A/N: I'm sure there's some SW book somewhere that contradicts my little speculations into Obi-Wan's past, but oh well. This was inspired by the little conversation Obi-Wan and Anakin had in episode two about dreams. It's meant to take place between episodes one and two, with Anakin still pretty young. Oh, and it's my first SW fic AND my first fic on ff.net, so please review.
By the way, flashbacks and memories are in a funky semi-stream-of-consciousness format. Sorry if it's irritating. We had to read Portrait of the Artist at school and it kinda carried over. Anyway…
Threshold of Feeling
"But surely unto thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung."
"Silentium Amoris"
The boy glanced about him, wishing he were at home instead of in this dreadful place with all the people (and aliens) constantly jostling, pushing, and prodding him. He interrupted his own thought: where exactly was his home? Were his new quarters his home, because he lived there, or was it the house where his parents lived, because that's what he thought about when he was homesick?
An angry arcona muttering into a comlink and shoving people left and right approached the oblivious boy; he noticed just and time and managed to narrowly avoid being thrown to the ground. That, he supposed, was what Master Yoda meant when he talked about focus. His home really didn't have anything to do with this. He knew what he had to do to get out: Master Yoda had told him and all the other padawans.
--The Living Force you must attune yourself to, Master Yoda had said, learn to focus on the present you will.
He remembered shivering when Master Yoda said that, because whenever Master Yoda spoke to the whole group about learning, he knew what was coming next. Master Yoda called them educational experiences, but his friend Dorian called them the trials, like the Jedi trials all the padawans would eventually face.
This was the worst by far. The crowd surrounded him, sweeping along as he desperately tried to focus his mind like he had been taught and sense one of the masters. They were all waiting at one of the buildings. None of the padawans knew which.
He felt vague stirrings in his mind, sensed little snatches of thoughts but they slipped away and he was left with the crowd and a vision--well, not really a vision, but a picture--of himself, lost in the streets of Coruscant, with the crowds coming and going and going and coming until the sun set and it was dark and all the masters came looking for him but no one could find him and so they gave up. Master Yoda would shake his head and say:
--Replace him we must. Find a better padawan we will. Less headstrong, more focused.
The boy still didn't know what headstrong meant, but the masters were always accusing him of being it. He was sure that one day something bad would happen to him because of this word, because the masters knew it was bad and they were always right.
He tried to reach out with the Force again but knew he was trying too hard. He remembered what one of the Jedi had told him (was it Master Windu?):
--Using the Force is as simple as talking. You can carefully rehearse everything you're going to say in your head, and run the risk of waiting too long to make your point. If, instead, you let the words flow without thinking, at first they might not make complete sense, but before you know it, you'll catch yourself in the middle of a very perceptive comment.
The boy hadn't replied, just nodded solemnly. He preferred silence to words; it wasn't nearly as complicated.
He sighed and stopped moving. Angry creatures of all sizes and shapes glared at him before weaving around him or just waiting for him to jump out of their way. He felt like he was being smothered by the strange smells of the city. The boy cautiously edged over to the side of the street and sat down, shoes seeped in the sewage flowing through the gutter. He took two deep breaths and closed his eyes. He felt the Force around him faintly, and reached out to it. It was like trying to hold onto a rope when someone much stronger was pulling on the other end.
--Master Yoda? He called out with his mind. Master Windu? Anyone?
He felt the hollow echo of his words across the Force and sensed nothing. He tried his friends:
--Dorian? Lex? Graham?
Nothing.
There were creatures all around him, but he wasn't allowed to ask anyone for help or play any mind tricks. Where were the others? How could they leave him? Didn't they care? He felt his breathing quicken and covered his face with his hands. He knew he was going to cry. He hadn't cried since he had become a padawan. None of the other padawans did either. He bit his lip as the tears came and he wiped them away and felt his nose start to run. Creatures stopped to ask him if he needed help but he wouldn't look at them. He didn't want anyone to see this. As more and more people stopped and asked, he grew more and more embarrassed and cried more and more. The boy wished he was locked in a room somewhere, alone.
* * *
Obi-Wan rolled onto his back. Ever since Qui-Gon's death, memories he had kept hidden for so long had been invading his consciousness. It would cease eventually, he knew...hoped, but still, it wasn't very conducive to sleeping.
He shivered and pulled the blankets back up around himself. Warmth radiated off them, allowing him some degree of comfort and the illusion of safety. Obi-Wan pushed away the haunting past experiences and began to take deep, controlled breaths, allowing himself to exhale only after several throbs of his heart. The mechanical midnight of Coruscant and the dark shadows of his room faded into oblivion as he continued with the technique. He forced his mind to remain dark and empty, knowing--more from personal experience than Jedi method--this was the only way he could surrender to the void of sleep.
He single-mindedly focused on his breathing, began counting to eight after he breathed in and then released his breath. His breathing became gradually less controlled as the rope tying him to the waking world strained then snapped, setting him adrift in the ocean of his subconscious.
* * *
The deep crimson of the setting twilight sun seeped through the glass that encased the Jedi Council's chambers. Obi-Wan looked to his side for Anakin--they must have had a meeting--but realized both the council members and his apprentice were conspicuously absent. He tentatively reached out with the Force and was instantly caught in the undertow of an enormous wave thrashing against a distant shore. He took a faltering step back, legs almost collapsing.
--You still have much to learn.
He spun with a quickness borne of the famed Jedi reflexes, brown cloak swirling around his body. The voice, once so common and dull, now caused his heart to leap and his soul to ache with fierce longing.
--Qui-Gon?
His voice echoed as a whisper in a vacant library. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, blocking out the dying sun, and wondered why he was losing control now.
--Turn around.
The words brought back memories of a certain day, a certain unknown street in the heart of Coruscant, and a certain young padawan sitting on the curb who turned around to see a sight that gave him more joy than anything in the cosmos: a tall man with kindly eyes, dressed in Jedi robes.
--You didn't think we'd leave you out here alone, did you? Even Master Yoda admits his "educational experiences" are sometimes closer to near-death experiences.
This time Obi-Wan kept his eyes shut when he turned. He didn't want to shatter the illusion that his master was once again before him.
He heard the unmistakable sound of a lightsaber igniting. He opened his eyes slowly, fighting the hope that swelled inside him, and there Qui-Gon stood, just as Obi-Wan remembered him, his lightsaber humming and pulsing with a green like leaves at sunrise.
Obi-Wan couldn't...he couldn't find words. He just gaped at his...what? Master? Former master?
Qui-Gon's figure, framed in red, tossed a deactivated lightsaber to him. Obi-Wan felt the comfortable warmth of the instrument he had constructed not so long ago with Qui-Gon's guidance.
--Ignite it.
Obi-Wan's finger almost involuntarily hit the switch, and his own blue saber joined Qui-Gon's in humming. He twirled the deadly weapon twice, his preferred style of fighting, and reflected not for the first time on how perfectly the blade suited him.
--Shall we spar, master? He asked, feeling the energy in his blade tingling into his hands. The excitement he felt at seeing Qui-Gon alive made him even more eager to resume their old ritual of practicing swordsmanship with one another. The joy Obi-Wan was unable to express with words would soon be recreated through the elaborate dance of light.
Qui-Gon smiled his distant, solemn smile and allowed his cloak to fall to the floor, crouching into a fighting stance. Obi-Wan shucked his own garment and crossed his sword over his master's, a grin of pure delight on his face.
At an unspoken signal, both Jedi swept their lightsabers apart, leaping backwards. Qui-Gon hesitated an instant as Obi-Wan sprang forward, offering a light thrust. Qui-Gon, now fully engaged in the battle, parried easily, and the two began to fence lightheartedly in a game that was more one of skill and speed than of strength. Qui-Gon made a swift jab and Obi-Wan back flipped to avoid it, gasping at the long-forgotten exhilaration of such acrobatics. Both of them paused for a second to catch their breath, studying the other with mock wariness.
This time Qui-Gon charged, catching Obi-Wan momentarily off guard. The younger Jedi twisted to the side with the aid of the Force, feeling Qui-Gon's lightsaber singe his sleeve. Now that he had released himself to the Force, he could feel its urgings tugging at his mind, could sense the potential that welled inside him. He began to fight quickly, urgently. At first, he did it simply because he could. His pure elation of life and the Force became also an exhilarating celebration of the power it gave him, the challenge of knowing the only way he could stay ahead of his master was if every cell in his body was in harmony with the Force.
The lightsabers clashed once more, illuminating the now tenebrous room. Qui-Gon used the momentary pause to survey the room, taking stock of the furniture and exits. Obi-Wan seized the chance without hesitation, whirling his blade around in a move that would disarm Qui-Gon. His master blocked the blow easily, as if he had known it was coming, then launched a string of blows that forced Obi-Wan to backpedal until he nearly collapsed into Master Yoda's chair. He brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead, frustrated at his meager abilities.
--Why do you stand still, old man? He demanded, tainting the affectionate nickname with bitterness.
Qui-Gon smiled his inscrutable half smile and Obi-Wan felt his rage flare. The meaning of that smile was closed to him, always had been. How many years had he and Qui-Gon been master and apprentice? And he had never truly known his master, just caught little glimpses. How could anyone be so cold, so...cruel?
And Obi-Wan did something he had never done before, not even at his most desperate. He gave up, gave in to the fury growing inside him. He fought with such frenzy that his mind could scarcely keep up with his body. The two became separate entities, the one viewing the other from afar, witnessing each powerful blow as Obi-Wan fought his way back across the room, paying no attention to the traitorous sweat that now coated his palms, weakening his grip on the lightsaber. Then he stopped thinking altogether, only saw in detached flashes, in blue and green light, the spark in his master's eye as he pinned him against a chair, lethal sky blue blade buzzing at his throat.
Obi-Wan wanted to revel in the control this position gave him, wanted to know the truth of whatever he would see in Qui-Gon's eyes, now unmasked by fear. He wanted to be the master, for once.
Instead, he stared in horror as his master's eyelids drooped shut, as he gave himself over to the mercy of the Force. As he had before he--they--faced Maul.
And suddenly, as precisely as if a switch had been flipped or a button pushed, Obi-Wan's Force- awareness of Qui-Gon vanished. No severing, no gradual fade, just gone. Where before there had been tranquility and light, Obi-Wan's mind rang with confusion and horror. He stared at the man before him and began to cough violently, body wracked with silent sobs. He had never thought about...about...this.
He let himself cry, allowed himself at least that luxury, still balancing the lightsaber with one hand at his master's throat, while tightening the other unconsciously around his own hair. The tears stung his eyes and clouded his vision, until only a beam of blue lancing through darkness remained.
Then the blue shifted, and he moved his hand to catch it, but even Jedi reflexes weren't enough, and it fell, he knew not where, was blinded by the tears. He closed his eyes in fear, and once again felt the irreversible anguish of wanting to go back just five minutes in time.
Never again.
* * *
For an instant, Obi-Wan couldn't penetrate the fog encompassing his vision. He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes until finally his room came into a hazy sort of focus. Images of the dream lingered in his head, distinct moments with no meaning, like stills from a holovid. Obi-Wan shuddered as he recalled the last moments of the nightmare, then shelved it with all the other dreams and bad memories in some sealed corner of his mind. He shuddered again and, to his horror, could not stop. Reluctant to use the Force for such a minor task, he dove for the bedclothes now in a heap on the floor, hastily sheltering himself from the cold.
He sought peaceful oblivion once more, focused on the overwhelming exhaustion that weighted his limbs, but the dream returned. He kept turning it over in his head. Was it a Force dream and therefore an important message, or a product of his own tired mind and emotional frailty?
He stared up at the sky through the small window he'd had installed. The vastness of the night sky, the clouds of smoke shielding the starlight, all reminded him of Qui-Gon's absence and the confusion that had reigned within his soul ever since his master's death.
He blamed himself.
An awkward laugh escaped his blue-tinged lips. He'd faced that fact long ago, had no trouble admitting it. It was just that: a fact. Some of what had happened was his fault, and he was forced to live with that every day for the rest of his life. Every time he ignited the lightsaber he'd claimed as his own, he had to deal with the green glow that was really the only part of Qui-Gon he had left.
An aberration in his awareness, like a warning called out too late, caused him to look up sharply, eyes now focused narrowly on his own apprentice who stood silently near the door, shifting from foot to foot.
"Is something the matter, Anakin?" The neutral rasp of Obi-Wan's voice sounded foreign to his ears.
The boy's eyes avoided his, fixing instead on the light switch. Obi-Wan's hands clenched tightly around his comforter, steeling himself for the demanding, probing questions Anakin always had a talent for pinpointing.
Instead:
"I just came here to apologize, master. I wanted to see how the components of the heating unit fit together and, well, it was dark, and it broke, and I could tell you were awake because...I'm sorry," he finished lamely.
Obi-Wan had to fight the sigh of relief that threatened to escape his lips.
"It's fine, Ani," he assured the boy, trying to put him at ease by using his nickname. "You didn't disturb me in the slightest, nor did the cold."
At least half of that was true.
"Master?"
"Yes?"
"I sensed...you see, I was down the hall at the heating unit...and I felt this sort of ringing in my head...like an alarm bell, you know?"
Obi-Wan knew where his padawan was going but refused to lead him there. "I don't quite see what you're saying."
Anakin's eyes met his, and he knew with dreadful certainty that the boy was only asking this question as a precursor to something bigger. He already knew the answer.
"Were you in pain?" Softly, as someone who is slightly familiar with the sensation and knows how private the experience can be.
Obi-Wan feigned surprise, hoping a look would be enough for his apprentice. As long as he didn't speak the lie...
Anakin nodded slowly, the gesture contradicting the wary skepticism in his eyes. It reminded Obi-Wan, strangely, of Yoda. He wrapped the Force around himself like his blanket, securing all thoughts and emotions that might be leaking off him.
"Was it a dream?" Anakin whispered almost inaudibly. Obi-Wan suddenly wondered if his apprentice were delving into his emotional well being for more than the sake of his master. His stomach contracted abruptly. Hurting his apprentice for the sake of...what? Privacy?
"Nonsense." Obi-Wan couldn't muster a laugh but managed a reassuring smile. "Jedi don't have nightmares."
As the lie passed his lips, he sensed the Force shifting slightly, minutely, and felt a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that he had just done away with something essential.
The boy swallowed hard and, when, at long last, he spoke, he tripped over the words as though he were the one lying.
"OK. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Sorry about the heating unit. Umm...good night. Master."
"Anakin?"
The boy turned in the doorway and Obi-Wan saw his eyes shimmer with hope. The lie was reversible. Anakin didn't usually grant second chances, but his master was an exception. He had swallowed his pride before, agreed to train someone he viewed at first as a "pathetic life form," then as a danger, but it wasn't pride that held him back. To tell this child everything, to bare his soul, in effect, to leave himself that vulnerable, to...give Anakin his life and trust the boy not to shatter it.
He had done it once before. He could not stand to do it again. Better this bearable anguish than some unknown, unborn future pain.
"Do you want to talk?"
Anakin stifled a yawn that Obi-Wan judged to be genuine. "No, I'd better go to bed. Night."
He waited until he heard his padawan's footsteps fade, then collapsed onto his back. He knew, for once was utterly certain, that there had been a chance, imagined he could sense the slight repercussions building into something bigger.
But had the change been for good or for evil?
Would he ever know?