I am so, so tired right now. My Uni messed up so much from courses to timetabling to student IDs. But I have piled together the fragments of writing I managed to cram into the past week and a half, and here we have the new chapter. And not too bad in length, either. Thank you all so much for your kind congratulations and encouragement. And especially MJLupin27. I've been under so much stress, and her (I'm assuming it's a her!) PM was one of the most heartwarming I've ever read. Thanks, MJ. I'm half dead so I'm going to cut myself short here so I can go and Zzzz.
Replies to guest reviews (and others I've been too dead to reply to):
Guest: Now. Haha. Hope you like.
Fanfic Lurker: As always, thank you. Force-foreseen plot points rapidly approaching. I also foresee some of you killing me later for this. I hope you don't. XD
EirinKenobi2893: Palpacreep. PALPACREEP. That is my new favourite Palpatine nickname. Obi will handle all things as he is: Obi-style. That means getting injured in some manner or the other, derive some deep philosophical meaning, and forge lifetime bonds. All while kicking butt. Excuse my lack of eloquence – the brain is dead. O_o
Guest: Yes, IB is useful. Especially in Uni, where the ability to spew deep stuff about anything comes extremely handy. And as it turns out, Uni takes even more time. I'm so dead. :P
SWfanfan: Sassmaster! Whoo! I'm so sorry, I'm trying to wake myself up with exclamation marks. I hope this is up to expectations.
Guest: I'm the same. I do karate katas with my lifesized Uchiha chokuto just to figure out the 'saber movements. I hope you continue reading. You're nice. XD
Queen Yoda: Apparently Kit IS younger. By quite a margin. I agree with you, though. He seems so mature, even with his jokey personality. I dunno about Ani and Obi yet. I don't want to ruin this fic by overly fixing things, but I don't want to leave things completely unchanged… I will decide that later on. When my brain is less fried. Thank you so much for the kind words. HUG!
newmexico: Thank you very much, dear. I really want to reply more but I'm just so… dead. Big hug from me. Nice long reviews help me through Uni annoyances. I love Kit, I really do…I'm looking forward to writing him again sometime.
S. T. Nickolian: I'm a fan too. I wonder what would happen if Loki met Obi-Wan…
Book girl fan: I meant to reply to you by PM, but Uni studying basically shot my energy reserves into tuber mash. Don't worry about me not studying haha. I'm living in the library. And in answer to your question, most definitely. You'll see.
And here we are… life-day.
(:~:)
The south hangar of the Jedi Temple is never quite still; even in the dead hours of night, ships and smaller craft still drift into its waiting, lulling embrace, like hatchlings drawn to a common nest. In the silence of the hours just after midnight, Coruscant thrives on in the smoky rivers and undying lights of the city-planet, and the hangar is still astir, like the waters of a tidal maelstrom swelling at its lowest speed, not calm, exactly, but turgid and muted. Solitary Knights and a few lagging Master/Padawan pairs tumble, weary, down ramps and out pressurised doors, returning from mission, deliberation, battle and war, each as close and as far from Coruscant as mind and body. They are welcomed only by the Force, which echoes with welcome at their coming home.
Dawn rises over the textured Coruscanti horizon like variegated flames, sweeping through the forest of durasteel like wildfire, and as its bright bar of luminance sweeps across the entrance, the hangar itself seems to stir, like a hive about to swarm. The Force seems to suck in a breath, restless. The smell of engine oil percolates the air, a sharp scent of adventure, danger, bringing with it the unmistakable taint of hyperspace. Of a sudden, sentients converge upon the duracrete ground and its many gleaming spacecraft, engineers, deckhands, pilots. Boots, metal soles, nerfhide; shouts and clattering of crates and equipment, laughter and greetings in a hundred languages. Every rank from captain to cook, officer to cabin boy, and every level of Jedi from master to initiate. And with each specimen of bio-matter that sucks in the increasingly heated air of the hangar itself, droids pour in by the dozen. Astromechs, medi-droids, old etiquette units tottering unsteadily on clunky legs, pit-droids and science droids, maintenance, engineering, entertaining; The cultured tones of lightsaber droid Master Huyang, who waxes eloquent to some pitiable padawan about fried-wire circuits in a long-forgotten lightsaber. Shrill beeps and mechanised voices join the fray, melding into a battleground of broken noise.
Obi-Wan dances gently through this cacophony, his Force-signature a solitary star of coalesced silence among a whirling galaxy of chaotic sound, and he smiles to himself. What a way to make him feel special on his life-day. Here, he is not only the eye of the tempest, or a still drop in a thunderstorm; he is a perfect moment of calm in this turmoil that is rigorously maintained, ordered chaos of the morning cavalcade in the south hangar of the Jedi Temple. Obi-Wan is the centre of the galaxy.
Qui-Gon glances back at Obi-Wan he wades through the currents of droids and sentients, seeking to anchor his apprentice in his solid presence – only to find that he is not needed. Rather, Qui-Gon finds himself releasing his irritation, focusing on the bond above all else in the uneven, capricious tide of the Force swelling in this contained battlefield. And in an amusing strike of irony, Qui-Gon realises he is using Obi-Wan as an anchor, and not vice versa. He withdraws slightly behind shields of steel to save face.
Despite himself, Obi-Wan grins in delight.
His cloak swings heavily around his ankles, a wave of thick earthen fabric that flows from his shoulders to glide smoothly an inch off the ground, like a pennant of glory dancing in the wind of his passage. The cloak is new, procured straight from the quartermaster mere minutes previous; and with each stride Obi-Wan takes, it sways in a majestic billow of voluminous sleeves, hood, and well-sewn but rough cloth. With his 'saber glinting against his hip, boots rubbed to a dull shine, tabards and sash pressed to pristine glow, and braid swinging in an echo of his cloak's movement, Obi-Wan knows looks the very image of a Jedi padawan.
One just over five foot tall, but a Jedi nonetheless.
Obi-Wan glances beside him, and his stomach twists with pleasure as he realises he appears almost exactly like his master. Qui-Gon's cloak is more worn, travel-stained in places, its edges frayed; but the Jedi master does not so much wear the cloak as present it as a testament to his rank as a veteran of the field, evident in the easy, familiar way it sweeps over his broad shoulders, swaying elegantly around his scratched boots, a constant, unchanging shadow. While Obi-Wan's cloak marks him as a Padawan, nothing more, Qui-Gon's cloak somehow embodies his grace, quiet power, and years of knowledge in the Force. And there is something about the way it twirls in the early morning air that suggests a slightest hint of maverick.
Master and Padawan. Together, they make a formidable pair.
(:~:)
The Dressalian pilot who stands beside the boarding ramp of the private Republic craft pauses momentarily as he watches his two passengers approach, his mouth dropping open slightly at the sheer swagger emanating from the pair. He has ferried Jedi to all reaches of the galaxy, but never two who looked quite like these.
"Good morning, Master Jedi," the pilot manages, recovering just on the cusp of diplomatic disaster.
"Good morning," the tall Jedi answers, in that dastardly confusing manner with which all Jedi speak. "I am Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn. This is my apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi. It's a pleasure to meet you, captain…?" Jinn's sky-blue eyes twinkle with hidden humour; the pilot's stomach sinks with the thought that perhaps his mind is being read. Despite all the time he as spent around Jedi, he is still not wholly convinced that Jedi do not have overwhelmingly supernatural powers.
Too late, the pilot realises that the Jedi is still waiting for an answer. "Saret," he says, just a touch too quickly. "You may call me Captain Saret."
Master Jinn's smile is subtly knowing, and although he does not turn his head towards his apprentice – what was his name? Kenobi – the boy tilts his head slightly and presses his lips together, as if trying to keep himself from laughing. The movement shocks Saret slightly; Kenobi had remained so still that it is only this small motion that draws the captain's eye to him. Outwardly, Kenobi appears completely normal, but there is something…different about him. Actually, the aura of focussed quiet around the boy is ever so slightly disturbing.
Kenobi starts as Master Jinn glances at him sternly, and a guilty blush starts on his youthful face. Saret blinks in surprise. All at once, Kenobi transforms from a stoic Jedi, a still, silent statue, into a young boy wincing at an elder's reprimand. But this small change is insufficient to displace the unsettled feeling in the captain's chest. The entire exchange between the Jedi, as quick as it is, seems to have taken place in complete silence.
Saret licks his dry lips and ventures, "Master Jinn, do you wish to be present for pre-flight checks?"
Jinn turns back to him, and is of a sudden all affable grin and politeness. "Of course, Captain Saret," he replies, motioning. "After you."
"Obi-Wan!"
The shout somehow makes it through the wall of beeps, voices, calls and hydraulic hissing that permeates the hangar, and Saret spies a dark-haired, green-robed man striding hastily towards them. Kenobi – Obi-Wan – grins at the newcomer with unabashed delight.
"Captain." Master Jinn waves a hand up the ramp, before turning back to his apprentice. "Five minutes." Obi-Wan nods happily, and his master drops a hand to his shoulder before starting towards the ship with both their packs settled on his wide shoulders.
Saret frowns. And now they look more like father and son.
But then Saret finds himself pacing up the ramp, the Jedi master not far behind him, and the ways of the Jedi contining to elude him.
(:~:)
Obi-Wan inclines his head in greeting as Avarin comes to an unhurried halt before him. The master healer returns the salutation, not one silver-tipped hair out of place, despite having most likely sprinted from the Healers' Wing.
"Did you think you'd escape my congratulations on passing your thirteenth life-day?" Avarin jests, his wide grin echoing his younger counterpart. His hand gives the scruffy head of hair a quick ruffle, pausing on the stub of a nerf-tail sticking comically out the back of the young padawan's head. Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow in a challenge that Avarin accepts, holding back his laughter successfully.
Obi-Wan shuffles his feet slightly; his hand hovers to his sleeve, where his flimsy resides, but Avarin turns his uncannily perceptive healer's gaze upon him, and smiles in understanding.
"Your puppy is safely recovering," Avarin says, chuckling. "He is quite the celebrity in the Healers' Wing; especially among the younger female padawans. It is not often the Jedi Temple is host to such an adorable sentient."
Obi-Wan nods his thanks, eyes shining in relief. He bows once more in farewell, and turns towards the ramp.
"Wait just a moment, Obi-Wan!" Avarin's variegated irises glint with amusement. "You cannot seriously assume that I left my very prodigious mound of work in the Healers' Wing this morning simply to inform you about the state of your first pathetic life form?" He gives a sly grin. "Stars' end, what has your master been teaching you?"
Obi-Wan freezes mid-step, jaw dropping open in surprise.
Avarin appears to mull his own words over, and he winces, rubbing his chin. "Actually, don't answer that," he mutters. Brightening, he draws a thin tube from his sleeve, wrapped in plain white cloth. "A life-day gift for my favourite initiate – now padawan, of course," he proclaims, the corner of his mouth twitching with humour. "Go on, open it."
Bowing deeply at the waist, Obi-Wan receives the present with a formal reverence, only straightening when Avarin gives him a nod of approval. The knots slide undone seemingly by themselves, and the heavy fabric is soundless as it slips away, revealing a grey flute.
The flute warms under his fingertips, made of a wondrous material; neither wood nor stone, it fits into his palm with the weight of masterful workmanship. Whorls and patterned leaves are etched into the shining silvery-grey surface, lining each tone-hole and forming an intricate wreath of vines around the mouthpiece. Runes meander their way across the carved leaves and branches, as if the wind sings words of an unknown language, flowing through the foliage. The design is so beautiful, perfect and natural, that Obi-Wan almost believes that should he blow across the mouthpiece and fill the flute with his breath, the leaves would dance in the sudden wind and sing for him.
"You hold it like this," Avarin says gently, smiling at the dumbstruck awe on Obi-Wan's face as the healer helps him to arrange his left, then right hand on the various tone-holes, holding the flute parallel to his shoulders and the ground, allowing him to blow over the first hole. A pure, crystalline note reverberates in the air, then fades into the Force, not forgotten, but a lingering warmth.
In the ensuing silence, Avarin tilts his head, sable and silver hair swinging along with the motion. "Like it?" he murmurs.
Obi-Wan opens his mouth, clutching the flute to his chest, and nods so hard he thinks his head might fall off.
"I thought you might. Take care of it," Avarin laughs lightly. "It is quite rare. I have no use for it, so I thought I would give it to you." At Obi-Wan's distracted gaze, Avarin frowns. Then a thought crosses his features, and he asks, "Has your master given you what is due?"
Obi-Wan jolts, eyes widening slightly. Slowly, he shakes his head.
"Don't worry," Avarin says quietly. "Qui-Gon's stubborn enough that he'll wait for what he thinks is the perfect time before he gives a gift, regardless of whether it actually is. You will have to be patient."
Now sporting a small, relieved grin in return, Obi-Wan bows once more in thanks, turns, and scampers up the ramp.
Avarin steps back and watches as the ship rises into the air, powers out the hangar and dwindles into a distant star, until it is visible no more, lost in the ether of hyperspace.
"I hope it sings," Avarin murmurs under his breath, smiling as he pivots on a heel to return to his duties.
(:~:)
The ship seems motionless on the incorporeal plane of hyperspace, moving through a timeless haze of colourless pattern, unchanging, one-dimensional and infinite all at once, as it has been for the past day. Obi-Wan feels the hyperdrive hum under the bare pads of his feet, and reaches out to steady himself on the rail of his bunk. The sleeping quarters seem sparse enough, but there are probably far worse out there somewhere. This is a Republic shuttle, and no matter how simple the arrangements, the thin bunks are probably dearly coveted after by the hundreds of millions who travel on public interplanetary ships every day.
Obi-Wan rubs a hand over his tired eyes – reading the mission briefing and associated intel had been even more boring than he had originally thought. The dull lines of information had none of the wit of Jedi philosophy or the gripping impact of history. And throughout the monotonous hours, Qui-Gon had spoken only a few words to him, between meditation, assisting the pilot, and reading his own copy of archived intel.
It is as if Obi-Wan's master does not even know his padawan is thirteen today.
Forcing a swallow past the aching lump in his throat, Obi-Wan arranges his blankets in preparation to sleep. Avarin, reputed to have a correct opinion about almost everying, is finally wrong about something. This small spark of humour does nothing to alleviate his misery.
Master Qui-Gon doesn't care after all.
So Obi-Wan climbs the little ladder into his bundle of blankets on the upper bunk, finding hyperspace cold for the first time, the chill of ventilated air from the grate above seeming to wreathe his eyes with frost.
And when the frost begins to thaw, the first drop of glacial melt runs down his cheek.
The hiss of the door sliding open and is so sudden, and the light so bright, that Obi-Wan nearly tumbles off his bunk. Attempting to right himself, he scrabbles in a most undignified manner at the blankets bunched in a restricting bundle around him, only to tilt precariously over the edge. The back of his mind calculates his slipping centre of gravity with increasing accuracy and mortification.
Qui-Gon watches his apprentice with the slightest of smiles on his lips, standing casually to the side as Obi-Wan fights his losing battle with gravity. When the struggle shows no sign of abating, Qui-Gon breathes a sigh. "Stop, padawan," he chuckles.
Obi-Wan freezes so comically and instantaneously that his rear finally slips off the edge of his bunk. He opens his mouth a soundless shout as he feels the pull of the shipboard grav-generator curl in his gut, rotating him until he plummets the six feet towards the floor, head-first…
And Qui-Gon steps forward smartly, catching his padawan under the arms, arresting his fall and reversing it gently to set him on his feet. Obi-Wan trips slightly on the blankets still cocooned around him as he stands slowly, disoriented.
"It appears your control is still somewhat lacking, padawan," Qui-Gon says wryly, holding Obi-Wan steady by the shoulders.
Obi-Wan blushes violently, looking away in embarrassment.
Qui-Gon frowns. The blushing thing would really have to go; it is the only defect in what would otherwise be a perfect image for negotiation. And then he notices how the bond between them shivers with trepidation, and inwardly berates himself. Obi-Wan must have thought that my displeasure was directed toward his character. Another small fault; Obi-Wan is far too self-depreciatory.
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says quietly, "I am not disappointed with you. Come. Sit." He guides his padawan to the lower bunk, reaching to softly rearrange the mess of blankets around Obi-Wan's small shoulders. Obi-Wan watches him with wide, cautious eyes, vague curiosity leaking out from within his hastily placed mental shields.
"Now, do you know why I am here?" Qui-Gon asks, smiling. He is quite sure his apprentice has waited with eager anticipation throughout the day for this moment.
He becomes less sure, though, when Obi-Wan shakes his head, turning suspiciously red-rimmed eyes toward his master fully for the first time that evening.
Qui-Gon pauses for a moment, surprised and concerned. He had not spoken overly much to his apprentice today; the usual start-of-mission procedures and intel-gathering had seen to that. But guilt creeps like a marauder into his heart when he realises he may have overlooked just how young Obi-Wan is. Obi-Wan may be a padawan, but no initate enters apprenticeship with full control over their emotions, or entirely rid of their child-like need for attention. The way Obi-Wan stares mournfully at his master smacks of neglect.
Obi-Wan starts as Qui-Gon sends a wave of reassurance over their bond, tinged with apology. "Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon murmurs, "I am sorry. I was otherwise occupied for much of today. I now give you what is yours." From a deep pocket, he withdraws the polished river stone from his childhood, placing it gently in his apprentice's hands. A rumble of laughter follows his next words. "And as much unlike the Jedi it is to say this, I wish to say it nonetheless: Happy life-day, Padawan."
In the brief moment Qui-Gon's fingers meet Obi-Wan's, he senses several things. Obi-Wan's hands are cold – clammy, even – and dwarfed by the stone that Qui-Gon has come to regard as no larger than a pebble. As Obi-Wan clutches the stone, his eyes widen impossibly, and his mouth opens slightly in formless words that do not make it past his lips.
A spark seems to dance in the river rock, a golden tongue of fire that flickers within the glimmering opaque depths of the stone. Obi-Wan's fingers tremble as they tighten white-knuckled around his master's gift, and a torrent of emotion upends into the Force, dissipating into peace, like a flood bursting through a fragile dam to seep nourishing into the earth below. Tears run unhindered down his cheeks.
Qui-Gon nods. "That was well done," he says quietly, taking care not to sound overly praising. But he suspects that his efforts are in vain. Obi-Wan's Force signature is a bubbly sea of joy and pride, now.
"This is a river stone from my home planet," Qui-Gon says as he strokes a finger over its polished surface. "It is very dear to me. Jedi are not allowed to form attachments – and see that you do not – but this stone is one of the few reminders of my childhood."
When Obi-Wan continues to clasp the stone tightly in his lap, blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Qui-Gon murmurs, still softer, "I pass it on to you. Will you accept it, Obi-Wan?"
He had expected a simple bow in response, but Obi-Wan once more casts all Qui-Gon's expectations into the four winds and throws his arms around his master's midriff, nodding vehemently as he buries his face into Qui-Gon's tunics.
For Qui-Gon, it is as if Dex had persuaded him to drink one of the Besalisk's famed brain-basher cocktails. Obi-Wan's pointy chin digs into his sternum painfully, and the river rock, though smooth, rubs jarringly against Qui-Gon's spine where Obi-Wan's hands join at his back. Tears and snot and he knows not what else forms a damp spot on his once-pristine tunics where Obi-Wan's face is pressed into his chest.
But strangely, he isn't bothered.
Why yes, Qui-Gon muses as his arms somehow find themselves around Obi-Wan's shoulders, a hand on the soft brown spikes of hair. This is like downing a brain-basher in one. His mind feels hazy, his chest constricted, but somehow, the hug in general feels extremely pleasant.
"Control, padawan," he mutters under his breath. Obi-Wan shifts slightly in his embrace, but the bond thrums with mutual amusement, as they both know reprimand has long since left them.
And later, when Obi-Wan lies wrapped in blankets, listening to Qui-Gon's deep, even breathing float comfortingly up from the bunk below, he feels his river rock warm where he grasps it to his chest, and hyperspace does not seem so very cold any more.
(:~:)
As Obi-Wan discovers the following morning, Jedi are rather respected on the planet of Naboo.
The entirety of the Nabooian royal court seems to have gathered before the front Palace landing pad to greet the Jedi ambassadors. The Queen stands at the forefront, resplendently awash with gems, her dress a multi-layered, heavy costume with jewels and hand-embroidered cloth spilling down the sides in spiralling patterns of crimson, sable, and snow. Her expression, masked behind layers of white make-up and diplomatic training, welcomes the Jedi with a slight smile. No more emotion than necessary. Her handmaidens surround her in cowled ranks of fiery orange and dusky ochre, each face as hidden as the next. The rest of the Queen's entourage stand to attention behind her, each outfit an explosion of colour trying to outdo the one beside it, save for the guards, who stare straight ahead with the piercing yet vague gaze of the well-trained soldier.
As Obi-Wan descends the ramp, a thought occurs to him that the Queen does not look unlike a fire lily, her handmaidens an extension of her delicate petals and her court all less beautiful blossoms and twining vines.
And on each side of the queen, standing calmly in darker shades of navy and sable, are the two senatorial candidates, their own separate followers surrounding them in protective half-circles. The younger of the two candidates – Naberrie, Obi-Wan remembers – smiles in welcome, his entourage sporting equally vibrant expressions on their faces. Senatorial candidate Naberrie cannot be considered young any more, but he is certainly not old, or even middle-aged. He exudes youthful confidence and easy friendship, and upon seeing him, Obi-Wan knows, with the simple perceptiveness of a Jedi youngling, that Candidate Naberrie is a good man and would be a trustworthy friend.
Then Obi-Wan's gaze slides to his left, and with it, he sends an inquisitive current of the Force which alights on the slightly crooked, crocodile smile of Senatorial candidate Palpatine.
It is only an instinctive compulsion to hide in plain sight that forces Obi-Wan to continue walking.
He had expected the two candidates to be different, but everything candidate Naberrie is, Palpatine is…not.
Candidate Naberrie is cultured, dressed formally, but his clothes and boots are both practical and not overly expensive. Palpatine, on the other hand, somehow makes his black robes appear regal, voluminous, and fluid, as if the senatorial candidate himself were dressed in moving shadows. The textured surface of the material shimmers in some places, but the slight reflective patterning only serves to suggest how light seems to writhe, captive, in the sharp lines of embroidery. In stark contrast with the sleek sable of his robes, Palpatine's lined face is pale, almost unhealthily so, his lips drawn back in what should have been a grandfatherly smile but somehow reminds Obi-Wan only of a Sarlacc's maw.
Something cold and unfamiliar coils in Obi-Wan's chest as he meets the empty gaze of the man before him. It takes him several moments to recognise the emotion as fear.
Palpatine's Force-presence is weak, ineffectual, like many who are not Force-sensitive. But just as his clothing seems to move against the slight wind, wreathing him with dark vines of shadowed identity, the Force is unsettled around Palpatine, the light skimming over his sphere of influence like silverfish skirting the mouth of a shark.
Obi-Wan continues to stare openly into Palpatine's gaze, facing his fear. A spark of recognition flickers in the darker pair of eyes, and then Palpatine turns his frighteningly empty gaze onto Obi-Wan's master instead.
Coming back to himself, Obi-Wan nearly stumbles as he reaches the end of the ramp. What must have been seconds had felt like years. His heart hammers behind his ribs, but he forces himself to still, to center. A long, calming exhalation. A thought flashes across his mind nonetheless.
For a moment, I thought he was a black star.
Qui-Gon's bright Force-presence passes Obi-Wan like a warm, caressing wind as he steps forward to greet the Queen. Only a slight nudge of his master's hand brings Obi-Wan back to reality, and he makes his hasty bow a smooth and effortless one, edged with apology. And quite a flattering greeting too, judging by the murmured titters of a few of the younger handmaidens, all Obi-Wan's age.
Focus, padawan, Qui-Gon's reprimands, his voice thrumming in Obi-Wan's mind. You are distracted. His tone is humoured, though, as he glances at the elder handmaids shush their younger counterparts.
Obi-Wan sends a jumble of his observations in a series of images and emotion across to his master. Qui-Gon does not pause in his greetings and introductions, but his feet shift ever so slightly into a basic Shii-Cho offensive stance. Reassurance trickles over the bridge between them and into Obi-Wan's chest, warming and uncoiling the cold knot of fear.
But as the Queen begins to speak, Obi-Wan senses that cold gaze fall upon him again, spearing him like a darkblade, a weapon not seen in battle for a millennia.
The black star still burns vivid with shadow on Naboo, its frozen rays seeking to capture the two Jedi like solar flares of dirty spun silk grasping at a pair of bright sapphire and harlequin comet-tails. And as Obi-Wan follows his master into the Palace, he notices something more.
The music of the spheres is eerily quiet, suffocated by tentacles of dark starlight.
Obi-Wan folds his hands into opposite sleeves, grasping the flute resting on his forearm. He clings onto that whisper of music like a hanged man to the rope of his noose, struggling to breathe through a miasma of shadow.
(:~:)
Palpatine's smile is faintly wider on this sunny morning. Perhaps he has overdone it slightly, and made his sudden interest in Padawan Kenobi too obvious. He would be a hard one to Turn, that boy…but should he succeed, that bright crystal that burns in Kenobi's heart would focus Palpatine's plan like a sable crystal in a darkblade.
He smiles once more, savage joy burning in his chest.
Why not? It is quite the time to take another apprentice.
(:~:)
Don't kill me. Please. And I'm already half-dead anyway, so you'd only finish off the job. I think I shall go and Zzzz now. Thank you all for reading this chapter; tell me what you think so I can have something to cling on to while plowing through work in the library.