inside of him but he fought back the sickness; the effort leaving him shaken.

Obi-Wan was tempted to sink back down to the floor – back to that blessed coolness, the firm and unmoving surface that was flat and long and sturdy – but knew that if he did he would not rise again soon. He gripped the side of the table he had fallen from and pulled himself up.

Once he got his trembling legs to support him he straightened. Obi-Wan found his body to be ridiculously weak and he just stood for a moment, gently shivering in the chilly temperature of the room and trying to get past the stubborn fuzz that clouded his brain.

His first instinct was to call on the Force to aid and strengthen him, but his efforts were not rewarded with its expected warm glow. He frowned, assuming he had been drugged somehow and set about tackling the challenge of escaping wherever he was without it. He emitted a soft and frustrated growl when he realized his lightsaber was gone as well.

There was a piercing ache at the base of his thumb in his left hand, near his index finger, and he rubbed at it irritably as he drank in his surroundings.

It reminded him of a surgical room – there were tools locked inside duraglass cabinets and sinks for cleaning and the stench of antiseptic was sharp and stale in the hum of ventilating air. There was an incredibly bright lamp above the table and he reached up for the button on its side and pressed it.

He was left with only normal light from the ceiling panels, a considerably weaker assault on his eyes, still sensitive from the time he had spent in the unconscious. A slightly more in depth inspection revealed steel cupboards and similarly made cabinets. The room was medical, of that there was no doubt, but it lacked the warmth of the temple's healing center. A spot of color caught his eye and he swallowed thickly, hastily tearing his gaze away from the basin placed atop one of the shorter cabinets. It was made of translucent material and he could all too easily see the spatters of blood coating its insides.

Obi-Wan swayed slightly on his feet but forced himself to move forward, trusting any momentum he might gather to keep him upright. With the movement came the staggering awareness of a powerful, thudding headache of bantha-like proportions that raged at his temples and he did his best to ignore it. There was a door at the far end of the room and he started towards it, trying not to focus on the curious and subtle tilting of the floor.

When he reached it, it flew open, startling and sending him backwards. The youth landed hard on his tailbone and winced. He craned his neck to look upward at his visitor.

It was a man and Obi-Wan guessed that he was of lightly mutated human stock, judging by the ugly green splotches dotting his hollow cheeks and the overly long ears, a sprinkling of black hairs on their fleshy tips. He was tall, probably as tall as Qui-Gon, but much gaunter.

And when he pulled his lips back into a fierce grimace of a smile, there was a cold gleam in his eye that told the padawan he wasn't going to be as kind, either.

"I hope you weren't too set on going anywhere," the man growled and disappeared from view. Unable to stand Obi-Wan scooted back farther, eyes desperately searching his surroundings for something that might pass for a weapon. When the man returned seconds later he dragged something long and heavy with him. The padawan blinked away the insistent fuzz that clouded his sight and his breath caught in his throat as he saw what – or who, rather – it was.

"Oh, Foli," he moaned, watching as the man dragged the female Rylian citizen-turned-warrior into the room. His tall captor dropped her at Obi-Wan's side and grunted. "The neural blast fried her." He nudged her onto her back with the toe of his boot. "That's never happened before." Without another word the man left, activating the door lock behind him.

Obi-Wan turned away from the body, from the staring eyes flung wide open in death. Blood had dried brown at her ears and nose. The young Jedi reached out with a trembling hand and gently closed her lids before crawling away. He brushed his fingers up against his own ears, feeling the rough scrape of drying blood, and wondered what damage the neural blast had done to his other two companions. Flecks of red peeled away and fluttered to the floor.

* * * *

"Master Jinn," Quat said, his gentleness gruff and awkward sounding even to his own ears, "Maybe you should have a look at the bodies. We're still collecting, but…" He trailed off as the Jedi was already shaking his head.

"No. Obi-Wan is not dead."

The shorter but still physically imposing man scowled. "You can't know for sure – "

"I do!" Qui-Gon snapped, and pain flitted through his expression so quickly that Quat was unsure if he had seen it at all. The Jedi calmed himself quickly. His tension and worry were getting the better of him. "I would know if my apprentice had been – killed."

"But not where he is or what his condition," Quat picked up sourly, his voice a low growl.

"No."

The two men stood in stony silence. Qui-Gon searched their surroundings using all of his senses, sending tendrils of query through the quiet bond while Quat watched him skeptically. The stocky man shifted his weight off his injured leg and released the heavy and impatient sigh that had built in his wide chest. The gravel crunched sharply underfoot and he finally spoke, his tone flat and with brevity.

"Master Jinn, I am grateful for the help you and your apprentice have provided – all of us are – though I can't say this battle has been a complete success." He thought he saw the Jedi stiffen slightly at that but could not be sure. "We lost a lot of people these past few days and we have a lot of work ahead of us."

The Jedi did not look at the other man but gave a curt nod. "I understand. Your people have suffered a grueling existence these past months; perhaps with the great sacrifice made on both ends at this battle, Minister Wol will reconsider his rather – stern – expectations."

Quat chortled bitterly, "Perhaps," and squinted at the stretch of fields around them, dotted sparsely with trees and foliage until the brown and green blur of forest took over a few kilometers away. The surviving people of Gloms milled about their grim tasks, creating bloody lines of carnage out of the bodies of their fellow citizens. Trying to create some semblance of order out of the chaos around them.

Patients spilled out of hastily constructed healer tents, some lying as still as their dead companions, some gripped with spasms in what Quat knew to be their death throes.

He was restless.

Quat wanted to help. He needed to help. He threw the Jedi a glance before starting off. "But that's not the point. We don't need you anymore. Go find your boy."

Qui-Gon gave a short nod, a vague indication that he was listening. The pale blue of his eyes was fixed on a speck on the horizon, the modest town of Gloms. Somewhere in his weary mind he registered that the Republic cruiser he and his apprentice had arrived in was docked there. He was tired and aching, his injuries minor, but he and Obi-Wan had fought beside the townspeople for more than two weeks. This last battle – he hoped it was the last – had gone on for three full days.

Three days. A jumbled rush of memories consisting only of the most primitive of instincts – staying alive. And then he and his apprentice had been separated. Qui-Gon's inability to communicate with the boy had begun over a day ago.

Long, graying hair had come loose from its thick clasp and fell limply about his haggard face and taut shoulders. He stared bleakly at the pink sky; his mind numb, feeling strangely detached. He knew he should go back to help, see if he could assist the healers in any way. Perhaps Obi-Wan was only in one of those tents, comforting some wounded citizen.

As much as the Jedi wanted to believe in that possibility, he knew it simply could not be true. Obi-Wan's Force presence was no where in the area. Qui-Gon had looked behind every tree and boulder, searched the dark recesses of every cave, his heart pounding with the fear of finding the broken body of a ginger haired youth sprawled facedown in the dirt. That impish grin hovered in his thoughts, teasing him with its prolonged silence.

He wondered if he could make one last sweep of the area and still return before dark.