ZEERCON'S CURSE
by ardavenport
All hope was not lost.
Obi-Wan Kenobi slid onto the padded bench.
He felt hyper-aware of everything. The sound of his clothes rubbing across the synth-finish. The weight of his lightsaber on his belt when it bumped on the edge of the bench. The sound of the Zeerci wailing. Qui-Gon taking off his robe. The feel and smell of his own robe, rolled up under his head.
He folded his hands over his lower abdomen. The ends of his boots went up to the edge of the padding; just long enough for his twenty year-old body. He could feel the subtle rumble of the transport's engines through the length of his whole body through the bench, bolted to the deck. They had just gone into hyperspace.
Qui-Gon Jinn knelt beside him. And laid one large hand over Obi-Wan's stomach, under his rib cage, the other in the air above that. The shadow of the Zeerci leaders fell on them. Qui-Gon did not need bright light for this. Obi-Wan breathed deeply and closed his eyes.
Flowing through his body, the Force connected to everything around him, the ship, the bench, the Zeerci nearby. And his Master.
Obi-Wan narrowed his focus, his thoughts, inward, to just himself and Qui-Gon. And inside him. Under his Master's hands, the Force strengthened, like heat, penetrating through his clothing, his skin, down to the hard mass in his stomach. Qui-Gon's raised hand tilted, fingers curling, palm turned toward Obi-Wan's head.
The mass moved.
Obi-Wan's abdomen tightened. Qui-Gon's hand froze. Then the Force smoothed over the spasm, from Qui-Gon above, from Obi-Wan below, the mass suspended between them.
In his mind, Obi-Wan saw it, an ovoid of crystaline carbon, its surface so finely faceted, it sparkled with shards of light specked with the tiny stars that were the microscopic etchings of the history of the Zeerci rulers.
The large jewel pushed up into the lower sphincter that led into his stomach and seemed to struggle to get through until the ring of muscle relaxed. Obi-Wan could not discern between his own control and Qui-Gon's.
The choking lump moved up his esophagus. Obi-Wan felt the Force push on it, through Qui-Gon with the subtle, slow control that he strove for. And now he joined in. The hard bulge left a tickling, burning residue behind, but Obi-Wan relaxed all the muscles in his throat, his slow breaths easing it's path.
Its unyielding rounded edges bumped into his upper sphincter, before a quick, strong push with the Force shot it through, past his airway.
Obi-Wan's eyes opened wide.
Lights and a gray metaloid ceiling shocked his sight. A hazardous distraction. His throat trembled with the stifled impulse to choke and vomit.
Qui-Gon's hand blocked out the light from a above.
Mouth opened wide, Obi-Wan exhaled. Long and slow.
The Force spouted the jewel straight upward to hover in the air above him.
Someone cried out, a sound of shock. A white cloth snatched the jewel away.
Obi-Wan's relaxation suddenly transformed into tension, his body gone rigid, reflex returning. He inhaled again, a sudden gasp.
And gagged, coughing.
Qui-Gon's arm grasped his shoulders and lifted him up. His Master supporting him, Obi-Wan felt cool water touch his lips. The water dribbled down his face and chin, but some of it got into his mouth. He sloshed it back and forth, once, then leaned over and spit it out to splat on the deck. The sounds of exaltation from the Zeerci lessened and moved away from the bench.
After a couple more gasps, he let Qui-Gon give him more. The water seemed to have no effect on the acidic taste of vomit, a film of sickness in his mouth without nausea. He spit that water out again.
The Zeerci's enthusiasm grew in volume again as more of them saw their returned relic and rejoiced. Obi-Wan closed his eyes again. He could see it, glittering with the history of generations of the careful breeding of Zeercon's descendants to be leaders, advisors, Queens and Kings.
A history that continued even after they were deposed. For arrogance, cruelty, abuse. Even after their numbers continued to diminish with each generation a fanatical core group clung to their belief that they were the chosen leaders of the Furkoch System and all its colony worlds.
In Obi-Wan's memory, the jewel glittered and spun along with the fragments of Zeercon's crown, hurled by an angry mob at the Jedi defending the retreating exiles. He did not think, he just acted on instinct from the Force, when he opened his mouth and caught it the only way available.
The jewel had gone all the way to the back of his throat and he swallowed it immediately, getting it out the way while he and Qui-Gon, lightsabers ready, simultaneously warned away the crowd while trying to hold back the Zeerci, desperately scrabbling on the ship's ramp for every fragment they could grab.
The angry Furkochi laughed when both Jedi had to kick at the wailing Zeerci's to get them up into the ship that would take them away from their homes to another arm of the galaxy. Far away from the populace that hated them so much. The Furkochi had promised in their exile agreement to return the crown, intact. They lied. But the deed was done. The Zeerci had been inconsolable at the irretrievable loss of purpose, of honor, of history.
Until Qui-Gon told them that something had been saved. The most important part of the crown. But after that, Obi-Wan had to admit that he could not give them the jewel without bringing up his last meal as well. And letting the jewel traverse its way though his digestive tract would have been. . . . . even less pleasant. He had needed his Master's help.
The Zeerci exaltations came closer to the bench again and Obi-Wan, his head resting on Qui-Gon's shoulder, opened his eyes. He saw the jewel of Zeercon's crown, wiped clean, on a brown-stained white cloth thrust toward him. The Zeerci gibbered their thanks that the Jedi had given them hope again. Their lives had purpose. Again.
Grateful hands touched him, his face, his hair, his shoulders. They touched Qui-Gon as well before hurrying away in an excited cluster, the jewel held up high to be paraded openly in the common areas of the large transport so everyone could see it.
The sounds of their jubilation receded down the corridor before the meeting room's hatch slid closed behind them. A few older Zeerci huddled together in their wide-striped blue-and-pink body coverings, their attention on the Jedi, but remaining in their corner of the room.
Obi-Wan's throat hurt. Sore from something hard and too big going down and then back up, burning with a film of stomach acid. He took the water container, filled his mouth and swallowed, washing some of the taste of digestion back down where it belonged. It hurt going down, like another lump, but a smaller one that diluted the tang of sickness.
He opened his mouth, but only a croak and a cough came out.
Qui-Gon steadied his shoulders and lifted the water to his lips and he took another swallow. It cooled his throat again and his Master laid one large hand on his neck. The warmth from it penetrated down into the hurt, lessening it more. Obi-Wan breathed in and exhaled slowly, his own belated trickle of the Force that soothed his abused throat. Later, Qui-Gon would ask him what he had learned, they would meditate and discuss it. He had learned much.
Leaning on Qui-Gon's shoulder, Obi-Wan saw the elderly Zeerci excitedly whispering to each other. In open areas of the ship, the exiles would be celebrating the recovery of the symbol of Zeercon's legacy. They would continue to follow their long dead ancestor's teachings, to train themselves to be rulers over others. Train their younglings to be the same. Ignore any reasons why they were overthrown and cast out, exiled to another part of the galaxy.
Qui-Gon had said that it was not their place to judge the Zeerci's situation. They were refugees who needed protection, not criticism or pity. But. . . .
. . . . Obi-Wan thought that the Zeerci would be so much better off if they could see Zeercon's jewel as he did. As a hard, unyielding lump. That needed to be expelled.
^^^ ** ^^^ END ^^^ ** ^^^
This story first posted on tf.n: 2-Apr-2009
Disclaimer: All characters and situations belong to George and Lucasfilm; I'm just playing in their sandbox.