He was drowning, suffocating, struggling to escape…he had tumbled into a pit of darkness that was even now loathe to let him go. It was a pit that allowed no light to sully its pure darkness; it was the heart of Obi-Wan Kenobi.
He traveled, if one could call crawling, "traveling," its labyrinth depths and twisting pathways, but each passage led to a locked doorway, each with its own ominous label – Despair - Hate – Envy – Anger – Resentment. Each door creaked open before him, a mere slit, each waited for him to choose one and to step through, but he refused. He would not walk that path.
It is your escape – each can be your pathway to freedom – each is your inner heart, the source of your true strength if you but accept it. The whispers gradually swelled and merged, hammered at his mind. Choose one…and be who you were meant to be.
I am who I choose to be, not what I am capable of being. I do not have to hate, to envy, to rage. I can choose another path. I have chosen another path and I will not forsake it.
You choose weakness, then, when you are capable of so much more The voice that thundered was the voice of the Force. See what you choose to be….
He was weak, for he shunned such power as would be his should he just stretch out his hand and take what was his. He was weak; for he would not take what he needed, only accept what he was given. He was weak, for he would not embrace anger and fear, instead thinking to hide behind compassion.
Free your anger, free your hate - free them and they will free you…no, he moaned, deep within himself, for the seductive voice was the voice of the Force itself. No, they shall only enslave me.
He had never needed the Force – the one he knew, the one that had fled - so badly in his life. Don't reach for it! Don't. Reach. For it. Don't.
Despite himself, he reached…and shuddered as the icy fingers of darkness closed around him… smothering the light, extinguishing hope, overwhelming basic human decency.
The light went out, and Obi-Wan Kenobi – fell into darkness
Then there was – nothing.
Pain; pulsating pain. Pain of the body and pain of the spirit. Pain; so much pain when he struggled back to consciousness. Pain of the heart - and pain of the soul. Instinctively he
reached for the Force – and flinched even as he barely brushed it: he burned even as he shivered; he was a human torch of ice and flame.
That moment, that absolute numbness of shock, cleared his mind and somehow he knew to hold onto that blankness.
That moment, that instinct would be what saved him, though he knew it not. Not then, not yet then, but when he remembered how it felt.
Gradually, thought returned. One thought: just what had happened? He had reached for the Force – and recoiled at its touch, for the touch of the Force – was agony when once it had been comforting.
Another thought slowly took shape: thoughts alone did not bring pain. Something else triggered the mask. Something had triggered it before, something had triggered – evil – so pure and absolute that it had nearly consumed him, throwing him ever deeper into that spiraling darkness until only unconsciousness broke its hold.
The mask had found something deep within him; something he had not known existed. Something he had no wish to know existed.
He was darkness at his core, a pathetic excuse for a Jedi, yet all those who embraced the light were, by definition, pathetic weaklings. Cowards. Hypocrites, all.
No, not true…not true; he fought free of the thought with difficulty. Even if the mask found the core of the one who wore it, if one was truly Dark at heart, one could chose to act in the Light. It was one's choices and one's behavior that determined if one acted in the Light.
Obi-Wan Kenobi would only allow himself to act in that Light he loved and had sworn to uphold. He had no choice but to defeat the mask for he would not allow himself to live in Darkness.
If it could not be defeated, it could, perhaps, be disarmed and one way of disarming the mask was to merely avoid triggering it. If merely thinking did not trigger the mask then, just what did? As much as he didn't want to relive the excruciating pain to find out, he had to know. Needed to know. Know thy enemy; only then can one defeat it.
Relaxing so as to better absorb the expected pain, shielding as much of his mind as he could, he ever so lightly brushed the Force and slammed back into a hazy awareness of pain. Pain: so much pain.
Pained awareness of all that he lacked within himself; pained awareness of what did fill him.
Despair. Weakness. Cowardice.
Fear.
Too weak to stand up to Ventress, too cowardly to join her, too weak – no. Yes. No. Yes! No!
Fear: that he wasn't worthy, that he had no purpose so why not die? Blow himself up on Bandomeer and be called a hero in death, rather than a reject in life.
No, I would have done it for them – to save them, not to end my unhappiness.
Resentment: for Anakin for nearly stealing his master away, for Qui-Gon, for so nearly abandoning him for Anakin.
No, no…I knew how wrong I was when such pettiness touched me and I released it…released it long ago.
Cowardice: for he sacrificed love for duty, choose the easy path, threw away the loving arms of a woman for the sterile, passionless life of a Jedi.
No…gave her up for her happiness, mine…because as strong as our love was – we could no more give up being Jedi than we could stop loving but love remained – even as we remained Jedi.
Despair: for no one he counted as friend, as padawan, as comrade came for him. He had been abandoned to his fate, for Jedi did not care, had no attachments. He had been sacrificed on the Altar of the Greater Good: they would not risk saving one at the cost of many.
No…if they haven't come, they cannot come…and if saving me, saving Alpha, means losing many, it is right that they don't try – the right choice. My life, our lives, are not worth the sacrifice of others' lives.
It took everything he had to try to dredge out something to counter the insidious whispers, to not give in to them. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, but he stubbornly fought back until the whispers changed tactics.
The Force now beguiled him…offering hope, but its offer was one that he would not accept, could not accept, for the price was one that he was not willing to pay.
Strength will free you from this prison, strength you have within you. Know what gives you strength. Unleash that which you have bound within you.
Hate; anger, too: for the Zabrak that killed Qui-Gon Jinn: hate and anger both saved you by giving you the strength to kill the Sith.
No, it was anger, not hate, and it almost killed me. Letting go, letting go and letting the light of the Force flow through me is what saved me.
Never anger, never hate. Those were dark emotions. Those were not the emotions of the Force, for the Force was life, it was death; never wanton cruelty and destruction. It was the cycle of life, of death, of life's rebirth.
Free your anger, free your hate - free them and they will free you…no, he moaned, deep within himself; it was the first time in his life he denied the command of the Force itself, for this Force was a stranger to him. No, they shall only enslave me.
This was not the Force that Obi-Wan Kenobi knew, followed implicitly. This was not the Force that gave him strength; this was the Force that tried to strip him of his strength, deceitful, painful, and seductive – but it would not be successful. He would not allow it.
Never shall you have me! his mind cried in defiance. But the voices only grew stronger as his resistance held firm.
Finally, the voices fell silent, for Obi-Wan Kenobi fought no more.
The voices ceased clamoring at his mind as soon as he silenced it. The thudding of his heart slowly settled into a normal beat; he could finally draw a still-shaky breath. For the moment, he was untouched.
Deep within his subconscious, the merest tendril of hope had awoken: a glimmer of possibilities of how to overcome the mask, should it be even possible. In his conscious mind, that tiny portion aware and thinking, Obi-Wan knew somehow he would do battle with the mask, that somehow he would defeat it. He didn't know how, but as with the maggots, when in need, he would find a way.
Do, or do not. There is no try.
He needed the Force; could it be both salvation and opponent? Could he succeed without its aid?
Touching the Force was akin to breathing; it had been difficult enough to have his access to it weakened, but to have it – hurt – that part of it that lingered – was practically unbearable. The Force was his solace, his anchor, his strength. Without it – he was so much less than he was otherwise.
He licked his lips, tasted salt, and realized without real surprise that he had been pushed to tears. The tears of a Jedi – it sounded incongruous, for a Jedi knew how to keep his tears inside. But a Jedi stripped of the Force – was only partially a Jedi, and far more human.
It also sparked a faint memory – a legend, a tale. The Tears of a Jedi – but it would not come to him. Some tale told to the crechlings, no doubt, something comforting from a time when even Jedi younglings knew tears and fears that they would later conquer.
Tears of a Jedi – too bad tears couldn't defeat the mask, for tears he had plenty, tears torn from him by unrelenting pain of the body, and of the loss of the Force that was as life to him.
Dared he think, could he think, of a way of defeating the mask and hence this perversion of the Force? It slowly dawned on him that he already was, already had been, and was still thinking – he had already battled thoughts that had tried to weaken him. He hadn't won, but he hadn't lost, either.
If merely thinking, alone, didn't necessarily trigger the mask, what did? What about memories? What effect did the mask have on positive emotions?
Ever so cautiously, he sifted through his memories for one pleasant: found one. It was the first bead he'd plaited into Anakin's stubbly little braid. His hands had fumbled a little, not yet as sure as it would become with practice. Anakin had been almost giddy with delight. His joy had been contagious; it had brought a pleased smile to his own face, even as it brought the faintest of ones to his lips now. His padawan had taken his first step forward on the Jedi path.
No pain. Thank the Force, no pain.
He needed to focus on pleasurable memories, avoid the less pleasant ones.
He had, at least, learned one thing. Negative emotions were magnified, positive ones were unaffected. All he had to do was avoid the one and embrace the other – oh, so easy in theory. A lot of good that would do next time Ventress or Aidus came through the door intent on – no more, please, no more – how much abuse should a person have to take…how much more pain could a mortal body bear….
Doomed: he was doomed, he would fail once more – he would die at Ventress's hands, die without the Force at his side, never to rejoin its currents….his mind shrieked and struggled to escape this awful fate – and somehow Obi-Wan wrenched free from the thoughts, drained and empty.
It was a long while before he dared to open his eyes, to think, to do more than just exist.
Something deep within him urged him desperately to…stop fighting the fear and panic and let it pass through him.
Let it pass through you. Oh, easier said than done.
He didn't dare be scared – but Force, he knew he was. A very real fear – and this fear he didn't dare acknowledge for he could not release it into the Force - it turned against him even as he tried, the action pure reflex. The very touch of it was loathsome, it bit and clawed; it twisted against him and dripped venom, turning light to darkness and goodness to evil.
Let it pass through you!
He grabbed onto that phrase as a lifeline; clung to it, tried to mentally pull himself up hand over hand away from the pool of negativity threatening to drown him. Focus on breathing, focus on letting it go, focus on releasing it. It took everything he had to let the emotions flow through him and dredge out something to counter them, to not give in to them, to let go of this aspect of the Force that he didn't wish to know.
The Force had not abandoned him; it had been twisted and perverted into a weapon. The touch of it was unbearable physically and mentally. The Force itself was now his enemy.
The Force could not help him now, only hinder him.
To all intent and purposes, the Jedi master was now nothing more than a mere man – he was a Jedi without the Force. But even without the Force, a Jedi was still more than just a mere man. He had strength, courage and will power and an ability to adapt to circumstances.
A man and a Jedi, already half dead and now with nothing to sustain him but his own mind and will – a mind, and a will, that was grasped within icy coils of dread and inky darkness punctuated by ripples of fire along his nerves, where the Force itself became an ally of darkness and something to be feared and avoided.
He did neither, accepting the pain.
He experimented with tiny pulses of Force, trying to acclimate to the pain, to redirect it, to find a way to get beyond it so he could function. Face what you fear to face, accept it – accept it – no, no, I can't – yes, yes, you must – face it, accept it, let it pass through you – let it pass – release it.
The horror of it was too overwhelming. He couldn't bear to face it, let alone accept it.
This Force wanted everything he wanted to hold onto. Obi-Wan tried to hold onto hope, to his principles, to his honor but everything was slipping away from him. Memories of a time before now were elusive; hopes for the morrow were only memories of a dream. There were no yesterdays and there would be no tomorrows, for there was only this, now, today.
Ultimately, the fight proved too much and he again sank into smothering darkness, struggling all the way until the fight was no longer sustainable.
Obi-Wan Kenobi had not won this fight. Not this time. But it wasn't over yet.
He shuddered awake he didn't know how much later, aching in every muscle, his very mind raw and tender. Out of habit Obi-Wan reached for the Force and every nerve flamed and twitched at once. He had never feared death, though he had no wish to face the actual dying, but dying had to be far more pleasant a process than living at this moment.
He now knew down to the marrow of his bones, down to each nerve and each cell, just how awful evil could be – merciless, unending, and cruel – how its talons bit deep into flesh and how its putrid breath poisoned one's soul, for the wounds were scratched deep on his body and the burning venom of hate, anger, and fear trickled through him.
The more he struggled against them, the deeper the emotions cut. He did his best to silence the screams, to let them rage unrestrained within his mind but never to pass his lips. For a time he even succeeded. But some screams could not be constrained inside, this agony burrowed too deep to go unvoiced.
And so the screams were pulled from him, the harsh and broken sounds echoing in that chamber, mingling with the haunting remnants of those screams that were all that were left of those who had gone before him. He was not alone in that cell, not the only victim. Too much of those earlier victims lingered, for they had shed their pain, their screams, and their tears when they had found blessed peace in death.
Tears: he had always had plenty for others, those poor souls broken and twisted, some never the same. As a Jedi padawan, he had thought himself inured to life's tragedies; he had faced all too many; had learned how to deal with the experiences. Then had come that one mission, after years of missions, and nothing had prepared him for that.
Obi-Wan still remembered shuddering awake, gasping, to find himself in his master's embrace, his strong arms encircling the shivering padawan. Qui-Gon had whispered his name over and over, an anchor against the horror, holding him tight against his chest, rubbing his back, just holding him as the memories spilled forth. It wasn't fitting for a padawan, a young man no longer a boy, to choke back cries in the arms of his master, but the head bent over his didn't rebuke him but encouraged him to feel it and then to release it.
Remembrances of pain and agony had seared into his very mind, pulled from the Force and insinuated within the coils of his heart – and Qui-Gon had allowed his padawan to face the horrors before gently reaching in through the bond and showing Obi-Wan how to release the horrors and shield himself from further intrusion.
Qui-Gon had shown a father's heart and a mentor's guidance for the remainder of that long night and the several that had followed, until his apprentice had found solace and healing in the Force.
Yes…face them…don't fight them and they lose their power over you. The words became a litany, a balm against a tormented mind, an anchor in a heaving sea that was swamping him. Gradually, the words reached deep, deep enough to still the screams in an exhausted mind…brought forth tears rather than screams as the mind of a Jedi began to reassume control over the primal brain reflexes of the man.
Reaching into the comfort of memories to combat the pain, he almost felt again the warm circle of arms around him, the soft whisper of his name in that never-forgotten voice, the gentle brush of ghost fingers across his face.
Somewhere in the Force, a ghost cried.