Brink
loryn wilde
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Master and Apprentice
are on a mission to a planet where communication is as rare as the people's
good temper, they can only rely on each other. But when one begins to question
the other's sanity, who can they turn to for help?
Dedication: !Spyre! 'Cause I'm so incredibly fond of you. Plus, you're my own personal 'inspyration'. ;oP
"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."
– Oscar Wilde
Obi-Wan had not slept in days and knew he would have to do something about his
near debilitating weariness before someone decided to notice. It was probably
only a matter of time before one of the delegates or even his master commented
on his unusually frequent 'woolgathering', as Master Yoda referred to any
drifting of the mind that was not meditation oriented.
Already there were dark smudges creasing his skin and cupping worn gray eyes.
One had only to look closer to find the fatigue pooling in those same eyes,
rapidly overcoming any resistance he might have had, any will to cling to the
wakeful realm. Lethargy was taking hold, exhaustion seeping into the very
marrow of his bones, adding a slight drag to his step.
He had told Qui-Gon he was going for a long walk, and would return by
nightfall. The master had dismissed him without so much as a second glance,
showing no sign of the darkness that Obi-Wan knew crept into his bright soul
nightly. The Padawan rubbed a hand over his face as if to briefly massage life
back into the pinched features. Even his braid hung limply over his right
shoulder when he pulled it out from underneath his collar, where he had hidden
it to go into the small medicinal shop behind him.
It was difficult for Darcites to tell basic humans apart from one another, but
the braid was a glaring symbol of who and what he was. He had left his robe
behind to evade further recognition. To a planet that had a strong reluctance
to trust outsiders, an ambassadorial Jedi Padawan purchasing energy pills - no
matter how herbal focused - would certainly not go over well with the public.
The seventeen-year old glanced down at the small bottle in his hand before
tucking it safely into his tunic. A chilling breeze cut through him, reminding
the youth that the evening was fast approaching, shading the purple skies a
passionately violet hue. Worry tugged at his heart as he set off to their
temporary quarters. Would tonight be any better? It seemed as though Qui-Gon
got worse each time the suns set.
Obi-Wan decided he would excuse himself from dinner,
claim he was tired, and close himself up in the private room he had been given.
Not a lie, he was careful to note. He had never felt more tired than he did
then, never more weighted or torn with decisions he alone could make.
The gothic steeples of their hostel rose over the horizon, and the Padawan's
stomach twisted tightly into knots. He snagged his lower lip between his teeth
and his brow creased in anguish. Had he ever felt afraid of his master before? Had any Padawan? It felt horrifically wrong
to him. Everything about this mission had felt wrong from the very start.
Qui-Gon had simply told him not to focus so much on negative feelings.
"You are entirely too pessimistic, Padawan," he had grinned, clapping
the young man on the back before urging him onto the transport. His master had
been in an incredibly good mood, they had just returned from sabbatical and the
older man definitely had a new bounce in his step.
At the light chiding Obi-Wan had recalled how tired Qui-Gon was before their
rest, and, wanting to keep this joyful manner in tact as long as possible, had
agreed to not be such a "stick in the proverbial mud."
At the looming gates of their hostel, the Padawan could already feel stirrings
of the darkness that tainted their rooms at night. Inside, stepping onto the
lift, he hung back in his movements, lingering in the halls, stopping to study
a painting when he came across one. On their floor he resorted to a slow
plodding. A Darcite briskly passed him, frowning at the apprentice's childish
movements. Obi-Wan reddened faintly but was already at
his door. He could just hear Qui-Gon on the other side.
With a sigh, he palmed the latch and stepped into their rooms.
"Obi-Wan! I was wondering if I was going to have
to go out and look for you." His master threw the young man a broad grin
as he eased into a padded chair at the eating table. "I do believe the
senator is trying to spoil us," he said dryly, and waved one huge hand
over the food, "Steamed vegetables, steamed dumplings, and, ah - heaps of
steamed rice."
Obi-Wan's resolve cracked at the wry grin on his master's face, the arched
brow. He couldn't help himself:
"For a people so fixed on change, they certainly don't find much
versatility in their day-to-day activities, Master."
Qui-Gon's rumbling laughter only served to further tighten the knots in
Obi-Wan's stomach. Why couldn't he stay like this always…?
"Sit down, Obi-Wan. The dumplings smell delicious, anyway."
Oh, Force, but this was hard.
"Actually, Master - " Obi-Wan somehow kept
his voice from cracking, "I'm feeling tired. I might just go to bed
now."
Qui-Gon's brow furrowed. "I would think you'd be famished, Padawan,"
he said, frowning slightly. "You didn't eat when you went out, did
you?"
"No, Master." A pause. "I'm just very
tired."
Finally the big man shrugged. "At least take a dumpling so I'll know you
won't starve during the night. Besides, it might whet your appetite."
Obi-Wan's eyes turned stormy as they settled on the food at the table. The
dumplings looked delicious - hot, plump little things, glistening in the
ceiling panel's lights. Their wraps were gray, pulled tautly over bits of meat
and vegetable, coated in sauce. He didn't know what kind…
The Padawan's gaze flitted upward to meet his master's briefly, and in that
second a million thoughts raced through his weary mind.
Qui-Gon was trying to poison him. Why else would the man be so determined that
he eat something? He was seventeen, for Force's sake, if he did not feel like
eating he should not have to.
The darkness had set in early this night. Obi-Wan had not felt it and cursed himself for the oversight. Would it come even earlier
tomorrow? Would Qui-Gon finally catch him off his guard and do something
horrible? Would he make it back to Coruscant from this mission alive? Would
Qui-Gon even know what he had done?
"Obi-Wan?"
"Yes, Master!" The Padawan ripped his gaze away and lunged
forward suddenly, grabbing a dumpling. It was hot in his hand but he paid it no
notice. Turning away he called, "Goodnight, Master," and hurried down
the hall, leaving Qui-Gon alone at the table.
Before disappearing in his room he made a quick detour to the 'fresher, where
he got rid of the dumpling and stuck his hand under the sink's faucet, turning
the knobs to full spray, as hot as he could get it. He scrubbed vigorously with
soap, trembling with the knowledge of how close he might have just come to his
own death.
* * * *
Obi-Wan lay flat on his back on the sleep couch, his eyes wide and staring into the darkness. He felt incredibly restless but forced himself to stay as still as possible, straining his ears to listen to the sounds his master made outside.
His stomach rumbled noisily and he blanched, clamping a firm hand over his mouth lest his body betray him in some other manner as well.
What was his master doing out there? It sounded as if he had been cleaning – putting dishes away in the trolley for housekeeping, but now he was all but silent. Obi-Wan could sense his presence only just, but did not dare to keep closer tabs on him by way of their bond. Qui-Gon would definitely feel it – then he would know. He would know that Obi-Wan knew and then he would come in here and do something awful –
The Padawan shuddered under the blankets. They were hot – much too hot – and clung to his body as he perspired but he did not remove them. He clutched them tighter and latched his eyes onto the spot where he knew the door to be. If it opened, he would hear it but did not trust himself in this state to be as attentive as normal.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside… Obi-Wan quieted the roar of blood in his straining ears to listen. Of course they were Qui-Gon's, but where was his master going?
To bed, surely. Please go to bed, please…
As they passed his room Obi-Wan reeled his presence in tightly, securing it behind wall after wall of mental durasteel, praying to the very core of the Force that his master would continue on into the private room he had been assigned, oh please, oh please, oh please…
The soft click of a manual door being opened, shut, and the Padawan nearly wept in relief. He stayed rigid in his bed for another twenty minutes, carefully monitoring the sounds of the generous quarters, and only then, after he was sure that his master was in for the night, did he flip the blankets back and roll out of bed. He grabbed a sheet and crept across the floor, stuffing it against the crack at the bottom of the door and palming the light switch. Satisfied that no glow would be noticed in the hall if his master did wake in the middle of the night – he picked a reader up off the desk and went back to bed, sitting on it with his back pressed to the wall.
He scratched a bite he had gotten at some point during this miserable trip, conveniently placed at some embarrassing spot on his hip, and logged on to the region's network. He checked the interplanetary communication's status first and scowled – still down – before loading up a novel he had found in a drawer.
He glanced up at the sheet under the door – no harm in being sure – and focused his attention on the screen that glowed softly up at him. A quick but determined breath, he wriggled a little before falling still again and stared with intense concentration at the words.
It was going to be a very long night.
* * * *
Unbetaed and posted on a whim. Thanks for reading, all.