A/N: Not much to say this time. I guess I just want to say that my intention is not to vilify or demonize any character, so Qui-Gon will have a type of redemption…eventually. PhoenixMage—you hit one of the key questions that motivated me to write this—would Anakin turn to the Dark with Qui-Gon still alive? In other words, is Obi-Wan at least partly responsible for Anakin's turning? I'm not going to say, although I already know what I think. I think I may have hinted at it in the very beginning, but you'll all just have to wait because it won't be resolved any time soon (probably not even in this story, I feel). A continued thanks for the comments. They keep encouraging me to put down the homework that really should be done and instead going back to that blasted computer to write, write, and write some more :)
Chapter 9
The ship rocked again, lilting unpredictably to the side. Qui-Gon's pace, however, hardly wavered—his attention and will too focused to be bothered with trivialities like reality and physics. The Force still pulled fiercely at him, and Qui-Gon honed in on what had drawn him back to the cockpit with such urgency. There had been a disturbance in the Force—a burst of Darkness, almost, but not quite. It was too uncontrolled to be truly of the Dark side. But it had been enough to startle him, arousing a sudden fear for Anakin. It only took him a split second to realize the burst had originated from the boy. Unconceivable, he thought, for one with no training to already have such influence in the Force. Anakin's gift were subconscious now, he couldn't imagine how they would develop with proper training.
He slowed as he neared the cockpit, the Force rippling unevenly out at him. Approaching with care, Anakin's small figure came into view, seated where he had been left at the controls. His small frame shook with emotion, and Qui-Gon knew he had to intervene soon but very carefully.
Standing behind Anakin, he sensed the boy's precarious self-control. His fingers fluttered across the control panel in a jerky fashion, not at all like the smooth and confident boy who piloted podracers and destroyed the Trade Federation's control ship. There was an untamed and uncontrolled aspect of Anakin that had not been readily apparent before. He was strong—of that no doubt could remain—but still prone to fear. It was something they would have to work on during their training.
But, in that very moment, Anakin flirted with Darkness. Although the boy's training had yet to begin, Qui-Gon could not let him taste so deeply of that which he was destined to overcome. Placing a firm hand on the boy's shoulder, he sat down next to him, focusing on him intently. "Anakin," he began.
The boy turned wild, glistening eyes on Qui-Gon, his fingers stalled from their frantic movements over the helm. "I hate them!" he burst intensely. "They have done so much damage already, and we defeated them!"
"Anakin, you must calm yourself," Qui-Gon instructed. Explosions still shook the ship, and the cockpit was filled with a cacophony of impending disaster. Anakin's small fingers quivered, primed above panel.
"We should have killed them all!" he insisted, his climactic emotions becoming too biased to reason with. Qui-Gon needed another way to reach the boy. The only other means to reach Anakin subsisted through the Force. Reaching out softly to the boy's mind, he tentatively asked to be granted access. The boy visibly stiffened, but put up no defense to Qui-Gon's presence. Then, as a teacher shows a student, Qui-Gon led Anakin to the Light in his mind. It was obscured now, Darkness infringing on all sides. But there it stood, firm and unwavering, in the essence of Anakin's existence.
Anakin stared, mystified, at the Light. Standing so close to it, he wondered how he had ever forgotten that it was there. Qui-Gon, too, stared, for his part awestruck at the sheer intensity of the Light. Never had it blazed so brightly, never had it radiated with such vitality. With time and nurturing, Qui-Gon envisioned how the Light would squelch the Darkness, eradicating it completely from Anakin's being. //Focus here, in the Light// Qui-Gon commanded, mildly surprised to find their communion together so deep that it did not require verbal words.
//I don't understand it…// Anakin admitted.
//You will.//
With that assurance, Anakin reached out for the Light, letting his finger grace it slightly. It shimmered, dancing through his body, firing through each neuron and tickling each sense almost individually. Encouraged by the effects, Anakin flashed a brief grin at Qui-Gon. Then, inspired and eager, he embraced the Light, diving into it entirely, and it nearly consumed him with its verve.
They both opened their eyes, though they could not recall closing them. Anakin's physical eyes met Qui-Gon's with a renewed strength and calm. "Let's get out of here," he said.
"Yes," Qui-Gon agreed, settling back as Anakin returned his attention to the helm. "I think that is an excellent idea."
Anakin's grin was priceless as he turned back to the controls. Qui-Gon leaned back in exhausted relief. That had been just one obstacle down, and he chose not to think about how many more they would have to overcome. As the hyperdrive engaged, Qui-Gon relaxed, his adrenaline mellowing pleasantly at the resolution of their mechanical problems and the problems with his…Padawan. But Anakin was not his Padawan yet. Was he?
His breath caught in his throat. Obi-Wan. He had left the young Jedi to fend for himself with promises of reprieve and assurances of hollow confidence. The ship was safely engaged in hyperspace, the internal sensors detected no activity on the rest of the ship. Apparently, he was correct in trusting the abilities of Obi-Wan. But, Qui-Gon numbly realized, if there was no movement in the ship, then that meant that Obi-Wan…
Concentrating absorbedly, he tried to reach out through the Force to the younger man, surprised suddenly to find nothing. Distressed, he tried again, but the same empty feeler was echoed back to him. Obi-Wan couldn't be…No, Qui-Gon could not believe that. He would have felt the loss in the Force. He would detect the loss of any Jedi in the Force nearby. But he was definitely not receiving any reply. It was almost as if the bond between them had been severed somehow.
Anakin's ever-turbulent emotions suddenly drug him away from his contemplation. The boy's uncanny joy for piloting the ship swelled amid the ecstasy of his newfound freedom. The effect raged through him almost intoxicatingly. Every thought, every emotion that flitted through Anakin's mind echoed clearly in Qui-Gon's. Realizing the depth of the relationship with the boy, Qui-Gon torpidly recognized the unmistakable bond bridged with the Force. He had unconsciously initiated the Master/Padawan bond with Anakin. And there could never be two of such bonds in any person. That meant…
He had cut off Obi-Wan. He had broken the bond, prematurely and without thought or care. He had overridden one relationship in favor of another. Nausea swelled violently in his stomach. Such a thing violated everything he had strove to emulate his entire life. It was a defecation of the Code, it defiled the Order. "I'll be back shortly," he informed Anakin curtly, exiting the cockpit with numb and necessary conviction. He felt Anakin's protestations arise but he mollified the boy with a quick but firm reassurance through the Force. He didn't have time to explain—Anakin's understanding drifted back at him—and his attention focused guiltily on this new task.
The first signs of the battle came in the adjacent corridor from where he had left Obi-Wan. Two droids littered the floor, rendered useless when they made the jump to hyperspace. Moving onward, he came to the door to the corridor. It bared signs of the fight, bruised and battered by weapons' fire. Apparently it had finally be urged open by explosions, and stood halfway ajar, unnaturally. Steeling himself for what he might find, he moved inside.
The smell of burnt circuits first entered his consciousness. His eyes next caught sight of the droids littered around the floor. Some had blaster burns across their metallic chest, others were decapitated. They covered the ground nearly completely, and Qui-Gon could barely find room to walk into the passageway. For a moment, Qui-Gon panicked, his eyes unable to see anything beyond the disabled droids, his smell overwhelmed by fried machinery, and his ears deafened by his fear. His senses tunneled briefly, and he fought the urge to vomit or pass out—both of which would be counterproductive to the task at hand. Shaking himself of the trance-like paralysis, he scanned more carefully. Then, amid the wreckage, he saw Obi-Wan a mere few feet to his side.
The young man was sprawled unceremoniously on his back. He had tried to protect himself behind the bulkhead near the doorway—his last means of defense. Moving swiftly over the debris, he dropped to Obi-Wan's side, inspecting the younger man, his mouth set in a grim line. It was bad.
Two blaster shots seared across Obi-Wan's body. The first, the less serious of the two, glanced across his upper left chest. He assumed that it had missed his heart or the young man would already be dead. With bacta, Qui-Gon felt confident that wound would heal without much difficulty. The burned, crispy flesh looked painful, no doubt, but the shot seemed to have sideswiped Obi-Wan and not caught him full on. Regeneration for his shoulder would be necessary, but at least the wound would not be a permanent defect.
It was the second shot, however, that concerned Qui-Gon. The impact blazed straight into Obi-Wan abdomen, burning the material of his tunic completely away so that only the blackened flesh with stains of red could be seen. Most of the layers of skin had been incinerated immediately, and Qui-Gon knew that the delicate internal organs had been impacted by the hit. Which organs, he could not tell from just a simple analysis, nor could he trace the exact extent of the damage without the Force—which eluded him cruelly—and medical equipment. But the truth hung ominously in his mind, constricting his throat.
He would not think it. He would not.
Instead, with trembling hands, he reached for Obi-Wan. He needed to get Obi-Wan to the medical bay and try to treat his wounds—it was his only chance. With great care, he hoisted the younger man into his secure grasp, mindful of the severity of the wounds. Despite that, Obi-Wan showed no signs of waking, his eyes closed lifelessly and his arms and legs dangling limply. Once he felt Obi-Wan rested securely within his hold, he hurried through the ship toward the medical bay.
The corridors seemed longer now, and the automatic doors slid open with a painful lack of haste. He had lost control of the Force—his center hopelessly skewed in his grief. He needed to not simply save Obi-Wan life, which was paramount at that moment, but more importantly to somehow save the younger Jedi's soul from the torment he knew he had inflicted. The latter was Qui-Gon's driving force in reality, merely intensified by the physical wounds that might keep him from ever making this right. But, as he laid Obi-Wan's unconscious form on a bed, he realized there might be no way to ever rectify the harm he caused.
That was not a problem he could deal with, though. What he could do was treat the injuries and save Obi-Wan's life. Once he situated Obi-Wan on the examination bed, he activated the medical sensors. An immediate outpour of information flooded the screen, most of which Qui-Gon ignored. He simply tuned his ears to Obi-Wan's frantically thudding heart, assuring himself that the young Jedi was still alive.
He gathered the medical supplies around him, situating himself strategically within in reach of the essentials. Before he could apply the bacta, he had to remove the clothing.
Leaning over the young man, he felt uneasy as he gently pulled at his tunic. The blaster wounds had burnt some of the garment clean away, but had also melted parts of it into the raw flesh. Thankful that Obi-Wan was unconscious, he ripped the tattered tunic down the front, pulling it away from the wounds. With some maneuvering, Qui-Gon soon had Obi-Wan's torso exposed. The sight nauseated him. The burns, prominent against the toned skin, etched their way across much of his front. It made Qui-Gon pause, despite the urgency of the wounds. Seeing the candid gore, he could not help but consider just how precious life was, especially this life.
A sudden, erratic spike in Obi-Wan heart rate incited him to action. He cursed the ship for not having a bacta tank—the internal wounds surely necessitated such drastic measures. But there was a plentiful supply of bacta, which he did not hesitate to use in excess. Saturating both wounds with the healing substance, he then gently began to swath each sight with a bandage, pulling the prone figure to a sitting position to wrap the white gauze adequately. The limp figure fell against him without resistance, Obi-Wan's head lolling against his shoulder while he worked the gauze.
Once he finished bandaging the shoulder, he placed his hand behind Obi-Wan sweaty hair, feeling the ponytail as he laid the boy back to the bed, arranging his head carefully to accommodate the tuft of hair. He gazed down with a paternal love, smoothing the hair back idly. Instinctively, he tried to reach Obi-Wan through their bond, to help calm and encourage the young man and help control his body, but he quickly remembered the bond was broken, and there was little more comfort he could give except general and weak healing waves of the Force. Grappling at the disjointed Force, he tried to heal generically as he had done for various others as a Jedi, but he had no focus and his efforts were in vain. He administered antibiotics to ward off infection. Pulling up a chair, he seated himself by Obi-Wan's bedside. Now he resigned himself to waiting.
Stroking the matted spikes of hair once again, his fingers lingered on the beginning of the Padawan braid. The long piece of hair had been tossed aside during Qui-Gon's attempts to care for Obi-Wan, and he now gently repositioned it over the unmoving shoulder. It was the only thing that remained of their Master/Padawan relationship. Everything else was gone now.
Suddenly, the braid—a symbol of hope and promise—became a signal of rejection, betrayal, and failure.
***
Everything felt heavy, yet somehow without substance. The sense of weight just existed by itself, pressing in upon him from every side. He felt like he could breathe—his lungs could not expand, they were laden with some unidentifiable pressure. Could this be death?
No, it was not death, he realized. His senses latched onto something more concrete, more accurately depicting his situation. He was drowning. There was water—dark water, deep water—surrounding him mercilessly. And as suddenly as that revelation came, so came the will to fight it.
He kicked at the water, pulling himself toward the surface. Up, he begged his tired body, up. He could not die like this—not in such darkness. He reached higher and higher. His lungs burned. Then, in the distance, the murkiness of the water dissipated somewhat, glowing with traces light—the surface.
With his goal in his view, he pushed himself harder, straining his lead-like muscles to propel his dead weight upwards. The light approached, the water cleared. Then, when he thought he his body might refuse to move and float back into oblivion, he broke the surface.
Hastily, he sucked in air, sputtering. He was alive.
But what he found on the surface was not the oasis he had envisioned. He found himself floating now, on a vast sea, stretching deep into the distance. On one side he could make out the outline of the shore, but it was so far away, so unreal. The sun shone faintly, muted by bland clouds. Treading water, he kept himself afloat. He urged himself to swim, setting out over the cold and choppy waters.
So he swam.