A/N: Whee, another chapter. The next chapter may be a bit longer in coming since I have this thing called school that supposedly I'm supposed to be focusing on or something. I mean, I guess if you're paying tuition (or rather having your parents paying tuition…) and you're enrolled in these classes or something, you're supposed to study. I mean, what is that? Seems ridiculous to me. But, no, really, I've got stuff coming up, but I really do feel strong urges to write and when I feel inspired I don't like to waste it because then it never comes back! So I may say I'll be awhile but I probably won't be able to help myself (and if I fail my Pre-1800 American Lit test, you'll all know why…). Anyway, enough about me, this is about the story. Look, there's Qui-Gon in this chapter! Okay, yeah, there's kind of a lot of Padmé too. Of all the characters, she's really not one I thought I'd focus on but for some reason it's just kind of necessary to the development or something. I don't know. Anyway, I really appreciate the reviews that have been posted. It truly makes my day. Thanks :)
Chapter 4
The world was light and airy…he felt like he was drifting aimlessly, peacefully. Existence was little more than happy nonsense as he floated to oblivion on a cloud. Letting himself melt into this existence, he was surprised to find that everything felt…gooey.
Sensation filtered in through his extremities as he realized he was not actually floating on a cloud as he had surmised. Rather, he was floating in bacta. A lot of bacta. A bacta tank.
The sensation of a bacta tank wasn't unknown to Qui-Gon—there had been two other occasions on his life when he found himself in such a tank. Once when he was merely an apprentice, he had been cornered during a mission by a pack of native animals. He was young and mostly untrained with wild creatures. The beasts had a different fighting technique than humanoids. He had prevailed in the end but only by some sheer stroke of luck because he was severely injured in the process. He had managed to stay conscious until his master arrived. Then he had smiled feebly and apologetically before passing out and waking in a bacta tank.
The other experience had been during his years as a lone knight—a negotiation gone ever so slightly awry. When the two sides started blasting each other to oblivion during the peace conference, Qui-Gon quickly saw the futility in trying to stop them. Neither side had wanted peace. They only wanted to kill—anyone and everyone, and they didn't particularly care that Qui-Gon represented a neutral third party. He fled to his ship, attempting to make a quiet and unnoticed getaway. He never knew if the planet recognized his ship or not, but before he could clear their space, his ship was hammered with a barrage of weaponry. The ship bore the brunt of it, yet managed to limp into a shaky hyperdrive to take the lone pilot home. However, Qui-Gon was not without injury. An exploding panel had done significant damage to his torso. He didn't even realize how severe until he landed on Coruscant and moved to exit the ship only to find he didn't have the energy. Instead he collapsed on the singed deck plating to awaken in a gooey stasis.
The first time had been frightening. The second time had been surreal. And this time, while it had lingering traits of both, it was much more seductive. Sleep allured him back into blackness, but he felt a tickle of something in the back of his mind. Trying to brush away the draw of sleep, he focused his mind on the Force, trying to listen for it. It came back to him softly, hindered by the thickness of the bacta. Grasping for familiar calming waves, a new sensation came to him. The Force he connected to was richer somehow, embellished by something he could not immediately trace. Then the words came into his mind, clearly in Anakin Skywalker's youthful voice. I didn't mean to disobey you. I only wanted to help. The boy had succeeded. When he had ordered Anakin into the cockpit, somehow he had known. He had to have known. Ordering a pilot to hide in a cockpit invites, if not begs, such events. He had trusted the boy—it was right, the Force was with Anakin. The boy was genuine. It was his presence linked to Qui-Gon's own that change the intensity of the Force within him. Feeding off the new, strange energy he now had access to, he carefully tried to open his eyes. Looking through bacta while on the outside of a tank was a weird enough sight, but looking through it almost caused him to be nauseated. The scene before him hovered oddly, distorted and blurry. The now ominous tickle was intensifying, though, so he struggle harder to harness the Force and make sense of the images through the goo.
He began to have noticeable success. The scene was still warped, but he could now clearly make out figures—a handful of figures, dressed in white. They appeared very busy, controlled but frantic in a subdued way. They were working over a bed—he was in a hospital, he thought to himself. He could not see what they were doing until several moved away. Then Qui-Gon could see what they were doing. There was another patient, lying upon the table. The tickle was nearly insatiable now. Finding his mind more lucid, he explored outwards with the Force, and the tickle became a frightening burst. Obi-Wan.
Studying the table again through the haze, he could now make out his Padawan's limp features on the table. The healers and medical workers were poking and prodding him. Something was definitely wrong. His Padawan showed no visible signs of life, and Qui-Gon could barely detect anything through their bond. He watched in terror as they struggled with Obi-Wan. They were trying to revive him.
Now fully aware of himself and the outside world, Qui-Gon sought desperately to get out of the bacta. But, to his dismay, he still could not move and no one was paying any attention to him. Frustrated, he resigned himself to watching, but not passively, as his mind was probing to pick up the threads of Obi-Wan's Life Force. Obi-Wan's body lurched on the table as the healers tried another device to bring back a heartbeat. Obi-Wan's life force was there, but it was vacant. His presence seemed empty, but he had not abandoned his body. Yet.
His mind thought suddenly to cry—the fear and pain were that substantial—but he still lacked control over nearly all bodily functions. The bacta was not only around him, but within him, healing his wounds at their very source, mending the charred tissue from the inside out. He felt like a prisoner to his own human frailty. Obi-Wan could not die. He could not bear to watch him die. He tried to send healing waves to the young man only to realize the healing bond Obi-Wan had initiated earlier was still in tact. The healing bond between their Life Forces was still connected. But it had been a one way bond. Obi-Wan's life was still open irrevocably to Qui-Gon's. He was too inexperienced to know how to control such a bond, and now far too unconscious to break it.
Obi-Wan's life force calmed, but in a superficial and mechanical way. Straining with the Force, he tried to ascertain his Padawan's current condition. But the straining drained him, and exhaustion crept up on him. He himself was not well yet. And as the cloud returned to him, he could not fight it as it carried him away with thoughts of more pleasant things—of the days gone by with Obi-Wan at his side and the future he would surely find with Anakin.
***
The morning came tentatively upon Naboo, as if it recognized that the people needed a reprieve. The night hadn't been near long enough—not for the battle trodden Gungans who celebrated and mourned until the darkness proved too powerful, and not for the emotionally battered Naboo who rejoiced for their freedom with bodies weary from the brief but never forgotten occupation. And it hadn't been long enough for those who slept and breathed politics. When they had finally returned home to their spouses and children, they found their families sound asleep. With happy sighs, they collapsed into bed, hoping that perhaps the night would last as long as their tired eyes craved the darkness. And for the Queen, sleep had not come easily despite her worn body. Memories of war fluttered through her stubborn mind, haunting her like waking nightmares—so real and vivid, that she could scarce bring herself to close her eyes to see what horrors her unconscious brain could fathom. Many tears were shed in her bed chamber, quiet tears that did not resound against the marble walls. At first they were tears of a leader—tears of relief for the so-called victory, but tears of fear for all the victories yet to win. Governing is never an easy occupation, and for those, like the Queen of the Naboo, who care deeply for their countries and are dedicated solely the their peoples, it weighs heavily on every breath. A decision could condemn a thousand to die. A choice could condemn millions to poverty.
But as the night waned, she cried the tears of a young girl—the young girl that she truly was behind her makeup and her costumes. She cried the tears of Padmé, who had grown up in a beautiful area, filled with fresh air and an abundance of life. She had existed before she cared for politics, and she had partaken of a freedom that she had not appreciated. Some reach for power to free themselves of societal bonds, and, for the heartless, perhaps this tactic worked. But for her, in her youthful zeal and passion, it shackled her irrevocably.
She did not regret her choice—she could never regret it. But she would always wonder what could have been. She would always wonder what lay for her beyond the arena of politics. Could there be a life for her where days didn't consist of the rise and fall of governments and the creation and demolition of bills? The unkown stretched before her so vastly, it seemed certain that something else—something infinitely more simple and more pure—must await her. Maybe true love, maybe a man, maybe children.
When morning found her finally dozing, it took mercy on her and dared not disturb her peace. In fact, no one in the palace seemed ready to awaken the sleeping Queen. In their eyes, she had earned the rest, and they granted it to her willingly.
It late morning when her body finally woke of its own accord. She rolled over in her massive bed, snuggling warmly beneath the smooth and silky sheets. The sunlight felt enlivening behind her closed eyelids and she hugged one of her pillows closely, allowing its scented aroma to arouse her even more. As Queen, she had rarely had the luxury of sleeping in. Opening her eyes, she realized in quite a panic just how late it was. For a moment, her mind raced, trying to remember how such an oversight could have happened. But the richness of the morning sunlight through her window made her laugh freely as she came to realize that while there were many things yet to do, they could all wait an extra moment or two. She had done right by her country for so long now. She asked for just this one moment for herself.
However glorious the moment was, it was still just a moment. Stretching and yawning lazily, she dragged herself out of bed. She was not surprised to find her handmaidens waiting for her just outside her bedroom door. Her eyes could not hide a youthful glitter of amusement. "How long have you been sitting there?" she asked them.
The three of them all scrambled to their feet, trying to look alert and ready. "A few hours, Milady," Dormé replied.
"Sorry," Padmé said lightly. "You didn't have to just sit here, you know."
"It is our duty to serve the Queen," Dormé said. "Our duty and our honor."
"You are far better to me than I deserve," Padmé said with a rueful shake of her head.
"You do not acknowledge your own nobility," Cordé commented.
"It is you who are the true nobility here," Padmé said.
"Milady," Dormé said with a shake of her head and a small smile. "May we help you prepare for the day?"
With a contented sigh, Padmé led them back into her chambers where they immediately set about their business. Soon she was dressed and seated while they finished the rest of the royal costume. She would have to appear before the public today, and it was required that she be in her traditional elaborate dress to show that Naboo still retained its dignity and its heritage and that the Queen had not compromised anything.
"Tell me," Padmé said, sitting perfectly still as they worked on her hair. "Is there any word on communications?"
"Still out, I'm afraid," Dormé said. While the decoys were all chosen because of their physical similarities to the Queen, they were more than glorified attendants. So often they were required to act as Queen, usually in critical moments. Thus each had a strong politic background—it was utterly necessary—and Padmé often consulted them on political affairs. "The Trade Federation has done a real number on them. It'll take longer than we'd hoped."
Padmé refused to let it get her down. "Have you heard word of the Jedi?" she asked in controlled hope.
Dormé shifted slightly behind her. Cordé glanced up at her, expectantly. When it appeared no one else would say anything, she spoke. "Master Jinn is recovering with uncanny speed. Kyan can hardly believe it."
"That is good news," Padmé said. "What of Padawan Kenobi?"
"He is not well, Milady," Cordé admitted, looking down, mixing the makeup she would apply to the Queen's face.
"Has his condition worsened?"
"Yes, Milady," Cordé said. "The healers reported that he stopped breathing late last night. They had to resuscitate him and put him on a ventilator."
Padmé took a deep breath, her gaze focused on her hands. "There is much about this I do not understand," she stated stiffly. "The attacker—whoever or whatever he was—there is something more imminently dangerous about him. A kind of aura that radiated something…something dark. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
Cordé was holding the makeup up to the light to check its consistency. She cast a curious glance at the Queen. "Not completely, Milady," she replied honestly. "The entire battle was a trying event. My uneasiness was not so focused."
"But there was something different about the attacker," Padmé tried to explain. "He was a part of the battle but still somehow separate. The Trade Federation was greedy, but for this being it was not about greed."
"How can you be so sure, Milady?" Dormé asked, tugging at her hair.
"He was there on Tatooine—that's when I first felt it," Padmé said. "It was as though I could almost sense his anger. It was so deep and brittle. I have never felt such hatred so concentrated."
Lorré, the most reserved of her handmaidens, had been preparing part of her headpiece. Her shy gray eyes looked up to meet her Lady's. She rarely took the initiative to speak, so when she did, it was something more profound. She was slightly younger than Padmé, making her the youngest and most inexperienced handmaiden. But in her bashful ways existed a deeper confidence and a greater knowledge, Padmé had come to know. She lacked nothing of bravery, but could never be called bold. She hesitated a moment, her lips still questioning her words, but then she quietly noted, "You sound like a Jedi, Milady."
The words struck Padmé, who tried in vain to search out the intent in the young handmaiden's voice. The girl already diverted her attention back to the intricate headdress, scrutinizing it with a new vigor. Cordé, the oldest of her handmaidens, made a disapproving noise with her tongue, recapturing the Queen's attention. "The Jedi seem to relish their mystery," she said, taking a brush and beginning to swath it in the makeup. "They're enigmatic purposefully, perhaps to strengthen their position."
"You speak rashly, Cordé," Dormé shot back at her. "The Jedi are noble. We owe them a great deal."
"Do you doubt we could have prevailed without them?" Cordé asked, now applying the white makeup to the Queen's face.
"Why do you try to make less of them? They uphold everything good in the galaxy. They know the Force," Dormé said.
"The Force—of course," Cordé said, somewhat sarcastically. "The Force is perhaps the most obscure of their entire dogma."
"They saved our lives," Dormé insisted.
"How?" challenged Cordé. "They did not stop the Trade Federation. They made us flee our own planet. They got us stranded in the Outer Rim. And when we returned they barely helped with the battle. They went off to fight against some unknown being as opposed to helping with our true objective."
"Enough," Padmé ordered, her authoritative air coming through. "I will not tolerate this defacement of the Jedi's integrity. They risked their lives, without thought of reward, for us. And as for the strange being—we do not know what threat he truly posed. They believed him to be more dangerous than the battle droids of the Trade Federation. They have no cause to lie to us. And I trust them implicitly."
Cordé reddened, falling completely silent as she continued with the makeup. "Sorry, Milady," she apologized meekly.
A moment of silence now lapsed awkwardly in the room. But finally, finishing her arrangement of the headdress and offering up to Dormé to be arranged on the Queen's head, Lorré looked nervously into the Queen's eyes. "Your connection to the Jedi is more than that of loyalty and respect," she observed tentatively. "You care for them."
"In times of crisis we often form the bonds which last longest," Padmé explained, keeping her voice in check.
Lorré smiled shyly. "I cannot help but think that your future is forever now intertwined with theirs."
After weighing her words for a moment, Padmé laughed. "I am so glad to have you all," she told them earnestly. "I certainly don't know where I'd be without you."
***
Tired and heavy, his body begged him to stay within the confines of bacta-induced sleep. The peace and healing found there outweighed any physical pleasures than he could imagine. But there, again, something nagged at the back of his mind. His will and determination overpowered his body any day, even when his body had such a compelling argument. Struggling in vain, he tried to move, only to remember the bacta. There was no point in trying to move—he wasn't going to get out. No one had ever managed to pull themselves out of a bacta tank prematurely. Well, there were stories, but of more mythic nature, and there were no actual cases that Qui-Gon believed.
Surrendering to what he could not fight, he settled for opening his eyes. Staring through bacta was an interesting experience, rather similar to staring through dense water. He could easily define shapes and objects on the outside, but identifying them proved to be the harder task. With focus, though, he was able, and he commenced with trying to place the unceasing pull on his mind. It was as if something was pulling at him through the Force. But who? Such a task required a connection, if not a bond. He could still hear traces of Anakin's message and longed briefly to talk to him, but he knew immediately that it wasn't Anakin who pulled so insistently at the edges of his consciousness. The only bond he shared was with Obi-Wan…
Obi-Wan's name triggered his memory. He could not recall if it had been days or merely minutes ago he'd seen his apprentice slipping from existence. He focused with new intensity, trying to pick up a sign from the younger man.
He found Obi-Wan visually before he traced his apprentice with the Force. Although discombobulated somewhat, he could make out the still form of Obi-Wan across the white room. With this extra bit of information to direct his probing with the search, he then was slightly relieved to find the still living presence of his Padawan. But the presence was not right—in fact, it seemed increasingly wrong to Qui-Gon. For although he could clearly make out the young man's autonomic functions, he could not pick up the thought processes. Even in unconsciousness, some higher brain function tended to occur. He got no sense of healing or of strengthening, which were the two main objectives of the mind during unconsciousness. But Obi-Wan simply lie there, as if he had rendered himself helpless to some outside force. Intervention was necessary.—and soon.
But Qui-Gon's attention wavered, slipping with the ebb and flow of his energy. Expending his resources on fruitless ventures cost his recovery time. With this in mind, he decided the best way to help Obi-Wan—and finally talk to Anakin—was by submitting his body completely to recovery. Shutting his eyes again, that's exactly what he did.