A/N: Here's a big update for ya! Enjoy~ Thanks for the reviews! :D
The days passed slowly. To Satine it seemed like an eternity.
One minute she was clinging to life, the next she was beneath a blanket of deep sleep. She dreamt vaguely of abstract colors and hazy faces. There were two sets of eyes she kept going back to, each hauntingly familiar—one pair was as blue and bright as the sun reflecting off ocean waves. If she concentrated well enough, they would sparkle mischievously, as if they held some funny secret. Something that they wanted to share with her so the two could laugh together.
The other irises were the opposite. They were the color of infected yellow, like bloated corpses or festering bruises. They were surrounded in a devilish red—a putrid island in a sea of lava. The burning red broke off in terrible branches, streams of blood in dwindling white. There was no happiness, no intrigue, only a terrible, bone-aching anger in dark coal pupils. She did not want to keep studying those monstrous eyes, but found herself unable to escape. The horrible gaze seemed to imprison her very soul.
She found herself begging to be released, crying out for a savior that never came. The evil eyes grew closer and closer until they consumed her. In a river of boiling blood, she writhed and swam against the current. The tides of crimson were merciless. She drowned and all went black once more.
This had happened many times. She had stopped counting.
She tried to stay with the blue eyes for as long as she could. If only she could remain with them, basking in their friendly warmth. Yet, this was never the case. She would only have a few moments before the demon came and snatched her away. It was an endless cycle. It was if she was ascending to heaven only to be dragged back down to hell.
Every day was the same.
Ahsoka sat boredly on the floor, watching the Duchess float in the Bacta tank. Anakin had given her the permanent assignment of being at Satine's bedside while he stewed about, taking out his frustration on clones and droids alike.
Tankside…she joked humorously to herself.
With legs-crossed and an elbow propped so that she could rest her cheek on her palm, she sighed dramatically.
She had really wanted to watch the surgery of replacing Obi-wan's arm, but it was apparently "forbidden."
She rolled her eyes.
"Don't see what the big deal is…" she muttered under her breath.
Her Master had said some nonsense about her being a distraction to the surgeons and that it was a "very difficult procedure" but she didn't buy it. The doctors were droids! Could they actually get distracted? It wasn't like she was going to wrestle a Bantha during the surgery.
She sighed again, although it sounded more like a groan. A clicking nurse-bot came in once in a while, checking sheets and screens and stuff like that, but most of the time the annoyed Padawan was alone.
And thoroughly bored.
Sometimes Anakin would sprint in and give her vague, infuriating news and then run back out before she could ask any questions. It was worse than exasperating, it was downright cruel! A few times she had gotten fed up and went to see things for herself, but she had been caught several times now by Sky-guy, who seemed to be patrolling the hallways just for her.
"Nerfherder…" she swore.
Nonetheless, it was nice to hear that Master Kenobi was stable and that his arm replacement was a success. She fidgeted in her spot. She wanted to ask a sea of questions the minute the older Jedi opened his eyes, but she was stuck here!
Most of all, she wanted to see his new arm. How cool was it that it was made of wires and junk like that but still looked normal?! Maybe he even had super strength now! Would he try and hide it under his robes? Would he be ashamed? Or would he brandish it confidently? After all, it was a testament to his skill in combat.
She suddenly felt defensive. Why shouldn't he feel proud?
The Duchess jerked in the tank. Ahsoka peered at her cautiously, ready to sprint to the door.
Most of the time, the injured woman was perfectly still in the watery fluid, gently bobbing like an apple. But, there were always a couple moments a day, usually at the same hour, where the heart monitor would explode and the Duchess would begin to thrash.
Each time, the Padawan had to chase down a 2-1B droid, worried that Satine would hurt herself. The unnerving doctor would calmly follow Ahsoka, tweak a few tubes and twist dials and then the Duchess would settle and go back to floating.
The droid docs kept saying that it would be any day now. The Duchess would wake up soon, but it was an imprecise science. She couldn't be awakened too suddenly, but she couldn't stay in there forever. Her injuries were almost completely healed, but that was not what worried the Padawan.
The Duchess twitched a few more times, causing bubbles, and then relaxed.
Ahsoka exhaled profoundly, not realizing she had been holding her breath. It was chaos each time Satine wigged out. She couldn't help thinking that Master Kenobi would never forgive her if something happened to the Duchess. They had been lucky, beyond lucky, on Mandalore, but Ahsoka still carried a sense of shame.
It had been Satine's choice, but was it hers to make? What was free will and what was plain common sense? Anakin had assured her that the whole ordeal had been out of their hands, but it didn't ease the tension in the Jedi-in-training's chest.
For the first time in Ahsoka's life she had been dumbstruck. They all were. She even doubted the Duchess's own knowledge of her miraculous recovery. No one came back from that. For some reason it angered the girl. She didn't want to sound ungrateful, but why Satine? Why not the men she fought with? The clones that died next to her in battle?
What about the Jedi?
The thought of dead Jedi knights twisted her heart. She hadn't known many of the deceased in the Order, but she still felt as if they were a part of her. Was it fair that they died and not…
She stopped herself. It wasn't her place to ask these almost heretical questions. It was not her will, but the will of the Force, she reminded herself. For some reason, the Duchess had been granted a reprieve. Ahsoka could scream 'why' to the hilltops til kingdom come, but the fact of the matter was, she would never know. The mystery of the Force was just that—a mystery.
It would remain that way forever.
Guilt-ridden, she tried to look upon the Duchess with more empathy. The droids had said that nothing could be done about the terrible markings on Satine's face. A type of rare venom had been used, something foreign and nefarious. Although they looked painful, the docs assured her that the Duchess wouldn't suffer physically from them after a while. The worst of it was over.
Still, the thought of having to be reminded of the horrors of the Sith every day for the rest of one's life was enough to make Ahsoka shudder. Of course cosmetics could be used to soften the appearance, perhaps even cover them completely, but the knowledge of having Maul's imprint would be enough to make anyone deranged.
She shook her head, trying to rid herself of these morbid thoughts.
But what else was she going to think about?
Huffing, she resumed her jaded position, blankly scanning the area.
It was a small space, not much bigger than the last room, but instead of a bed, there was a massive cylindrical water tank. A series of important-looking wires and conduits jutted out from it like tree branches, connecting to various outlets. The tank's top couldn't be seen, it plugged into the ceiling.
When Satine was ready, the fluid would drain and the casing would ascend. Ahsoka would have to be ready to catch the woman, for her muscles would be weak at first.
The Duchess had a large, unwieldy-looking tube jammed down her throat, supplying her with air and keeping her lungs clear. That was probably the worst part of the whole thing.
She was dressed in what looked like a swimsuit as she drifted listlessly in the Bacta fluid. Ahsoka was certainly familiar with the stuff and the revealing attire, she had been in the tank countless times, but never so long.
A week…
"Crazy…"
As if suddenly embarrassed for analyzing Satine so closely, she lowered her gaze as irrational heat sprang up in her cheeks. She was relieved that no one was here to see her look so foolish and that the patterns of white on her face kept her blush relatively hidden.
The Padawans eyes flicked to a plastic bag across the room. It sat unassumingly under the nozzle of a sink. She swallowed thickly. The Duchess's clothes were in there. Ahsoka had restrained herself enough not to go digging through them, but her inquisitiveness was itching relentlessly.
Maybe there was clue to the miracle in there? Maybe she had something in her skirts they hadn't noticed before?
She glanced at Satine, afraid she might wake up, and then hustled over to the bag. Carefully, quietly, she undid the tie and opened it. A waft of dried blood, sweat, and grime greeted her and she turned her head away, gagging.
Nevertheless, something sparkly caught her eye and she snatched it hurriedly before she closed the reeking bag.
Taking a generous step backwards, she studied the small thing in her hand. It was a necklace. She had seen it on the Duchess, but hadn't known what it meant. The strap was rough leather, and Ahsoka could see faint splotches of crimson on it. Her stomach flipped.
A curious emblem hung from it. It looked familiar to the Padawan, as if it had been in one of her textbooks, but she couldn't remember. It was a circle with jagged wings, as if it was on fire. The dread in her gut grew.
If the Sith had wanted it on the Duchess, it couldn't have been good.
Just then, the panels whisked open and Anakin strode it, his eyes and hair as wild as ever.
She practically squeaked as she hid the necklace behind her back.
"Ahsoka—" he began, a slight smile on his face until he saw her.
The corners of his lips tugged down in a deep frown.
"What do you have there?" he asked, completely not fooled by her pitiful attempt to hide the thing.
She gave him a sheepish smile and dropped her eyes to her toes.
"I was just curious is all," she said as she held the necklace out in front of her. "I mean, I've been stuck in here all week!"
"That doesn't give you the right to…"
His lecturing voice trailed off as he realized what he was seeing.
Almost savagely, he snatched it out of her hand, his eyes narrowed in slits as he studied it.
"What is it, Master?" she wondered tentatively.
For a moment he was silent, but then his glaring eyes flicked to hers.
"It is the symbol of the Old Sith Empire," he growled quietly and lowered his gaze back to it.
Ahsoka bit her lip.
"What does it mean?" she continued, afraid she might be pushing her luck.
Anakin's fingers curled around the small bit of metal.
"It's a challenge," he hissed, still not looking at her. "This thing represents the height of Sith power, when they first became an established Order."
Wishing she paid more attention in history class, Ahsoka recalled a few hazy images of a red planet and barbaric temples entrenched in sand as a horde of slaves toiled about. If she remembered right, there had been a thousand years or more of wars between the Jedi and the Sith. All of which ended bloodily yet with a Jedi victory, more or less.
Although the track record was in their favor, she still gulped. What would happen this time?
Before she could ask Anakin about it, a sharp noise pricked her ears—a thump coming from behind. Ahsoka flipped around and immediately saw the Duchess staring at her as she kicked out against the tank walls. The color of her eyes was almost identical to the liquid engulfing her, but her dark pupils were locked on the Padawan, managing to sparkle amidst the scars.
The heart monitor began to wail.
Her Master beat her to the punch and yelled out the door for a droid to come quickly.
Within seconds the skeletal form of a 2-1B droid swiveled in. It whirled its way behind a control panel and immediately began clicking on unseen buttons, adjusting dials. The steady stream of bubbles intensified, and the Duchess began floating upward, but her gaze never left Ahsoka's.
Slowly, the Bacta fluid drained away, shimmering in the fluorescent light. The more the liquid depleted, the more the Duchess leaned against the translucent tank walls. She could be heard coughing, spluttering, attempting to yank the intubation out of her mouth.
The droid flicked one last switch, and the tank hummed as it began to rise into the ceiling. Ahsoka could see the panic in the Duchess's face. The Padawan looked at her Master, who had gone a shade whiter. It was clear he wasn't going near a half-naked woman. She would have smiled and laughed at him for the clear terror in his eyes, but she had to move quickly, lest Satine slip and fall.
Springing into action, Ahsoka snatched onto the Duchess's arm gently as the tank disappeared, leaving Satine swaying like a drunk. The woman was still staring at her, gaze piercing. There was wariness on her features and, at Ahsoka's touch, she flinched as if struck.
"It's ok, Duchess," the girl soothed, giving a warm grin. "I'm not here to hurt you. I can get that thing out of your mouth if you'd like."
Although mangled and pruned, it was still easy to see Satine's beauty. Her wet hair was long, longer than ever. It came down in dampened pale curls, reaching her mid-back, sprawling over her chest. Her marine eyes sparkled, emphasizing a slight greenish hue. It reminded Ahsoka of moss at the bottom of clear rivers.
Nonetheless, although the Padawan saw past the hideous Sith marks, they did seem to sap the Duchess of her usual elegance. The way she stared at Ahsoka was not out of confidence but out of mistrust. Her body was thin, even thinner now that she hadn't had a solid meal in a week, if not longer. Who knew what Maul had fed her?
Her bones protruded disturbingly. Ahsoka could count her ribs, could see the knobs of her wrist and ankles, her clavicle was a stark ridge across her shoulders. Her entire body was pinched, squeezed.
An immense compassion swept through the Padawan, taking away her previous callous attitude.
This woman deserved a second chance.
Cautious, distrustful, the Duchess finally gave her consent in a wordless nod, wincing at the discomfort of the large thing in her gullet. She squeezed her eyes shut, screwing up her face. The Sith tattoos creased and crinkled.
Averse to causing Satine more pain, Ahsoka nonetheless ripped the tube out like a Band-Aid. As it exited, the woman gasped and coughed out a mouthful of water and bile. She began to collapse, but Ahsoka was able to catch her before she hit the cool ground. Anakin was yelling something. Apparently he had gotten over his boyish trepidation.
But the girl didn't notice. She held the soaking wet woman tightly, trying not to notice the prick of her sharp bones. Again, Satine held her gaze hungrily. There was a question bursting beneath her sickly countenance. Ahsoka could probably guess what she wanted to know.
As the army of medics and droids descended upon the pair, the Duchess's mouth gaped open. She had to ask it before they took her away again. The rough hands of the clones were terribly familiar. Some of them wore their masks. Painful images of Death Watch helmets sprang in her mind.
"O-o-b…Oh…b…" she rasped like a ghost, clutching onto Ahsoka viciously.
"He's fine, Duchess," the young Togruta girl assured. "You can see him after you've got your strength back."
"Miss, we need to take her now," a sturdy-looking clone said, putting a hand on the Padawan's shoulder.
At this Satine shook violently. Her breath became hitched and short.
"N-n-no…" she gasped, squeezing Ahsoka's arms so firmly it almost hurt. "P-p-plea…st-t-t-t-aa…"
Her teeth chattered, cutting off her faint words. It was almost too much for the tangerine girl. This was not the Duchess who had fired a blaster at assassins, who had been brave and reminded Ahsoka so much of Senator Amidala, it was almost like she was the one shivering in her grasp.
"I…I think she wants me to stay with her…" the Padawan replied quietly.
She looked over her shoulder at Anakin, eyes pleading, but he was looking away, arms crossed. There was a faint blush on his cheeks.
The lead clone huffed, annoyed.
"I don't care if the whole Jedi Order comes along, but we need to get her to a bed before she catches a cold," he growled. "So if you would please…"
Taking the hint, she shifted over and allowed another clone to help the woman onto a hovering stretcher. Patches of watery stains were all over Ahsoka's gray leggings and burgundy tunic. She held the woman's damp hand as the horde pushed her out of the room. The Duchess whimpered pathetically, her eyes wide as they flicked from clone to clone.
Ahsoka made soothing noises, squeezing Satine's hand now and then, trying to get her to calm down. Nothing appeared to work very well.
Instantly the droids began to clean up the mess the pair had left on the floor. One of them took the Duchess's old clothes and disappeared with them down the hall, supposedly to wash them. Anakin still clutched the Sith necklace in a fist at his side. He took a final look at his apprentice and went the opposite way, probably to check in Obi-wan again.
The man would surely want to know that Satine was awake.
Sitting rather comfortably in his hospital bed, Obi-wan was blankly reading a holographic newspaper. It was an older addition, but he felt as if he had missed out on quite a lot during his absence. It was also a good distraction from the fact that somewhere in this place Satine was clinging to life.
Grumpily he tugged at the cuff wrapped around his bare ankle.
As soon as his eyes wrenched open, he tried to escape. IVs had been snapped, expensive antibiotics had been wasted, and a few unfortunate clones had been punched in the face.
Luckily, Anakin had been there to restrain him and force him back to bed. After realizing he was not in enemy territory, he had settled, though he still received a chorus of glares from broken-nosed clones.
"Well they got their revenge didn't they?" he mumbled, rolling his eyes at the fetters.
It wasn't as if he couldn't squirm out of them easily, it was the fact if that he attempted another prison break, they would probably make him wait even longer to see Satine. Like a good messenger boy, Anakin ran to and fro between the rooms, keeping him updated, but the burning in his bones to look upon her face again was almost as unbearable as the enforced bedrest.
Putting down the tabloid, he shrugged his shoulders, rolling them backward and forward. Although he had his arm back, there was an odd sensation of soreness and an incessant pinch in it. If he focused too much on it, he could practically feel the wires sprouting through his chest. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the sickening feeling.
It was alien, and his body was surely suspicious of the intruder attached to it. Rarely was the new limb rejected, but it took time to get used to the fakeness, the knowledge that this was not an appendage at all, but a mess of cybernetics.
Perhaps it was all in his head.
With a sigh, he crossed his arms. The hand that usually stroked his bearded chin had been the rudely amputated one. Tentatively, he raised the fake fingers to his beard. He gave it a cursory once over, lightly pinching the whiskers.
"Hmm…" he hummed.
It felt oddly identical. The skin was less callused, unusually soft. It was not a bad sensation, simply different. Yet that was the only change he could detect. His strong, thin fingers stroked the hair just the same. Perhaps he would get used to the thing after all.
He held the robotic hand out and put its organic brother next to it. They looked the same but, unlike his lost one, there were no familiar scars. A pang of sentimental sadness flickered inside. Some of those marks were the best reminders.
There had been one on the back of his hand, near his thumb, that had been where Anakin nicked him with his lightsaber when he had been a boy. There was another, a curved, crescent shaped one that ran across his knuckles where an angry Shaak had bit him on Naboo. He had to get several stitches.
"Blasted thing…" he said, smiling at the memory.
He pushed up the sleeve of his hospital gown.
Other wounds had not been so light-hearted. There had been a bundle of slashes on his bicep from where the Acklay scratched him in the Petranaki Arena on Geonosis. Not to mention countless blaster burns from the Separatist droids.
He swallowed hard as he kept pulling up the sleeve. It was all completely smooth and unblemished. With his other hand, he lightly traced where the old scars had been, reveling in the past. Then, like an apparition careening out of the darkness of his memories, he recalled one last mark.
With a savage purpose, he tore the cloth and twisted his body to get a better look.
Relief pounded through his veins when he saw that some of the scar had been left alone. A slight ridge, a raised, pale line seemed to sprout out of nowhere near his neck, making it obvious to see where they attached the cybernetic limb.
This had been one of his first scars. Like Anakin's, it was from a lightsaber. Unlike the others, it was more noticeable. The wound had been deep and thorough. It had been surgically exact, a disheartening warning.
Mindlessly, he stroked it with one finger. It used to run from the top of his elbow to the bottom of his neck in a perfect slash. In the light it appeared like silver, like a knife imbedded in his skin.
It was the result of a kiss from Maul's double-bladed saber when he had been a Padawan, when he watched his Master die in front of his eyes.
Despite the shouting of his heart, the memory engulfed him.
"No!" he screamed, tears beginning to stream down his young, tan face.
A wall of crimson separated him from helping, from fighting—an impenetrable ray shield.
From where the boy stood, it looked like a burning red dot in the middle of his Master's back as Maul stood above him. The Jedi's hands were raised over his head. His green lightsaber had been pointed toward the sky, but flew out of his hand as his enemy's blade scorched through him. He was terribly still, almost stoic as the Sith impaled him.
Qui-Gon Jinn's scraggly hair rustled as he collapsed like a sack to the ground, his back to Obi-wan. The red dot disappeared, leaving a bloody hole.
Kenobi gazed at his Master's limp body. It was like something out of terrible dream, a nightmare of his worst imagining. It was almost as if Maul had killed them both in one stroke. He could almost feel the heat of the Sith's lightsaber piercing through his chest.
Face whitening yet blood rushing like fire under Obi-wan's skin, the murderous Sith turned his attention to the Padawan, horribly silent.
He had not spoken a word during the entire battle. He only leapt expertly, twirling in the air, his monstrous red lightsaber dancing as it lashed out like a snake's tongue. The Padawan was completely outmatched. His anger mixed with a dreadful fear.
Maul gave a flash of putrid teeth, smiling. He could see the boy's terror on his face as he looked upon his inevitable death.
A trickle of sweat ran down Obi-wan's back. His blue eyes were wide, his chest heaved. The Sith, of course, was perfectly calm. He paced wordlessly, waiting for the ray shield to drop so he could pounce on his new prey.
This was not the job of a Padawan. Up until this point, everything had been floating in a glimmer of youthful innocence. His entire life as a Jedi-in-training was a grand adventure. He was used to death, but it never seemed to touch him or his Master. They had always managed to escape the jaws of the beast.
Now, it appeared the Force had retracted its favor. Reality came crashing down. Already he felt his heart begin to harden, to retreat into an indifferent shell. The horror of his Master's demise was giving way to a callous anger.
Obi-wan met the Sith's arrogant, fiery gaze with a determined glare. He clenched his lightsaber in his fist and unsheathed it, his nostrils flared, and his body began to quiver.
I will kill you, he thought.
In response, the Sith triggered his own blade once more. The sneer on his face became a full blown leer.
The mechanisms in the wall swerved, and the ray shield gave way. Immediately, Obi-wan charged out, his saber meeting Maul's. He leapt as he struck, trying to put in more strength. The Sith merely parried and then swiped at the boy's head, who ducked and rained down more blows on his hated enemy.
Their strikes were barely visible as they whirred through the air, like diving birds, bullets.
Obi-wan jumped over a blow aimed at his legs, and the two took a breath away from one another and then began the dance again. In a haze of fury, the Padawan managed to break the Sith's blade in half and kicked him backward.
In response Maul, now with only a single blade, unleashed his savagery. He flipped in the air and threw his boot into Obi-wan's face. The boy stumbled back, having to balance himself in a crouch. Taking no time, the Sith slashed out with his saber.
Kenobi felt the whoosh of the weapon graze his ear. It took all his might not to close his eyes, for he believed it was a deathblow.
Instead he felt a sharp, terrible pain radiating from his right arm. His grasp on his lightsaber loosened, but he managed to spin away before the Sith could sever his head from his body. Gripping his bicep with his other arm, he felt the warm trickle of blood seep through his fingers.
Maul pressed forward, merciless. It was all Obi-wan could do to fend the monster off. He felt his strength leaving him as the Sith pushed him closer to the edge of a massive hole in the middle of the area. It seemed to go on forever, probably a duct leading straight to the garbage.
The pain was becoming harder to ignore. With a low growl that sounded as if Maul actually laughed, Obi-wan was pushed with a gust of power into the hole. Flailing, he managed to grab hold of a knob, though his lightsaber dropped down, down, down into the depths.
Taunting his kill, the Sith swiped at the ground, causing an avalanche of sparks to fly into the boy's face. Sweat was covering Obi's hands. His legs dangled. The wound on his arm was screaming.
It was here that he felt like a child again. A rush of self-pity jolted through him. He was only a boy. Every inch of him wanted to bury his face in a pillow, to hide under a bed and forget the realities of the real world.
The braid that marked him as a Padawan tickled his neck. As it bounced on his chest, it reminded him with every touch that he was unprepared, unworthy to be a Jedi. Maul grinned horribly down at him, his terrible teeth black with grime. He sensed the boy's fear, his shame for having failed his Master. It was almost worth it to keep him alive, just to drag out his terror.
It was at this point that Maul let down his guard an inch. The pathetic boy was not a threat, just a little Padawan, senseless and afraid.
He did not realize that Qui-Gon's lightsaber laid unused and perfect for the taking just a few feet away. Unaware, Maul kept raining down embers on the boy, loving the way it made him squirm as he tried to dodge the sparks. A nasty stain of blood was drenching Obi-wan's shoulder, a massive blotch on his traditional light brown Padawan attire.
His grip was slipping, a mix of sweat and blood on his fingers, he couldn't hold on. He had to jump.
Swallowing his paralyzing fear, he recalled that his Master's weapon sat within his reach. Desperate, he reached in the Force, calling the blade to him. Before the Sith could realize what was happening, too engrossed in the addicting fear emanating from the boy, Obi-wan leapt with all his might upward, as if flying.
He sprung out of the hole. Qui-Gon's lightsaber soared faithfully to him. Ignoring the ache of his arm, he landed behind Maul and, as the Sith whipped around, Obi-wan struck with all his might, both hands on the hilt of the blade, swinging it like a bat.
It had been like cutting through paper. A cloud of blood burst into the air. It spattered the boy's face, his clothes. The shock on Maul's face was permanently etched. His brow was raised, his mouth twitched in astonishment like a snarling wolf, his yellowed teeth flashing as his marred lips quivered upward and downward.
Then, he was falling backward. The black-clothed Sith disappeared into the duct, his weapon clanking against the vent. As the wind tore through him, Maul separated into two sections—a torso and legs—and disappeared into the black.
Obi-wan could hear the flop of a body hitting metal with a sickening crunch.
He scrambled over to Qui-Gon, but his Master was gone, leaving behind his husk for Obi to cling to. After that, the crystal clear memory of the fight with Maul, preserved by a heavy dose of adrenaline, became a fog of suffering.
They found him, cradling the Jedi, rocking backward and forward. Tears slipped down his cheeks silently. A puddle had formed on the ground, on the robes of Qui-Gon, swirling with the blood.
"Obi-wan," a voice tore him from his mind. "Obi-wan, can you hear me?"
He was still staring at his scar, his fingers stroking the small, silvery line rhythmically. With a slight gasp, he dropped his hand and turned toward the form standing tentatively at the foot of his bed.
He could not hide the pain on his face, unable to bury it under the rug in time. The beard helped him feel less vulnerable, but his damned pale eyes had always been annoyingly readable.
Anakin was staring at him, his scarred brow raised. When he saw the look on his friend's face, his eyes widened an inch.
"Are you ok?" he asked softly.
His gaze went to the monitors, searching for a medical reason for Obi's alarming expression.
A flare of annoyance flickered in the bed-ridden man's chest.
"Yes," he hissed at Skywalker, and crossed his arms. "What do you want?"
Anakin's stare was completely unperturbed by the animosity clear in Obi-wan's tone. He was not fooled by the sudden callousness. His mouth became a thin, hard line. He took another moment to study Kenobi. His eyes rested on the ripped sleeve.
"What happened?" he asked, his expression cool.
The image of holding his dead Master clung religiously to Obi-wan's brain. It stuck to it, unshakable. The sorrow and agony of that moment played over and over. He had been foolish to unearth it, to recall it. It had taken years to bury the blasted thing, to put deep into the earth of his skull.
Thousands of days, wasted. His hands shook. He hadn't realized he didn't answer Anakin's question until the boy cleared his throat.
Self-consciously, he shook his head, tried to put himself back into the present.
"Ah, nothing," he responded vaguely, staring intently at the covers, patting them down. "It must have caught on something. You know how cheap the material is."
"Hm," the young Jedi harrumphed, unconvinced.
Obi-wan sighed. There was no way the two of them were going to talk about this. The last thing Anakin needed was another reason to worry and fret.
"What is it Anakin?" he asked again, his tone clipped.
The boy took another moment to give Obi-wan a once over. After a minute or two, he shrugged. A question burned in his eyes, but he respected his friend enough to give him space. Or at least, that's what Kenobi hoped was the case.
"I just wanted to tell you that I have good news," he reported, though his voice did not sound particularly overjoyed. "The Duchess is out of the tank."
As soon as he heard her title, Obi-wan was pulling back the covers, yanking out the IVs, and tugging at the cuff on his ankle.
"Whoa, whoa! Hold on a sec!" Anakin exclaimed as he rushed over to stop Kenobi. "I don't think you should get up just yet…"
But the man was not to be distracted. He shook off Anakin's hand roughly and kept fumbling with the fetter. Finally fed up, he snapped the thing in half with a flick of his wrist.
"Obi-wan, please, just wait another day. That's all I'm askin'."
But the man was not to be denied. He seemed to barely even hear Anakin. With a groan of frustration, the boy gave up and let the hobbled Jedi stumble his way out of bed. But when he made a way for the door, he had to step in.
"People will think you're nuts if you go out like that," Anakin warned, and he snagged the back of the hospital gown before the panels could whisk open. "At least change first."
Somehow, this piece of advice got through Obi-wan's seemingly deaf ears, and he nodded once. With a crack of his hand, he slapped Anakin off and limped to the bathroom. The arm had been obviously the worst of his injuries, but his legs had healed only recently. Splotches of bruises ran along his temples and ran diagonally along his nose.
The docs had tried to offer him a spot in the Bacta tank, but he wanted to wait for the Duchess before he signed up for it. He knew his legs still needed a good soaking, some parts of them still felt spongy, but it was something that could be delayed for a little while longer.
Thankfully, as he shut the door, a clean pile of clothes awaited him on the sink counter. Upon closer inspection, he realized that they were his. Grudgingly, he thanked Anakin silently for bringing an extra set of them. It had been too long since he wore his usual white jerkin, with the dark undershirt peeking through beneath, the comfortable tan leggings, and the sturdy, form-fitting gloves. There was no formal robe, he usually despised wearing one, but Anakin had remembered to bring his brown leather boots and belt. Looking down upon these articles, they almost seemed to be from another lifetime.
Nevertheless, he stripped, and then donned them. It was like putting on the mantle of responsibility once more. He could no longer be the scared boy crying over the body of his Master. Under the pile of clothes was his lightsaber.
His hand reached for it but then stopped.
This isn't my hand.
The thought made his heart pound. How much of himself would he lose in the coming years?
He suddenly sneered, disgusted by his squeamishness. The arm he lost was not him. It was only a part of the prison. After all, the body was just temporary, just a passing vocation. What did it matter if he was cut to pieces? As long as his soul remained, there wasn't a problem.
At least, there shouldn't be a problem.
No. No problem.
Without another thought, he snatched the saber from the countertop and attached it to his belt.
His gaze looked briefly in the mirror.
The man in it was glaring, twisting his entire face, but his eyes were glimmering with a pitiful helplessness. The beard and hair were ruffled, and he took a second to adjust them, patting them both down, using his fingers as a comb.
Kaleidoscope bruises painted his face a variety of colors, but they were turning yellow like leaves in the Fall. They no longer bothered him, but it did make him seem a bit peaked.
He turned his attention to his entrenched scowl and forced his face to relax. It did so reluctantly, so he splashed it with water, trying to calm the nerves.
He grabbed a towel and slammed it against his cheeks. Then, he buried his nose into it and heaved a long, withered sigh. A tension that sprouted from the bottom of his spine to his head eased. He took several more breaths, and with each exhale the memory of Qui-Gon faded slightly.
A rapping sounded at the door.
"Are you ok in there?"
Instantly, he tossed the towel to the ground and turned around from his somber reflection. The door swung open, and Anakin was caught, his hand in the air, mid-knock Quickly he lowered it and crossed his arms, uncomfortable.
"Ready?" he pondered cautiously.
Obi-wan's face was blank, and he was trying very hard to keep it that way.
"Yes," he said woodenly, and strode past his friend. "Let's go."
