Author's note: A faint stirring of a long-silent Muse has prompted the writing and release of this chapter. Please enjoy and review if you'd like to see more! If I didn't mention before that the rating is partly due to moderate gore, let me just say that now.
Brink
By: Syntyche
Ten: Skin and Bones
He heard it before he saw it.
The sound of low groans of unendurable agony reached his ears, along with the creaking of old wagon wheels and an odd, unrecognizable cacophony of skkkching noises and gasping shrieks. The noise alone was enough to stop his breath in his throat, but then came the smell that accompanied the sounds: the ghastly sweet sickness of rotting flesh that caused an uncomfortable roiling in his already queasy stomach and brought to the fore memories he'd rather forget of missions gone wrong even before they'd set foot in the ruined cities and had to see those who had fallen and been left behind.
A loud screech assaulted his ears and he heard the flapping of large wings overhead; Obi-Wan looked up sharply but could barely see the great shape outlined against the dark sky; not a bird, not a creature he was familiar with, but a presence that filled him with unbearable terror. He was shaking and couldn't help himself:
There were few times in his life that Obi-Wan Kenobi had ever been truly frightened.
Now was one of them.
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Trapping his damaged arm tightly against his helplessly hitching chest, Obi-Wan Kenobi straightened proudly, as rigidly as he was able with the excruciating pain twisting up through his body. Behind him, his guards shifted restively, their own palpable unease drilling into the Jedi's already thrumming senses, and they showed their mounting discomfort by latching onto their silent prisoner - their offering - like a sacrificial shield, the one thing that stood between them and the horrifying darkness drawing ever steadily nearer.
A clawed hand pierced the firm flesh of Obi-Wan's uninjured bicep; another snaked around the back of his neck, allowing a long finger to brush against the ridged scar there and sending a rippling shudder through the Knight's slender frame. Obi-Wan turned his head uncomfortably, feeling claws rake through the short hair at the nape of his neck, catching in the soft ginger strands, and he involuntarily released a strangled gasp in his throat at the resulting tiny pinpricks along his scalp.
Obi-Wan couldn't make anything out in the oppressive fog, couldn't see down the blanketed road, but he was unhappily aware of the large creature swooping and circling high above him, shielded by laden trees, its grimly evil presence now unmasked and familiar to his senses.
"Is this going to take all day?" he forced himself to ask mildly, and was pleased that his voice sounded above a groan despite the tremors crawling across his chilled and perspiring body. "I'm not in a hurry to die, but since I'm not expecting a last minute rescue, I also hate to draw it out … "
Obi-Wan's voice froze in his throat.
A cart was slowly rolling through the fog, gradually becoming visible to his grey eyes, and Obi-Wan found that although no more words could escape his clenched teeth, a whimpering moan still found its way past his lips at the unspeakable awfulness manifesting itself before his dismayed stare.
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"We're almost there, Anakin," Qui-Gon urged relentlessly, his untiring stride seeming so much longer than Anakin's short legs could manage. Sweat dripped onto Anakin's collar, slid down his back - he was so hot! Even the desert heat of his home planet couldn't compare to the sticky mugginess of Sylvania, and Anakin wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from this planet, this place where the bugs bit him endlessly and it was so incredibly warm...
...this place where they had lost Obi-Wan, and where a voice he hadn't heard before, even though it was his own, assured him that that was okay.
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The smell made Obi-Wan's eyes water: rotting flesh and the metallic bite of oxidizing blood that nipped at his nostrils, filling his dry mouth with its' acrid scent. His stomach churned at the sharp heaviness that clung to the roof of his mouth, his tongue, the back of his throat, coating his sense of taste with cloying, suffocating, bloodsoaked stickiness.
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It was a huge relief to finally stagger into the cool interior of their small Council ship, and Anakin was glad to feel metal decking beneath his feet. To the young padawan, the mechanical was the familiar, and Anakin was admittedly often bored by the focus that Jedi put on nature and the natural world. It was hard to meditate when his fingers itched to dismantle the cooling unit in their quarters to see how it worked; almost impossible to stand still and watch the sun set with Qui-Gon when he could see so many ships flying across the darkening sky and tried to imagine what it would be like to pilot them all.
Sometimes Anakin felt like he couldn't possibly be a Jedi, could never live up to the standards that Qui-Gon held - and Obi-Wan, the perfect Padawan! his mind reminded him snidely, and that spiteful thought alone should have been enough to warn him that he was veering into ever more dangerous territory, but the boy was deciding just then that it felt really good to feel again, to not hide his thoughts and pretend that everything was fine, to allow himself to fully and finally feel his dislike for the Jedi Knight who had refused to give up what was now Anakin's rightful place in Qui-Gon's life, not Obi-Wan's any longer.
Maybe he wasn't cut out to be a Jedi, Anakin thought suddenly, but he certainly didn't want to give up the power that came with it. The small taste of the strength that he had felt in the warpstone fields was enough to convince him that Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan couldn't possibly know everything about using the Force - how could they call something bad unless he used it to do something bad?
It wasn't the power itself, he was sure. It was what it was used for that made it good or bad. And he would never use it for bad. He would use it to help Padmé, and his Mom, and even Qui-Gon and the other Jedi.
How could it be bad if he was only going to use it to help people?
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The howling made Obi-Wan's ears burn: the wailing of the damned, the dying, and those so unlucky to be far enough from death that they could still cry; it was their softly hopeless sobbing echoing even over the creaking of old wagon wheels that brought stinging tears to Obi-Wan's own eyes, tracking salty trails through the grime and dried blood crusted over his bruise-mottled cheekbones.
He wished he was far away from here. He wished they had never come here. His chest was tight, and the claws curled viciously in his hair were trembling as much as the exhausted shaking in his shoulders…
… and they already knew what was coming.
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Qui-Gon was speaking, lowly and intensely, into the comm unit and Anakin was desperate to know what was being said, but Qui-Gon had gently and firmly settled him onto the flight couch and told him to stay put. Now the Jedi Master was just far enough away that Anakin couldn't hear his murmuring, but he could see that the tense lines in Qui-Gon's face had deepened into craggy furrows that heightened the shadows under his midnight eyes. His hair hung limp and lank, greasy with sweat and falling across his sagging shoulders in scraggly grey clusters. The frame that once appeared so powerful was now curled in on itself, appearing twisted and small.
Qui-Gon looked old, and Anakin didn't like it.
Wasn't the Force supposed to be all-powerful? How could those who served it as faithfully as Qui-Gon look as frail as his master did right now?
It wasn't right.
And it was all Obi-Wan's fault.
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Finally, the approaching cart parted the fog and rolled into view.
Obi-Wan looked once, very briefly, and leaned to the side to vomit.
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Anakin Skywalker watched unobtrusively, surprisingly - indeed, suspiciously - silent for the normally boisterous boy: watching, brooding, observing as his master meditated.
He knew exactly what Qui-Gon was doing, and it irked him to no end.
Qui-Gon had ended his comm call and a new light had come into his eyes. Tall, determined, swiftly returned to the quintessential Jedi Master Anakin admired and loved, Qui-Gon Jinn was again a Man with a Purpose - and Anakin immediately realized that he was not a part of that plan.
Blackness started to creep across his soul, but he hastened to squelch it, telling himself he was wrong, he must be wrong, because there was No. Way. that Qui-Gon would even consider leaving his Padawan behind.
His real Padawan, he meant.
"Are we leaving?" Anakin asked, trying to sound small and quiet and sad, but inside his spirit hope had kindled that they were leaving this place and its horrific memories behind.
Qui-Gon glanced at Anakin appraisingly, and the growing flames in Qui-Gon's steady eyes immediately extinguished the small embers of optimism Anakin was harboring.
"I am going after Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said determinedly. "You are to wait here. Master Billaba was already on her way and will arrive very shortly." There was the faintest hint of a grim smile on Qui-Gon's thin lips, and the boy couldn't quite place the emotion behind it. Resolve, yet. Excitement, yes, that also, but there was something else …
"I want to come with you," Anakin responded immediately, large blue eyes wide and pleading as he shrugged off the mystery and instead set to swaying Qui-Gon as he had done so often and so easily in the past. "Please don't leave me here!"
But this time, Qui-Gon shook his head, brooking no room for argument. "It is too dangerous, Anakin. You'll be waiting here."
Anakin was in no mood to be coddled; his budding hope had been replaced by bitter rage at the happiness of him and Qui-Gon free to roam the galaxy and have amazing adventures sliding away.
"If it's 'too dangerous' then why are you going back?" he demanded hotly, brows pulling down angrily as he tossed his head indignantly for emphasis.
"Obi-Wan needs me," Qui-Gon said simply, refusing to meet his emotion and thereby make the playing field level. Anakin had always been able to reach him there, but now Qui-Gon was a man with a purpose, and he moved quickly through the cabin filling a small travel case with anything he could think of for his self-appointed mission: first aid kits, rations, blankets. Even the emergency blaster in the weapon's locker was added to an empty loop in Qui-Gon's belt.
"But I need you!" Anakin sputtered through his tears, his last ditch emotional appeal. It got Qui-Gon's full attention, but it wasn't enough. The Jedi Master fastened the catches on the travel case and knelt before the boy, placing his large hands gently on Anakin's trembling shoulders.
"I will be back, Ani," he said with conviction, firmly believing the Force had more in store for them - for all three of them. He smiled, a crooked corner of his mouth lifting. "We have much to do, you and I."
A germ of an idea was forming in Anakin's brain and he sniffled, forcing away the tears, and struggled to school his expression into the Obedient Padawan look he'd picked up from Obi-Wan somewhere along the way, the one that assured Qui-Gon everything was fine.
"Okay, Qui-Gon," he said softly, allowing one last damp sniffle to escape. "I'll wait."
"Good boy." Qui-Gon squeezed his shoulders and rose, striding down the ramp with a last look and a wave, and sealing the hatch behind him.
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He hadn't eaten much of late, so it was mostly wracking dry heaves ripping through his aching and battered body, sending spirals of pain screaming through his broken arm. Through his misery and terror he heard his guards chuckle weakly though without conviction, and he knew they were barely masking their own queasiness.
In his short life, Obi-Wan Kenobi had seen many, many horrific things. This topped the list by far.
The frame of the old cart gleamed dull white in the moonlight, except for patches of brittle yellow dulling the surface randomly; it was formed from the ribcage of a large and long-dead animal, perhaps the same kind as the one relentlessly circling overhead, pale spires of long ribs arching upward to curl back toward the center where the creature's spine made up the base of the cart.
The body of the cart itself was made of just that - bodies. Bodies in various stages of decay and death, rotting, dripping, congealing; ashen faces twisted in similar grimaces and intermittently releasing moans of open-mouthed horror and shock. Obi-Wan could not tell if they were men, women, or manlike creatures as his guards were, so decayed was their flesh to a wasted, uniform grey. Unseeing pale eyes swiveled restlessly in cracked sockets and every so often a blind gaze would sweep over him, not seeing him, yet still sending physical shivers down his spine.
"What is this … atrocity?" he whispered but was ignored, and the cart grew ever closer, pulled by yet more of these walking dead - and Force, Obi-Wan wished they were dead, but he yet to learn that these were the Undying, locked forever in their inescapable torment. He saw that the corpse cart was attached to a yoke with two thick spike-ended poles laid across a long center pole. Pushed through their ribcages onto the poles were impaled more Undying, four to a beam, eight altogether as they cried and straggled and bled their way along the path, dragging the wailing cart behind them. Atop a hunched and sobbing creature serving as his bench was a man, crumpled and shrouded in black, the long cruel lash of his whip flicking out as a warning. The closer they got, the more horrendous the noise as the screeching and moaning drew nearer and nearer. The smell was overwhelming, and Obi-Wan forced down another bout of dry heaving with a rough swallow.
The cart drew level with their small group and slowed, and even the filtered essence of the Force Obi-Wan was able to receive cried and bucked in his soul, adding its own despairing wail of torment to the cacophony already beating against his ears.
The man atop the cart swiveled to look at Obi-Wan, his black eyes gleaming beneath his dark hood. Obi-Wan was frozen to the spot though he wanted to run, though he begged his feet to move. A pale clawed hand emerged and beckoned him to approach, to brave the sea of Undying twisting and bleeding in their captivity, reaching for him, trying to pull him into their midst, to drag him under in a sea of wailing death.
"No…" he whispered, suddenly wishing Makir had earlier simply killed him on the spot instead of saving him for this.
He backed into his captors involuntarily and was given a hard shove in the small of his back. Obi-Wan stumbled and tripped, tumbling into the writhing bodies with a hoarse scream. Rotting hands wrapped around him, pulling, tugging, swallowing him up in darkness. A small sound escaped his mouth, a gasp of fear that broke off from the unbelievable pressure building in his chest, a knot of horror that lodged beneath his sternum; his blood was thrumming, pulsing and throbbing and beating harshly against his broken humerus and sounding loudly in his ears.
Tears were running down his face, and he couldn't explain why, except that he was being eaten alive by the Dark, swallowed whole, every single part of him.
And there was no escape.
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