Greetings, my most revered Knights and Masters. I had intended this chapter for Saturday, but a martial-arts competition took up much of the last few days. I wrote this chapter insanely quickly – probably within three or so hours. I hope this satisfies all. I'm honestly extremely gratified with the response to this fic. To all who reviewed, followed, and favourited, you have my gratitude.
Replies to guest reviews:
newmexico: Yay teaching mode! Of course I'll keep updating. This story writes so easily for me. Thanks for reviewing!
Link: He's not that good a babysitter, to be honest. You'll see a prime example down below. Anyway, I hope this fits your expectations. You're an awesome reviewer.
Queen Yoda: This is one of the best reviews I've ever had. You've put in the perfect mix of encouragement, praise and personalities. Now I'm sounding like I'm reviewing your review, but don't doubt that I'm very grateful. Ilum's cave of fears is just beginning here… and I sort of freaked myself out a little when writing it. Do tell me what you think!
Fanfic Lurker: Thanks for reviewing! I'm so relieved you think the pacing is good – I don't want to rush things, but I tend to try to fit a lot in, so I'm trying to balance the two.
Ilum is creepy. Here we go with the chapter.
(:~:)
The Jedi enclave on Ilum stands breathtakingly tall, a hollow sentinel of sapphire ice, unforgiving but elegant in its sharp angles and turreted majesty. Yet there is something deadly about the manner in which the white mid-morning light scatters awry over its white-azure walls. Light does not cling to this temple within its shining borders; rather, it seems to hesitate for the briefest moments at the muffled sable of casements and doors, a few solitary, braver motes venturing to search the yawning mouth of the main entryway, only to be swallowed whole by the insatiable darkness. Silence reigns. Not the hushed quiet of snow, but an awed, fearful lack of sound. The enclave is beautiful, yes. But only because light rebounds off its surface and flees, not daring to search its fettered depths.
In more ways than one, Ilum is rather cold.
Obi-Wan gives himself a mental cuff on the ear for thinking the absolutely obvious. With such an unspecified word, no less! The frigid temperature could might as well have frozen his nerve-endings, rendering his usually over-active brain into a pile of soggy mush. Muffled curses drift back at him from where Quinlan slogs through waist-high snow, followed doggedly by the hunched forms of Reeft, Garen, Luminara and Huei. The five of them, and Obi-Wan himself, are so wrapped up in winter gear that to the casual observer, they would not be specimens of five separate species but rather a forlorn line of baby gorgodons. For all their years of Jedi training, they present a very sorry sight.
Of course, Qui-Gon is exclusively exempted from this indignity.
The Jedi Master circles the six younglings like a watchful hawk-bat, the green glow of his lightsaber luminous in the heavy flurries of snowfall. There is no thick coat around him, or spiked boots on his feet, but his supple nerf-hide boots move with quick, sure steps over the thick layer of white, soundless. His shameless, liberal and very skilled application of the Force saves him from having to wade through white sludge like the younger ones. His boots do not even mark the snow.
Qui-Gon completes the last of his circles, crouching and placing a hand on Quinlan's shoulder to steady him. The line of Initiates and Padawans stumble to a clumsy halt. "We're almost at the entrance!" Qui-Gon calls back at the shivering figures, voice somehow still clear over the rising wind. A note of warning creeps into his voice. "Stay behind me!"
As the ominous sable of the main entryway blots out the sky, Obi-Wan grits his teeth and shuffles after the others. He doesn't quite think it's fair that Qui-Gon could warm himself with the Force and Obi-Wan has not yet learned to do so. And half-dancing across the snow like that! Master Alann would have given Obi-Wan a sound ticking off for exuberance if he had done anything remotely similar.
But a chilling howl rises out of the bleached ridges behind him, and Obi-Wan's overactive imagination manifests the sound into an Asharl Panther pack. It is this terrifying image, rather than an actual pack itself, that hurries his steps after the others.
(:~:)
Qui-Gon examines the clinging shadows of the entrance gallery as he shakes the heavy snow off his cloak. The flickering yellow lamps in the walls must be ancient, for the light does not so much illuminate the shadows as enlarge them, pooling them in tepid sable puddles about their feet, dripping down corners. The intricately carved ice ceiling echoes and groans overhead like an abandoned cathedral. In the entryway behind, icy stalagtites shiver in the wind, and rivulets of of agitation pour from the six Force signatures behind him. Qui-Gon sighs. Children.
"I think my rear's frostbitten," Quinlan groans as he rubs his hide-covered buttocks, ignoring the filthy look Luminara shoots him over her shoulder.
"Why is the landing pad so far from here?" Reeft mutters the complaint as he tries to stamp feeling back into his frozen feet.
"It would be unfortunate if you had to find out," Qui-Gon answers promptly, eyes still flicking from alcove to doorway. Obi-Wan's fingers fall still on the straps of his pack as he notices Qui-Gon has not deactivated his lightsaber. His own hand twitches toward his training 'saber, and he sinks into a casual stance, gaze wandering away from his teammates to the endless caverns ahead.
Qui-Gon makes sure to hide the approval in the set of his shoulders as he continues his examination of the silent hall. Obi-Wan is the only one of the younglings who is aware of the danger lurking in the darker currents of the Force; the others are busy divesting themselves of packs and gloves.
Suddenly, Qui-Gon folds his large frame onto the floor, pressing an ear into the harsh stone. He straightens equally as abruptly, fiddling with the power setting on his lightsaber. The humming song of the emerald blade pitches higher as the blade blazes with new heat. "Initiate Shinren," he calls cheerfully to Reeft, "It seems the answer to your question is approaching with a remarkable speed from a three o'clock direction." Despite the amusement in his tone, his eyes have narrowed. The thick brown folds of his cloak fall into a heap by his feet.
Obi-Wan rips off his cumbersome gloves and his heavy coat as well, eyes wide. His numb fingers grip the hilt of his training 'saber tightly, uncaring that the icy metal bites into his knuckles. All talk and action ceases as every head turns to their right. In the resulting silence, the wind howls anew, throwing its cackling laughter against the walls, rooting the feet of initiate and padawan alike in place.
And ever so softly, down a side corridor, the muffled grunts, thudding pawfalls, and slavering breath of some unknown horror grows steadily louder.
"Ah," Qui-Gon comments, almost to himself. He paces forward unhurriedly, halting right in front of Garen, who is frozen, half in the act of pulling off his coat. "Training 'sabers out," Qui-Gon murmurs quietly. There is no urgency in his voice. No emotion. Only peace.
The hiss-snap of five other blades bathe their angular faces with garish colours of yellow and blue, emitting a high, discordant buzzing. Throughout it all, Qui-Gon's 'saber glows a steady green, a deeper, richer melody.
"Stay behind me," Obi-Wan hears Qui-Gon murmur under his breath. The Jedi Master's voice is calm, collected, but there is a hardness to it Obi-Wan has not heard before. Not quite uncivilised, Obi-Wan muses, adrenaline slowing time into a crawl as he settles into the basic Shii-Cho stance. Just…battle-ready.
And then the monstrosity is upon them with no need for civility.
The full-grown gorgodon barrels into Qui-Gon's salute with fearsome speed, claws screeching agonising furrows into the stone floor, a thousand pounds of solid muscle and fur against a whiplash blade of plasma. Screams explode behind Qui-Gon as the others dive out of their way, watching the maelstrom of slashes and parries as claw meets 'saber in a spray of molten chitin. The gorgodon's roar of incensed pain forms a terrible clamourous duet with the whirring sphere of Qui-Gon's 'saber. Daggered fangs grind against each other as hot blood hisses against the frozen floor; then a howl of fury, and Qui-Gon finds himself darting into Ataru acrobatics to avoid the balls of sticky brown saliva hurting towards him in a binding rain.
Ataru is relentless, and this predator but another many-'sabered opponent; this is the battle of hawk-bat against gorgordon, agility against power, flight against stone. The hawk-bat does not fight alone – its young flutters about the gorgodon, their own claws less luminous, less sharp, but quick nonetheless. The gorgodon snarls as it bats at these nuisances, these ungrown young cubs to him. Some are more hawk-bat than others; one of the young, with a darker pelt than the rest, battles with fervor, his bright yellow claw flashing with his war-cries. Another – a female, the gorgodon senses – defends her brothers more than she attacks. Three other hatchlings seem to shift, the one who smells of fish striking like a predator rather than prey, and the other two alternating, protectors and warriors.
And the last one, the runt of the litter, perhaps, for his voice-box does not seem developed enough to yowl – he stays closest to the adult hawk-bat's side, an infant seeking to protect his sire, possibly. But a runt is a runt. And to a hunter such as the gorgodon, the weak are but food.
Obi-Wan utters a soundless cry as the gorgodon's thick tail slams into his chest, knocking the breath out of him and crunching into his ribs. Pain blossoms like a red flower under his skin, followed by the disorientating impact of the back of his head slamming into the stone floor. His 'saber rolls loose from his bruised hands.
The gorgodon reaches for him, but is hindered by a hot 'saber in his side.
Qui-Gon hisses a Huttese expletive as he realises he cannot keep track of all his charges in a melee such as this. He can identify four separate voices in the battle, but Obi-Wan is a fleeting shadow in his peripheral vision at the best of times. Qui-Gon's single focus is on the hulking predator he faces. In the three times he has been to Ilum, he has never faced a gorgodon quite so large – this could very well be an alpha male.
And then he catches sight of the small, rumpled form that is Obi-Wan, and leaps to intercept the clawed paw sliding towards the boy. Five training 'sabers halt by his side an instant later.
The gorgodon faces Qui-Gon and the remaining five with a leer of dirty white fangs, his long arms dragging along the ground, hard-muscled shoulders rippling. It opens its maw and howls its anger, its body a skulking silhouette framed by the wide mouth of the entrance and the snow beyond–
– And a crystalline peal, as the heavy stalactites overhead fall like lances, impaling the gorgodon with an unpleasant crunch.
Amusement laces the Force like the violent scarlet of gorgodon blood on the pitted stone floor.
As one, Qui-Gon and the five others turn to stare incredulously at Obi-Wan, who smiles weakly as he props himself up on an elbow, one hand still outstretched to the ceiling above the entrance.
Qui-Gon's lightsaber snaps back into its sheath with a hollow hiss. "That was an…untraditional example of Force manipulation," he manages. Other speech eludes him.
Obi-Wan's smile turns into a smirk, then a wince as he tries to rise.
Garen is the first to his side, supporting Obi-Wan's head as he turns a rather interesting shade of green.
"Deep breaths, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says softly. His fingers move quickly as they undo the thick under-coat, tabards, and linen tunic. They pause when they reach bare skin.
A few feet away, Quinlan gives a low whistle. "Woah. That's a stinger."
"Go tend to our gear," Qui-Gon breaks in. "All of you." As the myriad of footsteps draw fainter, he retrieves his cloak and places it under Obi-Wan's head as a cushion. "Hmmm," Qui-Gon mutters, wincing inwardly as he examines the palette of colours that is Obi-Wan's lower chest. He places a cool hand against the side and pushes lightly. Obi-Wan's mouth opens in a gasp and he flings a glare up at him.
With supreme indifference, Qui-Gon continues his examination. "Bruised ribs," he states matter-of-factly. "They'll take a day or two to heal."
Obi-Wan's gaze turns from accusing to worried.
"Do not fret like an abandoned hatchling," Qui-Gon reprimands as he searches his belt pouch for valerian cream. "It is unbecoming of a Jedi." Gently, he smoothes pain-relieving cream on the bruises, applying warm Force-healing as he does so. A pause, and then he decides to be lenient. "This injury is insufficient to prevent you from retrieving a crystal," he murmurs. Qui-Gon carefully avoids Obi-Wan's gaze, but as he stows away the medical supplies, he makes the mistake of glancing up.
Two enormous grey-blue eyes bore into his very soul.
Qui-Gon all but tears his gaze away and snaps the boy's tunics tight. He allows himself a hidden groan. That boy has the eyes of a snow-ruffled akk pup. Why is it that just when he has decided to leave the folly of what happened on the ship behind, Obi-Wan goes and does something as underhanded as this?
Negotiator.
The word shivers in his mind, dancing out of the Unifying Force like a 'saber blade ignited, and deactivated just as quickly.
As Qui-Gon returns to his other young charges, a stray thought wonders that should Obi-Wan not become a padawan, the Jedi Order would lose far more than the Living Force revealed.
(:~:)
The soft firelight casts rutted shadows over Obi-Wan's face as he curls carefully on his side. Ilum's night cycle is deep and long, longer than Coruscant's and far more beautiful. The chamber they had chosen is hidden in the topmost spire of the Ilum Temple, the floor and walls carved with frescoes of Jedi Masters who have long since joined the Force. The night sky wheels overhead around Aiedail, the north star of Ilum, a sable cloak sewn with diamonds and sapphires, the path of the Galactic Republic reduced and glorified to a simple pennant of stars.
Five other forms huddle around the scant warmth of the smokeless fire, their breathing slow and deep. Obi-Wan knows he must be the only one awake. It is not fear of the gorgodons, or an ache in his chest, or the cold air that keeps him so; it is his thoughts. The heavy, rough fabric of the cloak still spread over him is not unlike its owner; sharp with commands, piercing to approach, but an immensely comforting presence. Obi-Wan can see the Jedi Master from his place on the marble floor, glimpse the twinkle in his eyes as some hidden memory amuses him. Obi-Wan snuggles deeper into Qui-Gon's cloak, breathing in the memory of a hundred worlds, a hundred missions. He knows the gorgodons and Asharl panthers will not harm him tonight. Master Qui-Gon is watchful.
(:~:)
Qui-Gon's gaze does not stray from the sealed and barred door. What occurred earlier that day was almost completely due to a lapse of judgement on his part. Gorgodons were to be expected; he had prepared for them, arriving at mid-morning, when the beasts were usually asleep after a long night hunting. The actual attack had not been that much of a surprise; what does disturb Qui-Gon is that the gorgodon came alone, when their species hunt exclusively in packs. Another anomaly is that it attacked him first, and continued to do so for a good long while. Pack-hunters instinctively go for the weakest, smallest member of a herd – in this case, Luminara or Obi-Wan. The male gorgodon had instead targeted the apparent alpha male, in a complete reversal from its natural behavioural traits.
Qui-Gon shifts in his meditation posture. A nagging suspicion hovers at the edge of his mind. He had replayed the battle hundreds of times in his mind, figuring out the exact positions of every padawan and initiate throughout the chaos. He was startled to find that Obi-Wan had stayed by his side for the entire duration, up until the gorgodon suddenly changed its focus to the boy. Did the gorgodon only attack Obi-Wan when he barred its way to me? But gorgodons are not sentient. That leaves only one other cause.
Force-compulsion.
He shrugs off the theory; the evidence is insubstantial. In fact, Mace would probably have laughed outright at the idea. Qui-Gon can almost hear him. "Now, now, Qui, I know you love pathetic life forms, but who would bother Force-suggesting them?"
Amusement twitches the corners of his lips upward. If only Tahl were here…
Curiosity leaks into the Force behind him, seeping underneath young shields addled by exhaustion and half-slumber.
Qui-Gon rises silently and paces over to the small bundle of brown cloak and red-golden brown hair. Obi-Wan's eyes are shut and his breathing even and controlled, and Qui-Gon hides a smile. Obi-Wan might have been trained in the ways of the Force, but his practical skills are still lacking. His breathing pattern is just a little too controlled to be truly convincing.
"Why are you not asleep, young one?" Qui-Gon sighs, his fingers hovering over the worn folds of the cloak, his cloak, before drawing back.
For the second time in two days, Obi-Wan reaches up, eyes still closed, and taps his temple.
Cryptic as ever. "Do not brood over today's incident. You did well."
Obi-Wan's eyelids flutter open this time, and he shakes his head vigorously. His gaze is elsewhere, reflecting the ageless light of the stars, as he mimes a Force-push, then folds his fingers into a fist so tight his knuckles whiten.
"Ah." Qui-Gon would have chuckled, if he had not so convinced himself against forming further bonds with the boy. At the moment, he is simply teaching as an older Jedi to a younger. "This is your first experience of taking a life with the Force."
A diminutive nod. The riotous spikes of brown hair burrow deeper into warm, rough cloth.
Sweet Force, he's more like me than I thought. Qui-Gon chooses his next words carefully. "And you question the good in you, that you would willingly sacrifice another life?"
Shame floods the Force about them.
"Gorgodons are not sentinent, Obi-Wan. That particular one was even more feral than most of its species. By causing its death, you saved ours." He pauses. Obi-Wan is still, now. Qui-Gon knows he is listening hard under the cloak. "When you called on the Force to break the stalagmites, were you thinking of murder or of harm?" His voice is unassuming, gentle.
The cloak shivers as Obi-Wan's head shakes.
"Intent is as important as the action itself," Qui-Gon says calmly, watching as Obi-Wan's forehead emerges slowly from blankets and cloak until their gazes meet. "You fought with the intent to protect, not to kill," Qui-Gon presses. "That is the true and right intention of a Jedi Guardian."
Obi-Wan's eyes could have been shining saucers. Even though Qui-Gon cannot see the lower half of his face through the cloak, he knows the boy is smiling.
Qui-Gon's fingers itch to pull his cloak tighter about the boy's shoulders, but with an effort of will, he catches himself. "Go to sleep," he murmurs, lacing the words with a subtle Force-suggestion. "You will need all your strength in the morning."
Obi-Wan falls into the comforting embrace of the Force, not knowing whether the hand on his forehead is imagined or tangible.
Qui-Gon doesn't know either.
But for tonight, he guards his young in the Council-chamber of Ilum, the stars spin overhead, and the music of the spheres a gentle lullaby humming with the sonorous melody of the many crystals below.
(:~:)
Force-forsaken stars! I wanted to fit in some of the drama I thought up in this chapter, but the gorgodon fight took up more space then I thought it would. Something major will happen next chapter though, so I humbly beg your forgiveness. *bows* It just occurred to me that Qui-Gon's quite a stubborn git in this chapter. Can't he just give in? It's in character for him to be stubborn, though, but it doesn't stop me from wanting to get Tahl to slap some sense into him. Maybe I will…
Next chapter: snow, more snow, visions, crystals, and a sudden warmth.
