Homecoming
X.
Ventress.
They have met before. Dueled. Bantered, even, the exchange of mocking pleasantries a discipline to contain the cold, electric tension between them within manageable proportions. She is an acolyte of the Sith arts, fully trained in lightsaber combat; it was she who gifted Anakin the livid scar across his right eye.
She is not to be underestimated.
And also: her presence means that this is no clash of ideals, no political gesture. This is personal. Disturbingly, pointedly personal. This is every bit as personal as Maul's obsession with him ever was – and he notes, in the instant this realization blossoms, that this maniacal focus is somehow made worse by Ventress' grotesque parody of femininity.
"You're a prude, Obi-Wan darling ," she purrs, seizing a handful of tangled hair and yanking his head back.
"Anyone would be in your presence, my dear."
Her stained lips curve upward sardonically, a heartbeat before she strikes him across the face, hard enough to make him see stars. . And with his arms pinioned behind his back by her lackey…. Well. Small talk was never his speciality anyway.
She caresses his smarting cheekbone with one finger, oblong pupils narrowing appraisingly. "You're all mine, Kenobi," she murmurs, like a felix gloating over some succulent morsel.
She stands out against the unalleviated Dark like an inverse beacon, a black hole deeper and more malevolent than the void surrounding it. He cannot discern her intentions, beyond the obvious general idea. After a hundred days of solitude, of starvation and deprivation, he is perversely glad for sentient contact, for any kind of conversation. The feeling lasts approximately two and a half seconds.
Because Ventress does not waste time upon preliminaries.
A gust of warm air heralds the invasion of his refuge by others – several others, in point of fact. Bant has returned with reinforcements, though it took her some time to marshal them. Back turned, eyes closed, he can still readily identify each of them: Vokara Che, Bant, a youngling – probably apprentice healer – and…. Oh stars.
Master Yoda.
It is the latter revered person who approaches him, while the others loiter in the background, as witnesses or as a volunteer posse on standby lest negotiations fail.
The ancient master's unshod feet and gnarled stick strew the neatly raked gravel hither and thon. A huffing grunt, and it is no longer polite to feign ignorance of his presence. With a long suffering sigh – not audible, a mere release of pent breath – Obi-Wan acknowledges his visitor with respectfully inclined head.
The old one shuffles closer, extending one hoary hand in blessing. Blunt claws brush over his hair, the Force questing, skimming featherlight beneath his shields, so fleeting and finessed that he barely registers it.
It is not the same as…
But it is.
Every assault upon his physical integrity accompanied by a violation of the psyche. Dark fingers grasping, prying, ripping, shredding apart mental shields, burrowing deep deep, excavating pain, grief, fear, anything and everything…. Ventress flaying his body and soul apart with a merciless cupidity -
And he still knows this is only the beginning. She has something more final and damning intended for him….
The tiny, wizened Jedi has always been a source of profound trust for him, even when he acting in the role of ruthless taskmaster, stern inquisitor, tormenting riddle-monger. But he still flinches and shies away from the contact.
"Good to have you back, it is," Yoda murmurs, voice gravelly as ever.
"Master….." He is utterly ashamed, to be seen in such a condition by the Grand Master of the entire Order. "Forgive me; I … am not myself."
"Make, or unmake us, suffering can. Your choice, it is."
But it wasn't his choice. Not….. that.
Never that. He briefly buries his face in his hands, as though to blot out the harrowing recollection – but the gesture is an unfortunate reflex, for it is far too similar – too close to…..
Panic clutches at his innards. He clenches both fists upon his knees, to disguise their tremor.
The old one's ears droop, and his gargoylish features soften a trifle, lips pursing into a rumpled line. "Hmmmmm,' he grumbles, throatily. He stirs his gimer stick in the gravel pensively. "Tell Council of this, you must. When ready you are."
Oh, Force. It has not yet struck him that he must report upon his experience. The prospect is … unwelcome. But it is no mere otiose formality. They must know… what he has seen. And failed to see. What the Sith are willing to do, to inflict….
The others – the healers' coterie lurking near the garden entrance – stir impatiently.
Obi-wan snorts. "They've brought you here to convince me," he observes, dryly.
"Neglecting other duties, I am, for present need."
Ha. A guilt trip, as Anakin would call that, is a pathetic negotiating tactic.
Yoda's gimlet eyes narrow. "Play your game, I will not. Injured badly, you are. Heal you must." The stick scribes a testy circle in midair, encompassing the garden, the observers, himself, the entire situation in one dismissive arc. "Foolish, this is."
Having been pushed well past his limits, he finds that many other limitations and boundaries have also been superseded. Respect due to rank is one thing, bullying another. He raises his hoarse voice, enough to be heard by the hopeful medical staff. "I will not be compelled, nor will I submit ."
The Dark rages in his veins, in his heart, consuming fire seeking ownership, twisting and breaking the blackened girders of his certainties. Submit, submit, submit….
"Master!" Vokara Che implores, sharply.
"Foolish!" Yoda snaps at him. His mien is terrible, troll-like, indignant.
They will stick things on him, into his veins. They will strip him and probably – he has to admit it is reasonable – sedate him, and submerge him in viscous, reeking broth, and – worst of all, because the respirator is indispensible – they will cover his face.
He stifles the urge to retch.
The Grand Master has come to the edge of his tolerance. He straightens, imperious and unrelenting. "Agree, I do."
What?
Somewhere behind him, the senior healer makes a noise of disbelief.
"Submit nor be compelled, will you, Obi-Wan. Go of your own free choice you will."
The discussion – if there ever was one – is over. The ancient Jedi snuffles his irritation away into the Force, and squints at his interlocutor. "Come to me when finished here, you are. Drink silpa tea, we shall. And talk. Hm."
The dismissal is… gentle. Almost humorous. Yoda stumps away, nodding curtly at Bant and the others as he passes. It is unclear who the victor of this squirmish may be; they all remain immobile, poised upon the brink of the garden's silence, the frivoling of the streamlet and the continuous, silent exhalation of the plants.
Blast it all to oblivion.
"Bant…?"
She hurries forward, struggling to help him get to his feet. She wraps the blanket about his shoulders more securely.
"You are a stupid gundark, Obi," she whispers fiercely in his ear.
He leans heavily on her support, weaving a little but keeping his chin high. He meets the Twi'Lek healer's amber eyes, gaze steady. "Master Che."
She nods, indulging his need for this to be voluntary, to walk into it of his own accord and with Jedi dignity.
"I believe I require bacta."
Bant's precautionary hold on his arm tightens. Vokara Che's hard-limned Force aura yields slightly, a certain empathy kindling behind her stern regard. "Come this way. I have everything prepared."
He limps resolutely toward his doom, with Bant by his side.