Ewan's girl I actually had a pretty good vacation, thank you. ;)
Athena It is really sad. I think it's the saddest thing I've ever written, and I'm not really happy with it. It started out alright but it's just very depressing to write. I'm glad you're enjoying, though!
Emerald1 Thank you.
O
Another evolution of the moon, set in the inky backdrop of the Courscant sky, and the ship ride home had become a stale memory on the edge of his tongue.
Nothing had changed. Two more weeks and not a quiver of an eyelash. His initial thought, that the surroundings would trigger life in his Padawan's intensely focused eyes, was tarnished with each passing day. Day after day, conformed to a single room and set of tasks. There was no stir in the monotony. Color never drifted outside the strict palate of the walls and bedclothes.
The only light was Anakin, bounding into the gray chamber with a busted droid part or newly learned joke. Qui-Gon was always relieved at the sight, and would usher the boy close, listening to the endless chatter and answering the questions that came bursting like sea spray, cool and calming-though occasionally unexpected. But the Master had his limits. Inquiries about Obi-Wan, of any nature, were instantly halted, and the conversation would be redirected, ultimately spiritless.
His ward was mostly absent, though, occupied by a batch of classes and the teeming well of entertainment the Temple had to offer a wide-eyed Tatooine native.
For the majority of the time, Qui-Gon sat at Obi-Wan's bedside, waiting and watching.
In the lonely lurch that stretched over the night, he would begin to wonder if he was waiting for an impossible miracle. If he was watching for a ghost.
Today WOULD be different, if for no other reason than that he would not be a passive witness. He couldn't tolerate another dark layer under Obi-Wan's eyes. He would force the sinister surge in that tender mind to relent, to give his apprentice over to slumber's gentle arms. Tonight, Obi-Wan would sleep.
The Healers had begun to pressure Qui-Gon upon his arrival. Strong sedatives were believed to be the only effective inducement, but their effects could not be deciphered, considering the perplexities of Obi-Wan's condition. He wasn't willing to jeopardize what remained of his student's health. There had to be alternatives.
But the mild whisper of his fingers against a cold temple wouldn't weigh down the lids, nor would the downy cushion of a pillow tempt the head.
And Qui-Gon could feel himself twisting in the enslavement that insomnia wrought him. His own eyes were tied to endless, aching sight. He couldn't rest while Obi-Wan sat as the rigid sentinel of the night, nor could he perform in full capacity, so fogged was his brain. For Obi-Wan, and somewhere deeper, for himself, Qui-Gon had to end it.
When the chimes brushed in a melodious signal of the eleventh hour, he moved from his chair to the side of the bed and cradled Obi-Wan's limp hands. The skin was sallow where it met with the cast of moonlight; Qui-Gon brought those hands to his face and pressed his mouth against the knuckles. "Long hours, my Padawan." He whispered. "And you've never rested."
The tease lay in the features, for they were still Obi-Wan, youthful and handsome and sharply familiar. But now, Qui-Gon could compare them to the etched countenance of a marionette. Obi-Wan wouldn't move, save to capture and release breath. It was his apprentice, to which he could speak a thousand secrets and shared memories and puns. There simply wouldn't be a reply or a smile, a quiet laugh.
Always, it was the frozen face.
Qui-Gon sighed and smoothed a wandering lock of hair from Obi-Wan's forehead. "If I don't lose you to this demon vision, I'll lose you to sleep. I'm...I'm afraid you'll just slip away. That you'll shut down and fall to the exhaustion. It's too much for you, Obi-Wan. To sit awake as the days-the weeks-go on. It would be too much for anyone."
To an outsider, it would appear that Obi-Wan was cruelly indifferent to his teacher's concerns, ignoring the pain that rolled from the bruised aura.
But Qui-Gon kindled the faith that, amid the chaos of his prescience, there was a sweet pool of sanity where Obi-Wan heard the words. Heard and remembered.
"It's late. I always thought eleventh chime was too late, but then, you thought fifth was too early the next morning. We were...ARE balanced in that way." A smile curled his lip. "I suppose it's the sadist in me that loves to sneak into your room and pry the covers from your hands. But sometimes, you just need to see the sunrise more than the inside of your own eyelids." His fingers coursed a high cheek, the humor hardening in a fresh desperation and shaking on his mouth, "You can sleep in tomorrow, Obi-Wan."
But the offer dwindled to dust in the silence.
He swallowed, and felt the stab in his throat. Beyond Obi-Wan, the city pulsed in electric kaleidoscope.
And again, his mind was filled with his Padawan. But the images were softer, vivid for their goodness rather than the heartache they produced. Obi-Wan, barely fourteen and face blotched red, making a timid entrance to Qui-Gon's quarters. The fever had burned on his face and in his voice, when he uttered the man's title in a rasp. Qui-Gon had been surprised. The boy generally kept to himself when it came to injury and ailment. Sometimes, his concealment was so flawless Qui-Gon wouldn't realize until a deliberate mental probe.
But the misery thick in young Obi-Wan's senses had won over his subdued nature, and he came to sit beside his Master, patient for acknowledgement.
Qui-Gon's first inclination had been to escort the child to the Healing Wing, but when dread overtook the agony on the pinched face, Qui-Gon had relented, gathering Obi-Wan to his chest and shushing the moans by turning them both toward the window, and quietly describing the happenings throughout the cityscape. Ever driver had its own silly history, every sign blinked a different, vibrant hue. And Obi-Wan had slept in the unique cradle of his Master's speech, well into the morning.
It was a method tirelessly employed at bedsides. To alleviate suffering, distraction could prove vital.
Perhaps even for the rock-hard concentration of an eternity-long trance.
With a tentativeness uncharacteristic of his massive frame, Qui-Gon reached out to draw his fingers along Obi-Wan's cheekbone. "My Padawan. You remember." He smiled, "I know you do. If only you'd let the memories fill your mind, instead of a future we just can't be sure of. Be here, and push tomorrow away. In the moment, Obi-Wan. You've forgotten your Master's words."
His voice strained to push through the barriers, but Obi-Wan's fixation was unmoved.
Qui-Gon sealed his eyes, and the lights were hot on his temples, contrasting sharp with the chilled skin of the hand he held. What was he to do, when his strength was frozen and encased in an unblinking shell? How could he speak to Obi-Wan of the ribbons of fire from the cloud cars and the stumbling drunk on the curb and everything else, as though nothing were different? It would be denying his own uproarious pain, a session of brutal pretending.
He inhaled, drawing from his last reserves. When he allowed sight to burn him once more, he slipped behind the brick that was Obi-Wan's back and rested his hand along the stiff base of the pale neck. The window rolled an endless panorama of nightlife, and appeared to stretch out into a floating infinity. He drew nearer to his apprentice, near enough to hear the breath slip from his slack lips.
"The sky is dark," He began in a whispered baritone, "But it makes everything glow. The colors are brighter at night. The sidewalks are gray, but they look almost white now, except for the places where the signs reflect. Orange energy erupts in blinks from the little diner. Open all night, it says. But we know that, don't we?" Qui-Gon rasped his laughter, shoulders shaking, "Back from our third trip to Malastaire, the sun hours away, and you were whining, of course, that you were starving. I was satisfied to grab something from the Dining Hall, but you looked absolutely revolted by the idea. You talked me into stopping over at the diner. It turned out alright though, if you'll recall. We didn't have to return to Malastaire for the fourth round. You couldn't leave the apartment."
The Obi-Wan he knew would have turned a furious shade of red at the recollection, but the young man sitting on the bed was unaware and offered no embarrassed protests.
Qui-Gon stroked his hair, and soon was tracing the plaits of the braid, as if treading the paths of a thousand faded days. "You can really see the stars tonight. They're always there, but mostly, we're ignorant of their beauty. They're hovering above us, but we're so concerned about everything else, we become numb to them. Because they're a constant. We don't have to appreciate what will never leave us." The air in his lungs thickened to vapor and hot moisture escaped the corners of his eyes. "Obi-Wan..."
It was a long while before he could speak again, and his voice was hopelessly unsteady. "There's a little ship puttering along; it looks small enough for Master Yoda. But we know he's a speed demon, so it couldn't be him. There's a kid swerving and doing tricks in the far lane. Garen would put him to shame, I think." He tucked a hair behind Obi-Wan's ear. "He wants to see you. Garen does. And your other friends. It would upset them, strong as they are. Resilience reaches its limits."
The city finally melted into the diluted waters of his vision and he closed the drapes with a faint suggestion of the Force. And then it was only he and Obi-Wan, alone in the quiet and the darkness. "Everyone else...they're moving so fast," He said through the stillness, "And they're oblivious to life, the stars. But I won't be, Padawan." He shuddered, "Not anymore."
In the pall, there were no eyes with their horrified shine. There was Obi-Wan, forsaken in mind but spared in body, and so there was reason to collect that body close in Qui-Gon's arms, to honor and protect what was left. A dimmed light was still one to be cherished, no matter its weakness.
Stars could be replaced in the natural cycle. Other things couldn't be.
He held Obi-Wan, and felt the terrible brace of unyielding bones in his posture. And the cold—he felt cold, more than he could comprehend. Obi-Wan, wherever the demented visions of tomorrow had taken him, was cold. Qui-Gon stretched out the cloak he was wearing, tucking it around the other man and keeping it in place with a gentle embrace. A smile dawned slowly on his face, though hidden by shadow. "This reminds me of the mission to Sterla III, when we were stranded in the middle of absolute nowhere, and walked for about a week to reach civilization. By the time we arrived, we'd been pushed far beyond exhaustion. The palace was extravagant. Lots of food, so I'm sure you'll remember it. And the beds were piled in heavy linens and pillows. I thought I'd sleep for about two weeks, but your eyes were wide open and I couldn't let go until I knew you had. I remember you had a cut on your cheek from a low branch that scraped across it, and you were wearing the ridiculously expensive sleep clothes the Queen provided, same as me. I asked what was wrong, but you weren't sure. I sat beside you for awhile, and I saw how tired you were. Too tired, even, for sleep. I put my arm around your shoulders and whispered the Starlight Rhyme, the one they sing to the children in the Temple. You argued you were really very old to be sung to and I laughed, I think. I knew that would never be true."
He leaned forward, to murmur close to his ear, "I have to believe you can hear me, Obi-Wan." His jaw, and his heart, tightened. "I have to."
And the lyrics lit the darkness in soft, warm ambience, a cadence reflected in the Force, where the Master sought again to reach his apprentice. When he reached the end, he merely returned to the beginning verse; he wouldn't allow himself to be discouraged by the unbending limbs. He sang in a voice different from that which he presented to the rest of the Universe. It was the voice of his thoughts, the most intimate pitch, never before shared. There was vulnerability to that voice as it was carried over the darkened room and the Force. It was a fragility he had shielded from his student, in the notion that it would harm his own standing with the youth.
But Obi-Wan had never needed perfection or a hero.
He needed his Master, in full, unbiased attention. In a basic and unpolished reality.
Qui-Gon broke away from the ancient song long enough to assure him, "I'm here, Obi-Wan."
Several hours later, and with a dried throat, he was able to settle in the silence. He supported Obi-Wan, lax and unconscious, against his chest.
The black sky was flirting with gray, he observed with heavy eyes. But he, too, was asleep at sunrise.
O